victim of that something.
I opened the medical file and went directly to the back, where psychological information, if any, is usually placed. And here I found the old psychological evaluation report, which is required for entry into West Point. The reporting psychiatrist wrote: This is a highly motivated, bright, and well-adjusted person. Based on a two-hour interview and the attached testing results, I found no authoritarian traits in her personality, no delusional disorders, mood disorders, anxiety disorders, personality disorders, or sexual disorders.
The report went on to say that there were no apparent psychological problems that would prevent her from fulfilling her duties and obligations at the United States Military Academy. Ann Campbell was a normal eighteen- year-old American girl, whatever that meant in the latter part of the twentieth century. All well and good.
But there were a few more pages in the psychological section, a short report dated in what would have been the fall semester of her third year at West Point. Ann Campbell had been ordered to see a staff psychiatrist, though who had ordered this, and why, was not stated. The psychiatrist, a Dr. Wells, had written: Cadet Campbell has been recommended for therapy and/ or evaluation. Cadet Campbell claims “There is nothing wrong with me.” She is uncooperative, but not to the extent that I can forward a delinquency report on her to her commanding officer. In four interviews, each lasting approximately two hours, she repeatedly stated that she was just fatigued, stressed by the physical and academic program, anxious about her performance and grades, and generally overworked. While this is a common complaint of first-and second-year cadets, I have rarely seen this degree of mental and physical stress and fatigue in third-year students. I suggested that something else was causing her stress and feelings of anxiety, perhaps a love interest or problems at home. She assured me that everything was fine at home and that she had no love interest here at the academy or anywhere. I observed a young woman who was clearly underweight, obviously distracted, and, in general terms, troubled and depressed. She cried several times during the interviews, but always got her emotions under control and apologized for crying. At times, she seemed on the verge of revealing more than common cadet complaints, but always drew back. She did say once, however, “It doesn’t matter if I go to class or not, it doesn’t matter what I do here. They’re going to graduate me anyway.” I asked if she thought that was true because she was General Campbell’s daughter, and she replied, “No, they’re going to graduate me because I did them a favor.” When I asked what she meant by that, and who “they” were, she replied, “The old boys.” Subsequent questions elicited no response.I believe we were on the threshold of a breakthrough, but her subsequent appointments, originally ordered by her commander, were canceled without explanation by a higher authority whose name I never learned. My belief is that Cadet Campbell is in need of further evaluation and therapy, voluntary or involuntary. Lacking that, I recommend a psychiatric board of inquiry to determine if Cadet Campbell should be given a psychiatric separation from the academy. I further recommend a complete medical examination and evaluation.
I digested this brief report, wondering, of course, how a well-adjusted eighteen-year-old had turned into a depressed twenty-year-old. The rigors of West Point could easily explain that, but obviously Dr. Wells wasn’t buying it, and neither was I.
I leafed through the file, intending at some early date to read it from cover to cover. As I was about to close the folder, an errant scrap of paper caught my eye and I read the handwritten words:
CHAPTER
NINE
I did not need to be, nor did I want to be, Sergeant Franklin White any longer, especially since Sergeant White had to salute every snot-nosed lieutenant he passed. So I made the half-mile walk to the Infantry Training Brigade and retrieved my pick-up truck, then headed out to Whispering Pines to change into civvies.
I drove past the post armory, but didn’t see Sergeant Elkin’s POV parked in the lot. I had this unsettling thought that Elkins was going to consummate the deal behind my back and take off for parts unknown, leaving me to explain how I let a few hundred M-16s and grenade launchers get into the hands of Colombian banditos.
But first things first. I left post and got onto the highway. The drive to Whispering Pines took about twenty minutes, during which time I reconstructed the events of the morning from the time the phone rang in the armory. I do this because my employer, the United States Army, is big on chronology and facts. But in a murder investigation, what you see and when you saw it is not the whole game, because by the nature of the act of murder, the crucial things happened before you got there. There is sort of a spirit world that coexists with the world of empirical observation, and you have to get in touch with that world through the detective’s equivalent of the seance. You don’t use a crystal ball, though I’d like one that worked—but you do clear your mind and listen to what isn’t said and see things that aren’t there.
That aside, Karl needed a written report, so I drafted one in my mind:
That might need a little work. But it’s important, I think, to admit to yourself the truth of how you feel about things. Everyone else is going to lie, posture, and dissemble.
Regarding that, I thought about Cynthia. In truth, I couldn’t get the woman out of my mind. I kept seeing her face and hearing her voice, and I was right then missing her. This is presumptive evidence of a strong emotional attachment, perhaps a sexual obsession, and, God forbid, love. This was worrisome, not only because I wasn’t ready for this but because I wasn’t sure how she felt. Also, there was the murder. When you get handed a murder, you have to give it everything you’ve got, and if you don’t have much left to give, you have to draw on psychic energy that you’ve been saving for other things. Eventually, of course, there’s nothing left to borrow, and people like Cynthia, young and filled with a sense of duty and enthusiasm, call you cold, callous, and cynical. I deny this, of course, knowing I’m capable of emotions and feelings, of love and warmth. I was sort of like that in Brussels last year, and look at what it got me. Anyway, murder deserves one’s undivided attention.
I looked out the windshield as I approached Whispering Pines Trailer Park. Up ahead, on the left, I saw a county road crew making a blacktop repair, and I recalled two and a half decades ago when I saw my first Georgia chain gang. I don’t think they use chain gangs on the roads anymore, and I hope they don’t. But I recall the sight vividly, the prisoners, filthy and bowed, their ankles connected by chains, and the guards in sweaty tan uniforms, carrying rifles and shotguns. I couldn’t believe at first what I was seeing. Paul Brenner, late of South Boston, simply could not comprehend that men were chained together, working like slaves in the blistering sun, right here in America. I actually felt my stomach tighten as though someone had punched me.
But that Paul Brenner no longer existed. The world had become softer, and I’d become harder. Somewhere on the time line, the world and I had been harmonious for a year or two, then went our separate ways again. Maybe my problem was that my worlds changed too much: Georgia today, Brussels last year, Pago Pago next week. I needed to stop in one place for a while, I needed to know a woman for more than a night, a week, or a month.
I passed between two stripped pine trees to which had been nailed a hand-painted sign overhead that once read “Whispering Pines.” I parked the pickup truck near the owner’s mobile home and began the trek to my aluminum abode. I think I liked rural southern poverty better when it was housed in wooden shacks with a rocking chair and a jug of corn squeezings on the front porch.
I did a walk around the trailer, checking for open windows, footprints, and other signs that someone had been there. I came around to the entrance and inspected the strand of sticky filament I’d placed across the door and the frame. It’s not that I’d seen too many movies where the detective goes into his house and gets clubbed over the head. But I spent five years in the infantry, one of them in ’Nam, and about ten years in Europe and Asia dealing with everyone from drug traffickers, to arms smugglers, to just plain murderers, and I know why I’m alive, and I know how to stay that way. In other words, if you have your head up your ass, four of your five senses aren’t working.
