The General's Daughter

saluted those around him, took Mrs. Campbell by the arm as John Campbell took her other arm, and they walked up the inclined tailgate of the aircraft. For a moment, I thought they were entering the aircraft to say a final good-bye, but then it occurred to me that they had picked this time to leave Fort Hadley for good, and to leave the Army forever. In fact, the tailgate rose up and locked into place. A ground controller signaled the pilots, and the big aircraft moved off the apron onto the taxiway.

Most everyone was surprised, I think, by this sudden departure of the Campbells on the same aircraft that was bearing their daughter’s body to Michigan. But on second thought—and it seemed as if everyone had that second thought simultaneously—it was the best thing for the Campbells, for the fort, and for the Army.

Everyone watched as the C-130 lumbered down the runway, picked up speed, then, about four thousand feet from where everyone stood, it rose off the ground, silhouetted first by the tall line of green pines, then by the blue sky. As if that were the signal everyone needed, the crowd broke up, and the color guard, firing party, band, pallbearers, and others marched in formation to the waiting buses.

Vehicles began starting up behind me, and I turned and walked toward them, Cynthia and Karl on either side of me. Cynthia was dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. She said to me, “I’m not feeling very well.”

I gave her my car keys. “Sit in the air-conditioning awhile. I’ll meet you in hangar three when you’re up to it.”

“No, I’ll be all right.” She took my arm.

As the three of us walked to the vehicle, Karl said to me, “Paul, I ask that you go in for the kill now. We don’t have any time left, and we have no choice.”

“It’s true that we have no time, but I do have a choice.”

“Do I have to make this a direct order?”

“You can’t order me to do something that I think is tactically incorrect and may jeopardize the case for the FBI.”

“No, I cannot. Do you believe it’s incorrect for you to confront Kent at this time?”

“No.”

“Then?”

Cynthia said to Karl, “I’ll confront him.” She looked at me. “In the hangar, right?”

I didn’t reply.

Karl said to her, “Fine. Mr. Brenner and I will wait in the vehicle for you.”

Having shown enough petulance, I grunted, “All right, I’ll do it. I’m up to my ass in trouble anyway.”

Cynthia motioned up ahead, and I saw Kent, with two junior officers, walking toward his staff car. I said to Cynthia, “Wait ten minutes, then join me.”

I came up behind Kent and tapped him on the shoulder.

Kent turned around, and we stood there a second looking at each other. Finally, I said, “Colonel, may I see you alone?”

He hesitated, then replied, “Sure.” He dismissed his two subordinates, and we stood there on the hot concrete in front of the hangar as cars began pulling out around us.

I said, “It’s hot in the sun. Let’s go into this hangar.”

We walked side by side, as though we were colleagues, cops on the same mission, and I suppose, when all was said and done, that’s what we were.

CHAPTER

THIRTY-SIX

Hangar three was slightly cooler than outside and much quieter.

Kent and I walked past Ann Campbell’s BMW and continued on toward the area where her home was laid out. I indicated an upholstered chair in her study, and Kent sat.

Cal Seiver, dressed in his class A uniform, had apparently just come from the ceremonies himself. I separated from Kent and took Seiver off to the side, and said to him, “Cal, please clear everyone out of here except Grace. I want her to print out the relevant entries in Captain Campbell’s diary.” I cocked my head toward Kent. “Then she can leave. Have her leave the disk here.”

“Okay.”

“Did you hear from the footprint guy in Oakland?”

“Yes. What it comes down to is that he can’t say for sure now. But if he had to say, he’d say that Colonel Kent’s print was made before St. John’s print.”

“Okay. And the paint flecks from the damaged tree?”

“I had the tree section helicoptered to Gillem a few hours ago. They tell me the paint is black in color and tentatively matches the type used by Chrysler for the Jeep model. Where’s the Jeep, by the way?”

“It’s probably in Colonel Kent’s garage. He lives on Bethany Hill. So why don’t you send someone there, photograph the scrape on the Jeep, and scrape off some paint for comparison.”

“Can I do that?”

“Why not?”

“I need something in writing from his immediate commander to do that.”

“His immediate commander has resigned and just flew off to Michigan. But he told me it’s okay to do whatever we have to do. Don’t get civilian on me, Cal. This is the Army.”

“Right.”

“Can you demonstrate to Colonel Kent and me your footprint graphics on the monitor screen?”

“Sure can.”

“Good. Kent’s print definitely came first.”

“Understood.” He glanced at Kent sitting in Ann Campbell’s study, then said to me, “Is this it? The bust?”

“Could be.”

“If you think it’s him, go for it.”

“Right. And if he slaps the cuffs on me and takes me to the lockup, will you visit me?”

“No, I’ve got to get back to Gillem. But I’ll write.”

“Thanks. Also, tell the MPs outside to keep the FBI out while I’m in here.”

“Done. Good luck.” He slapped me on the shoulder and walked off.

I rejoined Kent and sat on the couch. I said to Kent, “We’re tying up some loose ends before the FBI gets here.”

He nodded, then commented, “I understand that your witness in the arms sales case beat feet.”

“You win some, you lose some.”

“How about this one?”

“This one’s a squeaker. Clock ticking, FBI massing, only one suspect.”

“Who’s that?”

I stood and took off my jacket, exposing my shoulder holster with the Glock 9mm. Kent did the same, exposing his shoulder holster with a .38 Police Special, sort of like show me yours, and I’ll show you mine. That out of the way, we sat, loosened our ties, and he asked again, “Who’s the suspect?”

“Well, that’s what I want to speak to you about. We’re waiting for Cynthia.”

“Okay.”

I looked around the hangar. The remainder of the forensic team were leaving, and I saw Grace at the PC, printing out.

I glanced across the hangar toward the personnel door but did not see Cynthia yet. Despite my current mood regarding her, she deserved to be in on the end, whatever the end was to be. I knew that Karl would distance himself from this—not out of a normal instinct to cover his ass if it went badly, but out of a respect for me and my work. Karl never micromanaged, and he never took credit from the investigators in the field. On the other hand, he didn’t deal very well with failure, especially if it was someone else’s failure.