“Hey, if I botch anything, I can cover my ass. If you botch anything, your ass is grass, and Colonel Hellmann is the lawn mower.”
Which was an unpleasant truth. I informed him, “The victim’s office, household goods, and personal effects are in a hangar at Jordan Field, so when you’re through here, go there.”
“I know. We’ll be done here by dark, then we’ll do an allnighter at the hangar.”
“Was Colonel Kent here?”
“Just for a few minutes.”
“What did he want?”
“Same as you, without the wisecracks.” He added, “Wants you to see the general. Did you get that message?”
“No. All right, Cal, I’m at the provost marshal’s office. All reports and inquiries go to me or Cynthia directly, sealed and marked ‘Confidential.’ Or you can call or drop by. My clerk is Specialist Baker. Don’t discuss this case with anyone, not even the post provost marshal. If he asks you anything, refer him to me or Cynthia. And instruct your people to do the same. Okay?”
Cal nodded, then asked, “Not even Colonel Kent?”
“Not even the general.”
He shrugged. “Okay.”
“Let’s go look at the latrines, then your people can process the premises.”
“Okay.”
As we walked, Cynthia asked Cal, “When can you release the body to the coroner for autopsy?”
Cal scratched his bald head. “Well… I guess in about three hours.”
She said, “Why don’t you call the post hospital and get the coroner out here so he can examine the body in place? Then tell him we would appreciate an autopsy ASAP, even if he has to work late, and we’d like a preliminary coroner’s report sometime tonight. Tell him the general would appreciate it, too, and that the general and Mrs. Campbell would like to get on with the funeral arrangements.”
Cal nodded. “Okay.”
Cynthia seemed to be getting the hang of it. Obviously, I was teaching by example.
The three of us made our way past the bleachers, over an open stretch of thick grass that left no footprints, and into the tree line where two latrine sheds stood. Kent had cordoned off the area, and we stepped over the yellow crime scene tape. The older shed was marked “Male Personnel,” and the newer one “Female Personnel.” The word “personnel” may seem superfluous, but Army regulations prohibit brevity and common sense. We entered the latrine shed for male personnel, and I turned on the lights using my handkerchief.
The floor was concrete, the walls wooden, and there were screens where the wall met the ceiling. There were three sinks, three stalls, and three urinals, all fairly clean. I assumed that if a unit had fired the previous day, they would have finished no later than 1700 hours, and they would have assigned a latrine clean-up detail. In fact, the wastebaskets were empty and there was nothing floating in the commodes, and all the seats were in the upright position.
Cynthia drew my attention to one of the sinks. There were water spots and a small hair in the basin. I said to Cal, “Here’s something.”
He walked over and bent over the bowl. “Human, Caucasian, head.” He looked closer. “Fell out, maybe cut, but not pulled out. No root. Not much of a sample, but I may be able to get you a blood type, maybe the sex, but without the root I can’t get you a genetic marker.”
“How about the owner’s name?”
Cal was not amused. He surveyed the latrine and said, “I’ll give this next priority after we finish out there.”
“Open the sink traps, too.”
“Do I need to be told that?”
“I guess not.”
We went into the female latrine, which was as clean as its male counterpart. There were six stalls, and here, also, the toilet seats were all up, which was an Army regulation, despite the fact that women had to put them down. I said to Cal, “I want you to tell me if Captain Campbell used this latrine.”
He replied, “If nothing else, we may be able to find a trace of perspiration or body oil on the toilet seat, or skin cells in the sink trap. I’ll do my best.”
“And don’t forget fingerprints on and around the light switch.”
“Do you forget to breathe?”
“Once in a while.”
“I don’t forget anything.”
“Good.” We looked around, but there was no visible evidence that could be connected to the victim, to the crime scene, or to a perpetrator. But if you believe in the theory of transference and exchange, the place could be crawling with evidence.
We went out into the sunlight and walked back toward the road. I said to Cal, “Don’t get insulted, but I have to remind you to establish a proper chain of custody with the evidence, and label and document everything as if you were going to be cross-examined by a savage defense attorney who was only getting paid for a not-guilty verdict. Okay?”
“Don’t worry about it. Meantime, you get a suspect, and we’ll scrape his skin, and take his blood, and pull his hair, and get him to pop off inside a rubber like Cynthia here did with this guy the other day.”
“I hope there’s something here to compare to a suspect.”
“There’s always something. Where are her clothes, by the way?”
“Gone. She was wearing BDUs.”
“So’s everybody else. If I find BDU fibers, it means nothing.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“Forensic’s not easy when everybody’s wearing the same clothes and boots.”
“True enough. Did you get disqualifying footprints from all the MPs on the scene?”
“Yeah.”
“Including Colonel Kent?”
“Yup.”
We got back to the road and stopped. Cynthia said, “Remember, Cal, the only pressure on you is from us. Nobody else counts.”
“I hear you.” He glanced back toward the body and offered, “She was very pretty. We have one of those recruiting posters of her in the lab.” He looked at Cynthia and me, and said, “Hey, good luck.”
Cynthia replied, “You, too.”
Cal Seiver turned and ambled off toward the body.
Cynthia and I got in her car and she asked, “Where to?”
“Jordan Field.”
CHAPTER
TWELVE
Speed, speed, speed. The older the case,the colder the trail. The colder the trail, theharder the case.
