Cynthia chimed in, “He’s been sulky all morning. Even before you got here.” She smiled at me, but I stone- faced it, and her smile faded. I really wanted to be out of here, out of Hadley, out of the hot sun, out of Georgia, and out of touch. I said, “We won’t get a seat.” I turned toward the chapel and walked.
Karl and Cynthia followed. Karl spoke to Cynthia. “You should give him a last opportunity to confess.”
“You mean Paul?” she said playfully.
“No, Ms. Sunhill. Colonel Kent.”
“Right. We’ve considered that.”
“People confess to the most heinous crimes, you know, if you put them in the right mood. Murderers who have killed a loved one carry an enormous burden, and they want to share the weight with someone. Unlike professional criminals, they have no partners in crime, no confidants, and they are isolated, without a living soul to tell of the greatest secret of their life.”
“Yes, sir,” Cynthia replied.
Karl said, “Do you think it was simple expediency that made Colonel Kent call you and Paul regarding this crime? No. It was an unconscious desire to be found out.”
And on he went, saying things I already knew, and making the pitch for us to confront the suspect, who, though professionally damaged, was a high-ranking and powerful man with a lot of resources left to him. I sort of pictured myself in front of a board of inquiry, trying to make a case for Colonel William Kent as murderer, while seven steely-eyed officers sat there waiting to eat my ass for lunch. But sucker that I was, I was willing to give it a shot. However, I was going to keep Karl hanging until he ordered me to confront Kent.
I looked toward the chapel and noticed that the ceremonies relating to the receiving of the casket were completed; the honorary pallbearers were not on the steps, and, in fact, the old caisson, taken from the museum, did not have the casket on it.
The news media, according to a memo I’d seen on my desk, were limited to a pool of selected print journalists, and the only photographers present were two from the Army Public Information Office. The memo, signed by Colonel Fowler, had suggested not giving direct quotes to the journalists.
We climbed the steps and went into the narthex, where a dozen men and women stood conversing in hushed funereal tones. We all signed the guest book, and I walked into the dark chapel, which was no cooler than outside, and noted that the pews were nearly all full. The funeral of the commanding officer’s daughter was not a command-attendance situation, but only a moron would fail to show up here, or at least at the ceremonies later.
In fact, not all of Fort Hadley’s officers and spouses, or Midland’s civilian dignitaries, could fit into the chapel, which held about five or six hundred people, but I was certain that there were people already assembling at Jordan Field for the final send-off.
The organ was playing softly in the choir loft above us, and we stood in the center aisle a moment, each of us, I think, trying to decide if we should walk to the casket, which sat on a catafalque at the foot of the altar steps. Finally, I began the long walk, and Cynthia and Karl followed.
I approached the flag-draped and half-opened casket on the left, stopped, and looked down at the deceased.
Ann Campbell looked peaceful, as Kent had indicated, her head resting on a pink satin pillow, and her long hair sort of fanned out around her head and face. I noted that she had more makeup on in death than she’d probably ever worn in life.
They had dressed her in the evening white uniform that a female officer would wear to formal functions, and it was an appropriate choice, I thought, the white waistcoat with gold braid and the white ruffled blouse, making her appear gossamery, if not virginal. She wore her medals on her left breast, and her sheathed West Point saber was laid on her body so that her clasped hands, which might hold a cross or rosary beads depending on one’s religion, held, instead, the hilt of her sword at her midriff. The sheathed blade disappeared beneath the half-lid of the casket.
It was quite a striking sight, to be honest: the beautiful face, the golden hair, the gold braid, the glittering brass and steel of the saber, and the snow-white uniform against the pink satin lining of the casket.
I took all this in very quickly, of course, no more than five seconds, then, good Catholic that I am, I made the sign of the cross and moved around the casket and started down the center aisle.
I saw the Campbells in the first two rows on the right: the general, Mrs. Campbell, a young man whom I recognized from the family album in Ann Campbell’s house as their son, and various other family members, old and young, all wearing black outfits and black mourning bands, which are still customary in the military.
I avoided eye contact with any of them and proceeded up the aisle slowly until my coterie caught up with me.
We found three seats together in the same pew that held Major Bowes, whom I knew only from his name tag, and a woman I presumed to be Mrs. Bowes. Bowes nodded to Colonel Hellmann, who failed to acknowledge the presence of an adulterer and jackass. Mrs. Bowes, incidentally, was rather attractive, proving once again that men are basically pigs.
Despite having just viewed the mortal remains of a young woman, I was feeling slightly better, as people do who consider their position relative to less fortunate souls, such as people with big career problems, like Bowes, murder suspects, like Kent, or married people in general, and the sick, dying, and dead.
The chaplain, Major Eames, wearing only the green dress uniform with no ecclesiastic vestments, came to the pulpit, and a hush fell over the crowd. Major Eames began, “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here in the presence of God to bid farewell to our sister, Ann Campbell.”
A lot of people sobbed.
I whispered to Karl, “The chaplain fucked her, too.”
Karl’s jaw dropped this time. The day still had possibilities.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-FIVE
The simple service proceeded with prayers, organ music, and a few hymns. Senior military officers are great churchgoers, of course; it comes with the territory of God and Country. But they tend to be nondenominational, which is safe, gray, and nondescript, like most of their careers.
The upside of this at military weddings and funerals is that you get to pick and choose the best aspects of each denomination’s liturgy, hymns, and prayers, and you can make it short. I can tell you from experience that a Catholic funeral mass can be long and arduous enough to kill off a few of the old folks.
Anyway, at the designated time, Colonel Fowler mounted the lectern to deliver the eulogy.
Colonel Fowler acknowledged the presence of family, friends, fellow officers, coworkers, and Midland dignitaries. He said, “In our chosen profession, more than in any other profession, we see and hear of the untimely deaths of young men and women. We do not grow accustomed to death, and we do not become hardened to death, but rather we cherish life more because we know and accept the fact that Army life puts us in harm’s way. When we took the oath, we fully understood that we could be called upon to risk our lives in the defense of our country. Captain Ann Campbell understood that when she accepted her commission from the Military Academy, she understood that when she went to the Gulf, and she understood that when, at an hour when most people are safe in their homes, she volunteered to go out and see that all was secure at Fort Hadley. This was a completely voluntary act, not specifically related to her duties, but the sort of thing that Ann Campbell did without being told.”
I listened, and it occurred to me that, if I didn’t know better, I’d buy it. Here was a gung-ho young female officer volunteering for night duty officer, then taking the initiative to go out to check the guard and being murdered while she was doing a good deed. How sad. That’s not the way it happened, but the truth was even sadder.
Colonel Fowler went on, “I’m reminded of a line from Isaiah 21:11—‘Watchman, what of the night?’ ” He repeated it,“ ‘Watchman, what of the night?’ and the watchman replied, ‘Morning is coming.’ And aren’t we all watchmen? This is our calling in life, as soldiers, to stand the watch, each day, each night, eternally vigilant so that others may sleep peacefully until morning, until the day when it pleases God to call us into His Kingdom, and we need not stand the watch, nor fear the night.”
