secrets, and we know there are skeletons in the closet, but we can’t find the closets.”
“That’s about it.”
We reached the car, and I put the bag in the trunk.
Cynthia and I got in, and she started the engine, then brushed something from my shoulder. “Anything broken, soldier? Can I take you to the hospital?”
“No, but I need my head examined. Psychological Operations School.”
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
We arrived at the Psy-Ops School at about 2300 hours, and Cynthia parked near the school headquarters. The school was made up of a cluster of about thirty concrete buildings, all of which were a uniquely depressing slate gray, the color of suicide, of Seattle.
There was not much grass, few trees, and the inadequate exterior lighting would be unacceptable in a civilian setting, but in the Army, muggings and lawsuits were not yet a problem.
Most of the buildings were dark, except for two that looked like living quarters, and in the nearby headquarters building, a single ground floor window was lit.
As we walked toward the headquarters, Cynthia asked me, “What exactly goes on here?”
“This is a subcommand of the JFK Special Warfare School at Bragg. In reality, it’s not a school at all, but that’s the cover.”
“Cover for what?”
“It’s a research facility. They don’t teach, they learn.”
“What do they learn?”
“I think they learn what makes people tick, then they find out how to make them stop ticking without putting a bullet in them.” I added, “Most of it is experimental.”
“Sounds spooky.”
“I’m with you. Bullets and high explosives work every time. Screw panic and free-floating anxiety.”
A humvee turned the corner up ahead and came toward us. It stopped and an MP dismounted from the passenger side while the driver stayed in the vehicle, pointing his headlights at us. The MP, a corporal named Stroud, saluted, which is customary, then asked us, “Do you have business here?”
I replied, “Yes. CID.” I held up my identification, which he examined with a flashlight, then examined Cynthia’s and turned out his light. “Who do you have business with, sir?”
“The duty sergeant. Why don’t you escort us, Corporal?”
“Yes, sir.” He walked with us to the headquarters and asked, “The Campbell murder?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Damned shame.”
“Did you know her?” Cynthia asked.
“Yes, ma’am. Not well, but I’d see her here at night sometimes. Lots of what they do here, they do at night.” He added, “Nice lady. Got any leads?”
I replied, “Not yet.”
“Glad to see you’re working all night on this.”
We all entered the headquarters building, where a staff sergeant was sitting in an office located to the right of the small lobby. He saw us and stood as we entered. After the preliminaries, I said to the duty sergeant, whose name was Corman, “Sergeant, I’d like to see Colonel Moore’s office.”
Sergeant Corman scratched his head and glanced at Corporal Stroud, then replied, “Can’t do that, sir.”
“Sure you can. Let’s go.”
He stood his ground. “I really can’t without proper authorization. This is a restricted area.”
In the Army, you don’t actually need probable cause or a search warrant, and if you did, the warrant wouldn’t be issued by a military judge because they have no power outside a court-martial. What I needed was someone in the chain of command. I asked Sergeant Corman, “Does Colonel Moore keep a personal locker in his office?”
He hesitated, then replied, “Yes, sir.”
“Good. Go and get me his hairbrush or comb.”
“Sir?”
“He needs to comb his hair. We’ll stay here and cover the phone.”
“Sir, this is a restricted area. I must ask you to leave.”
I said, “May I use your phone?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Privately.”
“I can’t leave—”
“MP Corporal Stroud will stay here. Thank you.”
He hesitated, then walked out of the office. I said to Stroud, “Whatever you hear is confidential.”
“Yes, sir.”
I looked up Colonel Fowler’s Bethany Hill phone number in the post directory, and Fowler answered on the third ring. I said, “Colonel, this is Mr. Brenner. I’m sorry to bother you at this hour.” Actually I wasn’t. “But I need you to authorize me to remove something from Colonel Moore’s office.”
“Where the hell are you, Brenner?” He sounded as if he might have been sleeping.
I replied, “At the Psy-Ops School, Colonel.”
“At this hour?”
“I must have lost track of the time.”
“What do you have to remove from Colonel Moore’s office?”
“Actually, I’d like to remove the entire office to Jordan Field.”
He replied, “I can’t authorize that. That school is run from Fort Bragg, and it’s a restricted area. Colonel Moore’s office is full of classified documents. But I’ll call Bragg in the morning and see what I can do.”
I didn’t mention that I already had Ann Campbell’s office at Jordan Field. This is what happens when you ask permission to do anything in the Army. The answer is always no, then you negotiate. I said, “Well, then, Colonel, give me permission to seal the office.”
“Seal the office? What the hell’s going on?”
“A murder investigation.”
“Don’t be flippant with me, Mr. Brenner.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll call Bragg in the morning. That’s all I can do.”
“That’s not enough, Colonel.”
“You know, Mr. Brenner, I appreciate your hard work and initiative, but you can’t be charging around like a bull, wreaking havoc wherever you go. There’s only one murderer out there, and you should give some thought to the feelings of the remainder of the people on this post. And while you’re doing that, you may want to keep in mind Army regulations, customs, protocols, and courtesy. Do you follow me, Mr. Brenner?”
“Yes, sir. What I actually need at the moment is a sample of Colonel Moore’s hair to match up with a strand found at the scene of the murder. You could call Colonel Moore at home, sir, and have him report to the forensic lab at Jordan Field for a plucking, or we can get a sample of his hair from his comb or brush here, which I would prefer, as time is short. Also, I’d rather that Colonel Moore did not know he was a suspect at the moment.” I noticed Corporal Stroud’s eyes widen.
There was a long silence, then Colonel Fowler said, “All right, I’ll let you take his brush or comb, but if anything else in his office is touched, I’ll have you charged.”
“Yes, sir. Will you instruct the duty sergeant?”
“Put him on.”
“Yes, sir.” I motioned to Stroud, who went out and got Sergeant Corman. I said to Corman, “Colonel Fowler, the post adjutant, wishes to speak to you.”
He took the phone without enthusiasm, and his end of the conversation went something like “Yes, sir. Yes,
