The General's Daughter

Fowler had a good, deep speaking-voice, and his delivery was flawless. Clearly, the man could have been a preacher, or a politician, if he weren’t so obsessed with right and wrong.

I’m not a good public listener, and I tend to drift. So I drifted to Ann Campbell’s open casket, her face, the sword, and her folded hands around the hilt, and I realized what was wrong with that picture: someone had slipped a West Point ring on her finger. But was it her ring? And if it was, who had put it there? Fowler? General Campbell? Colonel Moore? Colonel Kent? Where did it come from? But did it make any difference at this point?

Colonel Fowler was still speaking, and I tuned back in.

He said, “I knew Ann as a child—a very precocious, high-spirited, and bratty child.” He smiled, and there was subdued laughter. He became serious again and continued, “A beautiful child, not only physically but spiritually beautiful, a special and gifted child of God. And all of us here who knew her and loved her…”

Fowler, smooth as he was, couldn’t slide over that double entendre, but it was only a momentary breath pause, noticed solely by those who had known her intimately and loved her well.

“… all of us will miss her deeply.”

Colonel Fowler had a lot of people sobbing now, and I could see one reason why the Campbells had asked him to deliver the eulogy. The other reason, of course, was that Colonel Fowler had not slept with the deceased, putting him on the short list of potential eulogizers. But I’m being cynical again. Fowler’s eulogy was moving, the deceased had suffered a great wrong, a wrongful and untimely death had occurred, and I was feeling like crap again.

Colonel Fowler did not mention specifically how she died, but did say, “The battlefield, in modern military jargon, is described as a hostile environment, which it most certainly is. And if you expand the meaning of battlefield to include any place where any soldier is standing and serving, then we can truthfully say that Ann died in battle.” He looked out over the crowd and concluded, “And it is only proper and fitting that we remember her not as a victim, but as a good soldier who died doing her duty.” He looked at the casket and said, “Ann, that’s how we’ll remember you.” Colonel Fowler came down from the lectern, stopped at the casket, saluted, then took his seat.

The organ began playing, and the service continued for a few more minutes. Chaplain Eames led the mourners in the Twenty-third Psalm, everyone’s favorite, and concluded with a benediction that ended with “Go in peace.”

The organist played “Rock of Ages,” and everyone stood.

All in all a good service, as funeral services go.

The eight honorary pallbearers stood in the front left pew and filed into the aisle at the foot of the casket, while the six casket bearers took up their positions on either side of the casket. I noted that the six casket bearers were all young male lieutenants, picked, perhaps, for their youth and strength, or perhaps for their lack of involvement with the deceased. Even Lieutenant Elby, I noticed, whose intentions had been honorable, had been barred from carrying the casket.

Likewise, the honorary pallbearers, who would normally be high-ranking associates of the general or close personal friends of the deceased, were obviously chosen for their clean hands; they were, in fact, all female officers, including the general’s other aide, Captain Bollinger. An all-female contingent of honorary pallbearers seemed appropriate on the surface of it, but for those who understood why senior male officers had been excluded, it seemed that the general had finally gotten his way in keeping his daughter’s intimates away from her.

The eight female officers proceeded toward the chapel entrance, and the six casket bearers closed the top half of the lid, covered it with the American flag, grasped the side handles of the casket, and hefted it off the catafalque.

Chaplain Eames walked in front of the casket, and the Campbells in the rear. As is customary when the casket is in motion, everyone in the pews who was in uniform faced the body and saluted.

The chaplain led the procession to the entrance, where the eight honorary pallbearers stood at attention and saluted as the casket passed between them. At this point, the mourners began filing out.

Outside, in the hot sun, I watched as the casket bearers secured the flag-draped casket to the old wooden caisson, which was, in turn, hitched to a humvee.

Assembled on a large stretch of grass across from the chapel were the escort vehicles—staff cars and buses to transport the family, the band, the pallbearers, the firing party, and the color guard. Every veteran has the right to be buried in a national cemetery with full honors, but you only get all this hoopla if you die on active duty. If there’s a war on, however, they may bury the numerous dead overseas, or, as in Vietnam, they send them back by the planeload for reshipment to various hometowns. In any case, whether you’re a general or a private, you get the twenty-one-gun salute.

People mingled awhile, as people do, speaking to one another, to the chaplain, comforting the Campbells.

I spotted a few of the journalists, who were trying to figure out whom to interview, and I saw the Army PIO photographers discreetly taking pictures from a distance. The news stories to date had been guarded and vague, but hinted at things that I thought were best left alone.

I noticed a young man standing near the Campbells who, as I said, I recognized from the family album as the son, John. But I would have recognized him anyway. He was tall, good-looking, and had the Campbell eyes, hair, and chin.

He looked a bit lost, standing off to the side of the clan, so I went up to him and introduced myself as Warrant Officer Brenner, and said to him, “I’m investigating the circumstances of your sister’s death.”

He nodded.

We spoke a moment, I passed on my condolences, and we chatted about nothing in particular. He seemed a likable guy, well-spoken, clean-cut, and alert. In many ways, he was what we called officer material; but he had not opted for that role, either because he didn’t want to follow in his father’s footsteps or because he felt his free spirit might be a hindrance. He may have been right in both cases, but, like many sons of the high and the mighty, he had not found his place in the world.

John strongly resembled his sister in appearance, and my purpose in speaking to him was not solely to express my sympathy. I said to him, “Do you know Colonel William Kent?”

He thought a moment, then replied, “Name sounds familiar. I think I met him at some parties.”

“He was a great friend of Ann’s, and I’d like you to meet him.”

“Sure.”

I led him to where Kent was standing on the sidewalk, speaking to a few of his officers, including my recent acquaintance, Major Doyle. I interrupted the conversation and said to Kent, “Colonel Kent, may I introduce Ann’s brother, John?”

They shook hands, and John said, “Yes, we did meet a few times. Thank you for coming.”

Kent seemed not able to find the words for a reply, but he glanced at me.

I said to John, “Colonel Kent, aside from being a friend of Ann’s, has been a great help in the investigation.”

John Campbell said to Kent, “Thank you. I know you’re doing all you can.”

Kent nodded.

I excused myself and left them to chat.

One could criticize the appropriateness of introducing the suspected murderer to the brother of the victim at the victim’s funeral. But if all’s fair in love and war, let me tell you, anything goes in a homicide investigation.

I felt, of course, that Bill Kent was on the edge, and anything I could do to nudge him into taking that last step into the great abyss was right and honorable.

The crowd was thinning as people made their way to their vehicles. I noticed the Yardley boys, father and son, with a woman who looked enough like them to be a blood relative of both, but who was probably Burt’s wife —and his not-too-distant relative. I suspected that there weren’t many branches on the Yardley family tree.

There were a number of other civilians present, including the town mayor and his family, but it was mostly male officers and their wives, though I’m sure some wives chose not to attend. There were no enlisted personnel present except the post’s command sergeant major, who, by tradition, represented all the enlisted men and women at certain functions such as these, where privates and sergeants could not be specifically excluded, but where their