Colonel Moore for the first time looked a bit uneasy, probably wondering how much we knew and from whom we knew it.
“Correct?”
“I… She did tell me that her father wanted to resolve this problem.”
Cynthia was getting herself worked up again and said sharply, “Colonel, either she did or didn’t tell you all about this. Either she did or didn’t use words like ultimatum, court-martial, ordered therapy, and resignation from the service. Did she or didn’t she confide completely in you, and did she or didn’t she ask your advice?”
Colonel Moore was clearly angry again at Cynthia’s tone, but he was also uneasy about this particular question, which had obviously touched on something that frightened him. He must have decided that we could not possibly know enough to hammer him on this, so he replied, “I’ve told you all I know. She never told me what he proposed, and she never asked my advice. I told you, as her therapist I listened, kept my questions to a minimum, and only gave advice when asked.”
Cynthia replied, “I don’t believe any man is capable of that amount of self-restraint with a woman he’s known for six years.”
“Then you don’t understand therapy, Ms. Sunhill. I certainly offered advice in terms of her career, assignments, and such, and even personal advice regarding living quarters, vacations, and so forth. But the problems with her family were only discussed in therapy sessions—these were compartmentalized discussions that never spilled over into work or leisure time. This was our firm understanding and we never deviated from it. Medical doctors, for instance, don’t appreciate friends asking them for a diagnosis on the golf course, and attorneys have similar rules about legal advice in bars. Mental health workers are no different.”
Cynthia replied, “Thank you for that information, Colonel. I see you’ve thought about it. Am I to assume, then, that the deceased never had the opportunity to arrange a formal session with you to discuss this ultimatum and deadline?”
“That’s correct.”
“So, after all these years, when this heartache, misery, and anger are about to come to a head, one or both of you was too busy to talk about it.”
“It was Ann herself who decided not to discuss it with me. We did, however, decide to meet after she’d spoken to her father. In fact, we were to meet yesterday afternoon.”
Cynthia said, “I don’t believe you, Colonel. I think there is a connection between the general’s ultimatum and what happened to her, and you know what that connection is.”
Colonel Moore stood. “I will not be called a liar.”
Cynthia stood also and they glared at each other. Cynthia said, “We already know you’re a liar.”
Which was true. We knew that Moore had been on rifle range six with Ann Campbell, and I think Moore now realized we knew this. How else could we get away with abusing a full colonel? But we were about half a step over the threshold now, and that was far enough. I stood also. “Thank you for your time, Colonel. Don’t bother to complain to Colonel Kent about us. One all-inclusive complaint is good enough for a week or so.” I added, “I’m posting an MP at your door, sir, and if you attempt to shred any papers or carry anything out of here with you, you’ll be placed under restraint and confined to post.”
The man was shaking now, but I couldn’t tell if it was from fright or rage, and I didn’t care. He said, “I’m going to bring formal charges against both of you.”
“I really wouldn’t do that if I were you. We are your last best hope to avoid a noose—or is it a firing squad? I have to check. They just don’t execute enough people for me to remember how they do it. But anyway, don’t piss me off. You know what I’m talking about. Good day, Colonel.”
And we left him standing there, contemplating his options, which definitely didn’t include pissing me off.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-THREE
Cynthia parked in the provost marshal’s parking field a few spaces away from my Blazer. As we started toward the provost building, we saw three news vans and a group of people outside who were obviously journalists. They saw us coming, and we must have fit someone’s description of the detectives in charge, because they moved toward us like a cloud of locusts. As I said, Hadley is an open post, so you can’t keep the taxpaying citizens out, and you normally don’t want to, but I didn’t need this.
The first reporter to reach us, a well-dressed young man with coiffed hair, had a microphone, and the grubbier ones around him had pencils and pads. I was aware of cameras turned on us. The coiffed one asked me, “Are you Warrant Officer Brenner?” then put the microphone under my nose.
“No, sir,” I replied, “I’m here to service the Coke machine.” We kept walking, but this great cloud engulfed us as we continued toward the front doors.
A female reporter asked Cynthia, “Are you Warrant Officer Sunhill?”
“No, ma’am, I’m with the Coke guy.”
But they weren’t buying it, and the questions rained out of this cloud until we finally got to the steps of the provost building, where two huge MPs stood guard with M-16 rifles. I climbed the steps and turned to the crowd, who could go no further, and said, “Good morning.”
The crowd of journalists became quiet, and I saw now three TV cameras and about a dozen photographers snapping away. I said, “The investigation into the death of Captain Ann Campbell is continuing. We have several leads, but no suspects. However, all the available resources of Fort Hadley, the Army Criminal Investigation Division, and the local civilian police have been mobilized, and we are working on the case in close cooperation. We will schedule a news conference in the near future.” Bullshit.
Boom! The storm of questions broke, and I could hear a few of them: “Wasn’t she raped, too?” “Was she found tied up and naked?” “Was she strangled?” “Who do you think did it?” “Isn’t this the second rape here within a week?” And interestingly, “Have you questioned her boyfriend, the chief of police’s son?” and so on.
I replied, “All your questions will be answered at the news conference.”
Cynthia and I went inside the building, where we bumped into Colonel Kent, who looked unhappy and agitated. He said, “I can’t get them to leave.”
“No, you can’t. That’s what I love about this country.”
“But they’re confined to main post, but that includes Beaumont House, and I had to put a dozen MPs there. They can’t go out to the rifle ranges or Jordan Field—I have MPs on the road. But they’re snooping around all over the damn place.”
“Maybe they’ll have better luck than we did.”
“I don’t like this.” He asked me, “Anything new?”
“We spoke to Colonel Fowler and Colonel Moore. I’d like you to send two MPs to Colonel Moore’s office, ASAP, and baby-sit him. He may not use his shredder, and he may not take anything from his office.”
“Okay. I’ll get on that.” He asked, “Are you going to arrest Moore?”
I replied, “We’re still trying to get a psychological autopsy of the deceased from him.”
“Who cares?”
“Well,” I replied, “Ms. Sunhill and I do.”
“Why? What does that have to do with Colonel Moore?”
“Well, the more I learn, the less motivation I can find for Colonel Moore to kill his subordinate. On the other hand, I see that other people could have strong motives.”
Kent looked exasperated, and he said, “Paul, I understand what you’re doing up to a point, and so will everyone else. But you’ve passed that point, and if you don’t arrest Moore now and he turns out to be the killer, and the FBI arrests him, then you look really stupid.”
“I know that, Bill. But if I do arrest him and he’s not the killer, I look worse than stupid.”
“Show some balls.”
“Fuck you.”
“Hey! You’re speaking to a superior officer.”
“Fuck you,
