The General's Daughter

I said to Kent, “I need Captain Campbell’s personnel and medical files sealed and in your office before noon.”

“Okay.”

“And I need an office at your place, and a clerk.”

“One desk or two?”

I glanced at Cynthia. “I guess two desks. But I’m not committing to this yet.”

“Don’t blow smoke up my ass, Paul. You in or not?”

“I’ll see what they say at Falls Church. Okay, delay notifying the public information officer until about ten hundred hours. Send two guys to Captain Campbell’s office and physically remove her desk, furniture, and all her personal possessions, and have everything locked up in your evidence room. And have Sergeant St. John and PFC Robbins remain in the provost marshal’s office until I can see them. I don’t want anyone speaking a word of this until they’ve spoken to me. And it is your unpleasant duty, Colonel, to pay an official call on General and Mrs. Campbell at their home. Go unannounced and with an appropriate chaplain and a medical officer in case anyone needs a sedative or something. They may not view the body at the scene. Okay?”

Kent nodded and let out a long breath. “Jesus Christ…”

“Amen. Meanwhile, instruct your people not to say a word about what we found here, and give forensic a set of disqualifying fingerprints from PFC Casey, and disqualifying bootprints from everyone here at the scene, including yourself, of course.”

“Right.”

“Also, tape off the latrine sheds and don’t let anyone use them. Also, the latrines are off limits to forensic until I have a chance to check them out.”

“Okay.”

I walked over to Cynthia, who was now putting everything back in the handbag, still using a handkerchief. “Anything interesting?”

“No. Basic stuff. Wallet, money, keys, and everything appears intact. Here’s a chit from the O Club. She had dinner last night. Salad, chicken, white wine, and coffee.” She added, “She was probably there in the dining room about the same time we were having a drink.”

Kent had joined us and he asked, “You two had drinks together? You know each other?”

I replied, “We had drinks separately. We are nodding acquaintances.” I asked Cynthia, “Campbell’s address?”

“Off post, unfortunately. Victory Gardens on Victory Drive in Midland. Unit forty-five.” She added, “I think I know the place—a town-house complex.”

Kent said, “I’ll call Chief Yardley—that’s the Midland police chief, and he’ll get a court order and he can meet us there.”

“No. We’ll keep this in the family, Bill.”

“You can’t go search her off-post house without a civilian search warrant—”

Cynthia handed me the keys from Ann Campbell’s bag and said, “I’ll drive.”

Kent protested, “You can’t go off post without civilian authority.”

I detached Ann Campbell’s car keys from the key chain and gave them to Kent, along with the victim’s handbag. “Find out where her car is and impound it.”

As we walked toward Cynthia’s Mustang, I said to Kent, “You should stay here to direct things. When you write your report, you can write that I said I was going to the Midland police. I’ll take responsibility for my change of mind.”

“Yardley is a tough, redneck son-of-a-bitch,” Kent informed me. “He’ll get your ass, Paul.”

“He has to stand in line and wait his turn.” To get Kent squared away so he didn’t do anything stupid, I said, “Look, Bill, I have to have first look at Ann Campbell’s place. I have to remove anything that might embarrass her, her family, the Army, or her military colleagues and friends. Right? Then we’ll let Chief Yardley have his shot at the house. Okay?”

He seemed to process this correctly and nodded.

Cynthia got behind the wheel of her Mustang and I got in the passenger seat. I said to Kent, “I may call you from there. Think positive.”

Cynthia threw the five-liter Mustang into first gear, made a U-turn, and we were off, zero to sixty in about six seconds, along the lonely Rifle Range Road.

I listened to the engine for a while and neither of us spoke, then Cynthia said, “I feel queasy.”

“Pretty awful,” I agreed.

“Disgusting.” She glanced at me. “Are you used to it?”

“God, no.” I added, “I don’t see that many homicides and not many like this.”

She nodded, then took a deep breath. “I think I can help you on this one. But I don’t want it to be awkward.”

“No problem,” I said. “But we’ll always have Brussels.”

“Where?”

“Belgium. The capital.” Bitch.

We sat in silence, then Cynthia asked, “Why?”

“Why is Brussels the capital? Or why will we always have it?”

“No, Paul, why was she murdered?”

“Oh… well, the possible motives in homicide cases,” I replied, “are profit, revenge, jealousy, to conceal a crime, to avoid humiliation or disgrace, and homicidal mania. Says so in the manual.”

“And what do you think?”

“Well, when rape precedes homicide, it usually comes down to revenge or jealousy or possibly to conceal the identity of the rapist. She may have known him, or she could have identified him afterward if he wasn’t wearing a mask or disguise.” I added, “On the other hand, this certainly looks like a lust murder, the work of a homicidal rapist—a person who gets his sexual release from the killing itself, and he may not even have penetrated her with his penis. That’s what it looks like, but we don’t know yet.”

Cynthia nodded, but offered nothing.

I asked her, “What do you think?”

She let a few seconds go by, then replied, “Obviously premeditated. The perpetrator had a rape kit—the tent pegs, rope, and presumably something to drive the pegs into the ground. The perpetrator must have been armed in order to overcome the victim’s own weapon.”

“Go on.”

“Well, the perpetrator got the drop on her, then made her toss away her weapon, then made her strip and walk out on the rifle range.”

“Okay. I’m trying to picture how he managed to stake her out and still keep her under his control. I don’t think she was the submissive type.”

Cynthia replied, “Neither do I. But there may have been two of them. And I wouldn’t make the assumption that the perpetrator or perpetrators was a he until we have some lab evidence.”

“Okay.” I was obviously having trouble with personal pronouns this morning. “Why weren’t there any signs of struggle on her part, or brutalization on his—on the perpetrator’s part?”

She shook her head. “Don’t know. You usually get some brutalization… The ligature isn’t what you’d call friendly, however.”

“No,” I replied, “but the guy didn’t hate her.”

“He didn’t like her much, either.”

“He may have. Look, Cynthia, you do this stuff for a living. Does this resemble any rape you’ve ever seen or heard about?”

She mulled that over, then said, “It has some of the elements of what we call an organized rape. The assailant planned a rape. But I don’t know if the assailant knew her, or if the assailant was just cruising and she was a victim of opportunity.”

“The assailant may have been in uniform,” I suggested, “which was why she was not on her guard.”

“Possible.”

I looked out the open window, smelled the morning dews and damps among the thick pines, and felt the