We headed north in the direction of the main post, but turned left at a sign that said, “Jordan Field.” I informed Cynthia, “Based on Cal’s findings with the tent pegs and rope, I don’t think you have to be staked out.”
She replied, “Karl is the typical armchair detective.”
“True.” Among Karl’s other annoying traits was his bad habit of coming up with bright ideas. He’d sit there in Falls Church and read lab reports, witnesses’ statements, and look at photos, then formulate theories and avenues of investigation. The men and women in the field love this. Karl fancies himself as some sort of European savant, and the fact that he’s batting zero doesn’t seem to bother him.
But Karl is a good commander. He runs a tight operation, kisses no ass, and stands up for his people. In this particular case, Colonel Karl Gustav Hellmann would undoubtedly be called to the Pentagon to report. Standing, perhaps, in the chief of staff’s office before the secretary of the Army, the head of the FBI, the judge advocate general, and other assorted brass and steely-eyed presidential flunkies, he would announce, “My best man, Chief Warrant Officer Paul Brenner, is on the case, and he tells me he needs no outside assistance, and he assures me he can successfully conclude this case within a matter of days. An arrest is imminent.” Right, Karl. Probably mine.
Cynthia glanced toward me. “You look a little pale.”
“Just tired.”
We approached Jordan Field, an Army installation that is part of Fort Hadley. Most of Hadley is an open post, and people come and go as they please, but Jordan Field is a security area, and we were stopped at the gate by an MP. The MP looked at Cynthia’s ID and asked, “Are you working on the murder case, ma’am?”
“Yes,” she replied. “This is my father.”
The MP smiled. “Hangar three, ma’am.”
Cynthia put the car in gear and we proceeded toward hangar three. Jordan Field was originally built by the now-defunct Army Air Corps in the 1930s and looks like a set for a World War II movie. It was too small to be taken over by the new Air Force after the war, but it is much bigger than the Army needs for its limited air arm, and, as a troop staging area, it is redundant and superfluous. In fact, if this whole military complex, including Hadley and Jordan, belonged to General Motors, half of it would be moved to Mexico and the other half closed. But the Army issues no P&L statements, and the end product, national defense, is somewhat of an abstract, like peace of mind, and therefore priceless. In reality, however, Hadley and Jordan are no more than government work projects for the local economy. What the war booms created, the peace dividend would maintain.
Sitting on the tarmac were two Huey helicopters and three Army artillery spotter planes. We proceeded to hangar three, in front of which was parked Kent’s staff car, and a blue and white Ford with police markings. In fact, a gold shield on the door of the police car was emblazoned with the words “Midland Police Chief.”
Cynthia said, “That will be Chief Yardley’s car. I worked with him once. Have you?”
“No, and I don’t intend to start now.”
We walked into the cavernous hangar, where I noticed, first, a white BMW 325 convertible, which I assumed was Ann Campbell’s car. At the far end of the hangar were Ann Campbell’s household effects, arranged, I assumed, in some sort of room-by-room order, with the ripped-up carpeting laid out according to the floor plan of the town house. As I got closer, I noticed her office furniture, as well. As we got even closer, I saw a long table covered with Polaroid photos of her house and office. There were a few MPs on the fringes of the layout, and there was Colonel Kent, and there was a man wearing a cowboy hat who looked like he could have been, and probably was, Police Chief Yardley. The man was big, bursting out of his tan poplin suit, and his face was red, leading me to wonder if he was sunburned, had high blood pressure, or was monumentally pissed-off.
Yardley and Kent were conversing and glancing toward Cynthia and me as we approached. Yardley finally turned and came toward me as I came toward him. He greeted me with these words: “You got a shitload of explaining to do, son.”
I thought not, and informed him, “If you’ve touched anything or come in contact with anything, I will need prints from you, and fibers from your clothing.”
Yardley stopped a foot from me and sort of stared for a long time, then laughed. “You son-of-a-bitch.” He turned to Kent. “You hear that?”
Kent forced a smile, but he was not happy.
I continued, “Please keep in mind that you are on a military reservation and that I have the sole responsibility for this case.”
Kent, a bit belatedly, said, “Chief Yardley, may I introduce Mr. Brenner and Ms. Sunhill.”
“You may,” replied Yardley, “but I’m not real delighted.”
Yardley, you may have guessed, had a rural Georgia accent that grates on my nerves in the best of circumstances. I can only imagine how my South Boston accent sounded to him.
Yardley turned to Cynthia, and, all southern charm now, he touched his cowboy hat. “I believe we’ve met, ma’am.”
I mean, was this guy out of central casting, or what? I asked Yardley, “Can you tell me what your official business is here?”
Again he smiled. I seemed to amuse him. He said, “Well, now, my official business is to ask you how all this stuff got here.”
Remembering Karl’s nearly intelligent advice and wanting this guy gone, I replied, “The deceased’s family asked that I take charge of these items and transport them here.”
He mulled that over a moment, then said, “Good thinkin’, son. You skunked me.”
“Thank you.” Actually, I liked this guy. I’m partial to assholes.
Yardley said, “Tell you what—you give me and the county lab access to this stuff, and we’ll call it even.”
“I’ll consider that after the CID lab is finished with it.”
“Don’t mess with me, son.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Good. Hey, how’s this sound—you let us in on this matter, and I’ll give you access to the deceased’s house, which we got all locked up and guarded now.”
“I don’t care about the house.” Except the basement. The guy had an ace he didn’t know about.
“Okay, I got some official files on the deceased.”
The deal was getting better, but I said, “I’ll subpoena your files if I have to.”
Yardley turned to Kent. “This is a horse trader.” He turned back to me. “I got things up here”—he tapped his head, which sounded hollow—“things that you can’t subpoena.”
“You knew the deceased?”
“Hell, yeah, boy. How ’bout you?”
“I didn’t have the pleasure.” Double entendre, perhaps.
“I know the old man, too. Hey, tell you what,” said Chief Yardley, using that annoying expression, “you come on down to my office and we’ll jawbone this one.”
Recalling how I had suckered poor Dalbert Elkins inside a cell, I replied, “If we do speak, we’ll do it in the provost marshal’s office.”
The mention of Kent’s title seemed to arouse him and he said, “We will all cooperate in the sharing of files, leads, and forensic reports.”
Cynthia spoke for the first time. “Chief, I understand your feeling that we’ve acted improperly, but don’t take that personally, or view it as a professional insult. If the victim had been almost anyone else, we would have asked you to join us at the house and conferred with you regarding the best way to proceed.”
Yardley was pursing his lips, as though he were contemplating this statement or was forming the word “bullshit.”
Cynthia continued, “We get just as upset when a soldier is arrested in town for some minor infraction that a local boy would get away with.”
Unless the local boy was black, of course. Don’t say it, Brenner.
“So,” Cynthia continued with sweet reason, “we will sit down at a mutually convenient time tomorrow and formulate a good working relationship.” And so on and so forth.
Yardley nodded, but his mind was elsewhere. Finally, he replied, “Makes sense to me.” He said to Kent, “Thanks, Colonel. Call me at home tonight.” He turned to me and slapped me on the shoulder. “You skunked me, boy. I owe you one.” He strode away, across the long floor of the hangar, looking like a man who would be
