The General's Daughter

Cynthia nodded. “I agree with that. So whatever made her cry was perhaps an emotional trauma.”

“Right. Someone she knew made her cry without even touching her.”

“Perhaps. But she may have made herself cry. We don’t know at this point.”

“Right.” Forensic evidence is objective. That is, dried tears were present in large quantities. The tears belonged to the victim. They flowed from the eyes toward the ears, indicating that they flowed when the body was in a supine position. End of statement. Exit Cal Seiver, enter Paul Brenner. The tears indicated crying. Therefore, who made her cry? What made her cry? Why did she cry? When did she cry? Is this important to know? Somehow, I thought it was.

Cynthia said, “Trace fibers were from her own underwear and from BDUs that are probably her own but could be from another person. There were no other fibers found. Also, the only hair found on and around the body was her own.”

“How about the hair in the latrine sink?”

“That was not hers. It was black, undyed, from a Caucasian, came from the head, probably fell out, not pulled or cut, and from the shaft they determined that it was blood type O. There were no roots, so no genetic markers, and the sex can’t be determined conclusively, but Cal’s guess, based on the length and the lack of any dye, conditioner, styling preparations, and so forth, is that it belonged to a man. It was characterized as curly, not straight or wavy.”

“I just met a guy with that kind of hair.”

“Yes. We should get a strand of Colonel Moore’s hair for microscopic comparison.”

“Right. What else?”

“Well, there was no semen found on her skin or in any of her orifices. Also, there was no trace of any type of lubrication in her vagina or anus that would suggest a penetration by a foreign object, or by a lubricated condom, for instance.”

I nodded. “No sexual intercourse took place.”

“It could have taken place if a man dressed in the same BDUs she wore got on top of her, leaving no body hair, saliva, or perspiration of his own. Using a condom without lubrication, or using no condom, he penetrated her but did not ejaculate. That could have happened.”

“But it didn’t. No sexual intercourse took place. Transference and exchange has got to occur to some extent. Even a microscopic extent.”

“I tend to agree. But we can’t rule out some sort of genital stimulation. If the rope around her neck was to induce sexual asphyxiation, as you suggested, then it follows that genital stimulation was supposed to take place.”

“That would be logical. But I’ve given up on logic in this case. Okay, how about fingerprints?”

“None on her body. They couldn’t lift any complete or distinct prints from the nylon rope, but they got several from the tent pegs.”

“Are they good enough to run through the FBI?”

“No, but they’re good enough to match to known prints. In fact, some of the prints were Ann Campbell’s. Some were not and may belong to the other person.”

“I hope so.”

Cynthia said, “So she handled the tent pegs, which means she was forced to assist the perpetrator, or she voluntarily assisted the perpetrator, as in a consensual act of sexual fantasy or whatever.”

“I lean toward the latter.”

“I would, too, except what made her cry?”

“Happiness. Ecstasy.” I pointed out, “Crying is an empirically observable event. The cause of the crying is open to different interpretations.” I added, “Some people do cry after orgasm.”

“I’ve heard. So anyway, we know a lot more than we did at sunrise, but in some ways we know a lot less. Some of this stuff is not fitting together in the normal way.”

“That’s an understatement. Any fingerprints from the humvee?”

“Lots. They were still working on that and on the latrines. Cal took the humvee and the lower bleacher seats to the hangar. He’s set up shop there.”

“Good.” I thought a moment, then said, “I’ve only had two homicide cases that I’ve solved to my satisfaction where I’ve failed to get a conviction. And those two involved bright people who took care not to leave any forensic evidence behind. I don’t want this to be one of those cases.”

“Well, Paul, as they say, long before there was scientific evidence, there were confessions. Often the perpetrator needs to confess and is just waiting for us to ask him to do so.”

“That’s what they said during the Inquisition, the Salem witch trials, and the Moscow show trials. I’d like to see some evidence.”

We drove through the outskirts of the main post, neither of us saying much. I rolled down my window, letting in the cool night air. “Do you like Georgia?”

She glanced at me. “I never had a permanent duty station here. Just here and gone. But I like it. How about you?”

“Brings back memories.”

We left the main post, and Cynthia found Rifle Range Road without too much difficulty. The moon was still below the trees, and it was dark except for our headlights on the road. You could hear crickets, tree frogs, locusts, and all sorts of other nocturnal things that make weird sounds, and the smell of the pines was overwhelming, reminding me of Whispering Pines many years ago: sitting outside at night on lawn chairs, drinking beer with the other young soldiers and their wives, listening to Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, or whomever, waiting for the mimeographed papers that began, “You are hereby ordered to report…”

Cynthia asked, “What did you think of Colonel Moore?”

“Probably the same as you. He’s an odd duck.”

“Yes, but I think he’s a key to why Ann Campbell was killed.”

“Quite possibly,” I asked her, “Do you consider him a suspect?”

“For the record, no. We have to keep him talking. But between us, I can see him as a suspect.”

“Especially if that was his hair in the sink,” I pointed out.

“What would be his motive?” Cynthia asked.

“Well, it wasn’t classical sexual jealousy.”

“Do you believe that he never slept with her, or even propositioned her?”

“Yes. That shows how sick he is.”

“That’s an interesting observation. The more I deal with men, the more I learn.”

“Good for you. What do you think his motive could be?”

“Well, I agree with you that Colonel Moore is somewhat asexual. But she may have threatened to break off their platonic or therapeutic relationship, and he couldn’t handle it.”

“Then why kill her that way?” I asked.

“How do I know? We’re dealing with two shrinks here.”

“Right. But I’ll bet Moore knows why. Moore knows how she got there on the ground, even if he didn’t kill her himself. For all we know, he told her it was good therapy to have sex with strangers in open places. I’ve heard of that kind of thing.

Cynthia nodded. “You’re getting close to something.”

“Just another theory to store in the hangar.”

After a moment of quiet, I said to her, apropos of nothing except my whole life, “Did you many Major what’s-his-name

with the gun?” She replied, not enthusiastically, I thought, “Yes, I did.”

“Well, congratulations. I’m extremely happy for you, Cynthia, and wish you all the best that life has to offer.”

“I’ve filed for divorce.”

“Good.”

We rode in silence awhile, then she said, “I felt guilty after Brussels, so I accepted his proposal. Actually, I guess I was engaged to be married to him, so we got married. But… he never let me forget that he didn’t trust me