Sometimes heterosexual and homosexual partners do it to each other during sex. It’s usually consensual, but not always, and sometimes it leads to a fatality, either accidental or on purpose. That’s when it becomes a police matter.”
“Correct. Have you ever seen it in practice?”
“No. Have you?”
“Have you ever done it?”
“No, Paul. Have you?”
“No, but I have seen it once. A guy rigged up something to hang himself while he masturbated, looking at a porno video. He didn’t mean to die, but the stool he was standing on slipped away and he hanged himself for real. An autoerotic fatality. The MPs thought it was suicide, of course. But when the victim is naked, and there is erotic paraphernalia around, then you can be pretty sure it was an accident. Try explaining that to the family.”
“I can imagine.” She shook her head and said, “I’m not sure how that’s fun. Didn’t say in the manual.”
“Well, it’s in other manuals. Here’s how it’s fun: When you get a disruption of blood supply and oxygen to the brain, certain sensations are heightened, partly as a result of diminished ego controls. A temporary lack of oxygen causes giddiness, lightheadedness, and even exhilaration. It’s a high without drugs or alcohol. In this state, many people experience a more intense sexual arousal and feeling.” I added, “I’ve heard that when you come, you
“That’s not fun.”
“No. Also, only part of the kick is physiological. The other thing is the ritualistic behavior that accompanies most acts of sexual asphyxia—the nakedness or the wearing of unusual clothes, the sexual paraphernalia and erotic materials, the fantasy, the setting, and ultimately the danger.”
“Who invented this one?”
“Undoubtedly, it was discovered accidentally. Maybe there’re pictures of it in Egyptian pyramids. Human beings are ceaselessly ingenious when it comes to self-gratification.”
She stayed silent while she drove, then glanced at me, and finally asked, “And you think something like this happened to Ann Campbell?”
“Well… the panties around her neck were put there so as not to leave a telltale rope mark. That’s very specific for sexual asphyxia when it is not meant to lead to death.” I added, “That is one way to interpret the scene that presented itself to us, but let’s examine the forensic evidence.”
“Where were her clothes?”
“She may have dropped them off somewhere.”
“Why?”
“It’s part of the danger and the fantasy. As you mentioned earlier, we have no way of knowing what was sexually significant to her, or what elaborate constructs she had developed in her mind. Think, if you will, of your own secret garden of delights, and try to imagine how those scenarios would be viewed by another person.” To fill the awkward silence, I added, “This type of personality is ultimately only satisfied with his or her own elaborate fantasies, with or without a partner. I’m beginning to think that what we saw on rifle range six was produced, directed, and scripted by Ann Campbell, not by her partner or assailant.”
Cynthia said nothing, so I continued, “Most likely, it was a consensual act that included sexual asphyxia in which her partner strangled her to death by accident, or on purpose, in a moment of anger. An assailant, a stranger, who was bent on rape and murder would not have put the panties around her neck to minimize tissue damage.”
“No, but as we discussed, consider that perhaps the partner did not kill her in a moment of anger. Consider that the partner
“That’s another possibility.”
Cynthia said, “I keep thinking about that room in the basement. There may have been men who wanted her dead out of jealousy or revenge, or she may have been blackmailing someone.”
“Right. She was a homicide victim waiting to happen. But we need more information. You’ll write all of that in your case book. Okay?”
Again she nodded but said nothing. Clearly, Cynthia, who dealt with garden-variety rapes that did not lead to murder, was somewhat overwhelmed by these new facets of human depravity and sexual diversity. Yet, I was sure she had seen women brutalized by men, but she must have compartmentalized those crimes or categorized them in some fashion that she could deal with. She didn’t seem to hate all men—in fact, she liked men—but I could see how she could, or would, one day begin to hate. I asked Cynthia, “The Neely case. Who was the guy?”
“Oh… some young trainee at the Infantry School. He fell in love with this nurse and followed her out to her car one night as she left the hospital. He made a full confession and will make a full apology, then plead guilty and take five to ten.”
I nodded. It was not Army policy, but it was becoming more common to have the convicted or confessed criminal apologize to the victim or the family, and also to his or her own commanding officer. This sounded more Japanese than English common law to me, but I suppose it’s okay. Ironically, General Campbell had instituted this policy here at Fort Hadley. I said, “Good God, I wouldn’t want to be the guy who had to apologize to the general for raping and murdering his daughter.”
“It would be hard to find just the right words,” Cynthia agreed. She added, “Are we back to rape and murder?”
“Perhaps. But it could have been murder and rape. Do you want to discuss necrophilia?”
“No. Enough.”
“Amen.” Up ahead, I could see the outline of a huge green open-sided tent, like a pavilion that you see at lawn parties. The forensic people pitch these over an outdoor crime scene to protect the evidence from the elements.
Cynthia said, “I appreciate the confidence in me that you’ve expressed to Karl.”
I didn’t recall that conversation with Karl, so I let that pass and said, “Karl wants us to reconstruct the crime. Complete with tent pegs, ropes, and so forth. You’re Ann Campbell.”
She thought about this a moment, then said, “All right… I’ve done that before…”
“Good. I’m looking forward to it.”
We had arrived at the scene, and Cynthia pulled over behind a forensic unit van. She said, “Are we going to see the body again?”
“No.” By now the body was bloating, and there would be a faint odor about it, and, as irrational and unprofessional as this sounds, I wanted to remember Ann Campbell as she was.
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
There were about a dozen vans and cars on the narrow road, belonging to the CID forensic lab and the local MPs.
Cynthia and I walked on a trail of green tarpaulin toward the open pavilion.
It was a typically hot Georgia afternoon, with an occasional soft breeze that carried the resinous scent of pines through the humid air.
Death does not cause a halt in military activities, and the rifle ranges to our left and right were being used despite the problem at rifle range six. I could hear the far-off fusillades of M-16s, sharp, staccato bursts of fire, and, as always, that sound stirred unpleasant memories. But those memories did put things into perspective. I mean, this case was unpleasant, but jungle combat was way down there on the list of unpleasant activities. Things could be worse. I was alive, and a young woman, fifty meters away, wasn’t.
In and around the pavilion were at least thirty men and women, all engaged in the business of forensic work.
Forensic science is based largely on the theory of transfer and exchange. It is an article of faith with forensic people that the perpetrator will take away traces of the scene and of the victim, and will leave traces of himself at the scene or on the victim. This is especially true with sexual assault, which by its nature puts the perpetrator and
