The General's Daughter

“Yes. Captain Campbell was extremely motivated, bright, articulate, and trustworthy.”

That sounded like what he put on her officer evaluation report every six months. Clearly, they were a team. I asked him, “Was she sort of your protege?”

He stared at me as though my use of one French word might lead to or suggest another French word like, perhaps, paramour, or some other dirty foreign word. He replied, “She was my subordinate.”

“Right.” I wrote that down under the heading Bullshit. I found that I was annoyed that this geek had been around the world with Ann Campbell and had shared so many years with her. How’s that for nuts? I had half a mind to say to him, “Look here, Moore, you shouldn’t even be on the same planet with this goddess. I’m the one who could have made her happy. You’re a sick little freak.” Instead, I said to him, “And do you know her father?”

“Yes. But not well.”

“Had you met him prior to Fort Hadley?”

“Yes. Now and then. We saw him a few times in the Gulf.”

“We?”

“Ann and I.”

“Ah.” I wrote that down.

I asked him a few more questions, but clearly neither of us was getting anything interesting out of this. What I wanted from this meeting was to get an impression of him before he knew whom he was talking to. Once they know you’re a cop, they go into an act. On the other hand, Army Times reporters can’t ask questions like “Did you have a sexual relationship with her?” But cops can, so I asked him, “Did you have a sexual relationship with her?”

He stood. “What the hell kind of question is that? I’m going to make an official complaint—”

I held up my badge case. “CID, Colonel. Have a seat.”

He stared at the badge a second, then at me, and those eyes shot red death rays at me, zip, zip, like in a bad horror flick.

I said again, “Sit down, Colonel.”

He looked furtively around the half-filled room, sort of like he was wondering if he was surrounded or something. Finally, he sat.

There are colonels, and then there are colonels. Theoretically, the rank transcends the man or woman wearing it, and you pay respect to the rank, if not the person. In reality, this is not so. Colonel Fowler, for instance, had the power and the authority, and you had to be careful with him. Colonel Moore was not connected to any power structure that I knew about. I said to him, “I am investigating the murder of Captain Campbell. You are not a suspect in this case, and I am not going to read you your rights. Therefore, you will answer my questions truthfully and fully. Okay?”

“You have no right to pass yourself off as—”

“Let me worry about my split personality. Okay? First question—”

“I refuse to speak to you without an attorney present.”

“I think you’ve seen too many civilian movies. You have no right to an attorney and no right to remain silent unless you are a suspect. If you refuse to cooperate voluntarily, then I will consider you a suspect and read you your rights and take you down to the provost marshal’s office and announce that I have a suspect who requires an attorney. You are in what is called a military bind. So?”

He thought a moment, then said, “I have absolutely nothing to hide, and I resent your having put me in a defensive position like this.”

“Right. First question. When was the last time you saw Captain Campbell?”

He cleared his throat and adjusted his attitude, then replied, “I last saw her yesterday at about 1630 hours in my office. She said she was going to go to the club to get something to eat, then report for duty.”

“Why did she volunteer for duty officer last night?”

“I have no idea.”

“Did she call you from Post Headquarters during the evening, or did you call her?”

“Well… let me think…”

“All phone calls on post can be traced, and there is a duty officer’s log.” In fact, intra-post calls could not be traced, and Captain Campbell would not have logged any incoming or outgoing calls of a personal nature.

Moore replied, “Yes, I did call her…”

“What time?”

“About 2300 hours.”

“Why so late?”

“Well, we had some work to discuss for the next day, and I knew things would be quiet by that hour.”

“Where were you calling from?”

“From my home.”

“Where is that?”

“Off post. Victory Drive.”

“Isn’t that where the deceased lived?”

“Yes.”

“Have you ever been to her house?”

“Of course. Many times.”

I tried to imagine what this guy looked like naked with his back to the camera, or with a leather mask on. I wondered if the forensic lab had an official pecker checker, some man (or woman) who could compare a blow-up photo of a pecker with this guy’s equipment. Anyway, I asked him, “Were you ever sexually involved with her?”

“No. But you can be sure you’ll hear rumors. Rumors have followed us wherever—”

“Are you married?”

“I was. Divorced about seven years ago.”

“Do you date?”

“Occasionally.”

“Did you find Ann Campbell attractive?”

“Well… I admired her mind.”

“Did you ever notice her body?”

“I don’t like this line of questioning.”

“Neither do I. Did you find her sexually attractive?”

“I was her superior officer, I am almost twenty years older than she, she is a general’s daughter. I never once said anything to her that could be construed as sexual harassment.”

“I’m not investigating a charge of sexual harassment, Colonel. I’m investigating a rape and murder.” I said to him, “Then why were there rumors?”

“Because people have dirty minds. Even Army officers.” He smiled. “Like yourself.”

On that note, I ordered two more drinks; another sherry to loosen him up, a beer to calm my impulse to deck him.

Cynthia arrived, wearing black pants and a white blouse. I introduced her to Colonel Moore, then said to her, “We’re not with the Army Times anymore. We’re CID. I was asking Colonel Moore if he was ever sexually involved with the deceased, and he assures me he wasn’t. We’re in a confrontational mode at the moment.”

Cynthia smiled and said to Moore, “Mr. Brenner is extremely tense and tired.” She sat and we all chatted for a few minutes as I brought Cynthia up to date. Cynthia ordered a bourbon and Coke and a club sandwich for herself and a cheeseburger for me. She knows I like cheeseburgers. Colonel Moore declined to dine with us, explaining that he was still too upset to eat. Cynthia asked him, “As her friend, did you know anyone who she might have been involved with?”

“You mean sexually?”

“I believe that’s the subject on the table,” she replied.

“Well… let me think… She was seeing a young man… a civilian. She rarely dated soldiers.”

“Who was the civilian?” Cynthia asked.

“A fellow named Wes Yardley.”