instructions included, so I asked Colonel Fowler, “Is that the wish of the deceased?”
“Does that question relate to the homicide investigation?”
“I suppose the date of the will and the date of the burial instructions would relate to this investigation.”
“The will and the burial instructions were updated a week before Captain Campbell left for the Gulf, which would not be unusual. For your information, she asked to be buried in the family plot, and the only beneficiary of her will is her brother, John.”
“Thank you.” On that note of finality, I said, “You’ve been most cooperative, Colonel, and we appreciate it.” Despite your trying to blow a little smoke up our asses.
Superior officers sit first and stand first, so I waited for him to realize I was finished, and stand, but instead he asked me, “Did you find anything in her house that would be damaging to her or anyone here on post?”
My turn to be coy, so I asked, “Such as?”
“Well… diaries, photos, letters, a list of her conquests. You know what I mean.”
I replied, “My maiden aunt could have spent a week alone in Captain Campbell’s house and not found anything she would have disapproved of, including the music.” Which was true because Aunt Jean, snoop that she was, had no spatial perception.
Colonel Fowler stood, and we stood as well. He informed me, “Then you’ve missed something. Ann Campbell documented everything. It was her training as a psychologist, and undoubtedly her desire as a corrupter, not to rely on fleeting memories of her rolls in the hay out in some motel or in someone’s office on post after hours. Look harder.”
“Yes, sir.” I must admit, I didn’t like hearing these kinds of remarks about Ann Campbell from Kent or Fowler. Ann Campbell had become more than a murder victim to me, obviously. I would probably find her murderer, but someone had to find why she did what she did, and someone had to explain that to people like Fowler, Kent, and everyone else. Ann Campbell’s life needed no apology, no pity; it needed a rational explanation, and maybe a vindication.
Colonel Fowler escorted us to the front door, probably wishing he hadn’t been on the telephone before so he could have escorted us in without Mrs. Fowler’s assistance. At the door we shook hands, and I said to him, “By the way, we never found Captain Campbell’s West Point ring. Was she in the habit of wearing it?”
He thought a moment and replied, “I never noticed.”
“There was a tan line where the ring had been.”
“Then I suppose she wore it.”
I said to him, “You know, Colonel, if I were a general, I’d want you for my adjutant.”
“If you were a general, Mr. Brenner, you’d
Cynthia said, “We keep getting to the threshold of the great secret of Ann and Daddy, then we hit a wall.”
“True.” Despite the mixed metaphor. “But we know there
Cynthia opened her door. “Me neither.”
I slid into the passenger seat and said, “Colonel Fowler’s wife had that look. You know that look?”
“Indeed I do.”
“And Colonel Fowler needs a better watch.”
“Indeed he does.”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-TWO
Breakfast or Psy-Ops School?” Cynthia asked.
“Psy-Ops School. We’ll eat Colonel Moore for breakfast.”
Each house on Bethany Hill had a regulation white sign with black lettering displayed on a post near the driveway, and, about five houses from Colonel Fowler’s house, I saw a sign that said, “Colonel & Mrs. Kent.” I pointed it out to Cynthia and commented, “I wonder where Bill Kent will be living next month?”
“I hope it’s not Leavenworth, Kansas. I feel sorry for him.”
“People make their own bad luck.”
“Be a little compassionate, Paul.”
“Okay. Considering the extent of the corruption here, there will be a rash of sudden resignations, retirements, and transfers, maybe a few divorces, but, with luck, no courts-martial for actions unbecoming an officer.” I added, “They’d need a whole cell block at Leavenworth for Ann Campbell’s lovers. Can you picture that? About two dozen ex-officers sitting around in their cells—”
“I think you got off the compassionate track.”
“Right. Sorry.”
We left Bethany Hill and mingled with the early morning traffic of the main post—POVs and troop carriers, school buses and delivery trucks, humvees and staff cars, as well as soldiers marching or running in formation; thousands of men and women on the move, similar to, but profoundly different from, any small town at eight A.M. Stateside garrison duty in times of peace is, at best, boring, but in times of war a place like Fort Hadley is preferable to the front lines, but barely.
Cynthia commented, “Some people have trouble with time perception. I came close to buying Colonel Fowler’s sequence of events, though it was cutting it close, timewise.”
“Actually, I think he made the call much earlier.”
“But think of what you’re saying, Paul.”
“I’m saying he knew she was dead earlier, but he had to make that call to establish that he believed she was alive and late for her appointment. What he didn’t know is that we would be at the deceased’s house that early.”
“That’s one explanation, but how did he know she was dead?”
“There are only three ways: someone told him, or he discovered the body somehow, or he killed her.”
Cynthia replied, “He did not kill her.”
I glanced at her. “You like the guy.”
“I do. But beyond that, he is not a killer.”
“Everyone is a killer, Cynthia.”
“Not true.”
“Well, but you can see his motive.”
“Yes. His motive would be to protect the general and get rid of a source of corruption on post.”
I nodded. “That’s the sort of altruistic motive that, in a man like Colonel Fowler, might trigger murder. But he may also have had a more personal motive.”
“Maybe.” Cynthia turned onto the road that led to the Psy-Ops School.
I commented, “If we didn’t have Colonel Moore by his curly hairs, I’d put Colonel Fowler near the top of the list, based on that telephone call alone, not to mention the look on Mrs. Fowler’s face.”
“Maybe.” She asked, “How far are we going with Moore?”
“To the threshold.”
“You don’t think it’s time to talk to him about his hair, fingerprints, and tire marks?”
“Not necessary. We worked hard for that and we’re not sharing it with him. I want him to dig a deeper hole for himself with his mouth.”
Cynthia passed a sign that said, “Authorized Personnel Only.” There was no MP booth, but I could see the roving MP humvee up ahead.
We parked outside the Psy-Ops headquarters building. The sign in front of the building said, “Cadre Parking Only,” and I saw the gray Ford Fairlane that presumably belonged to Colonel Moore.
We went inside the building, where a sergeant sat at a desk in the otherwise bare lobby. He stood and said, “Can I help you?”
