“What the hell are you talking about?”
“I have information that you were sexually involved with the victim, that you committed offenses under the Uniform Code of Military Justice, to wit: Article 125, unnatural carnal copulation, plus Article 133, conduct unbecoming an officer and a gentleman, and Article 134, disorders and neglects to the prejudice of good order and discipline, and conduct of a nature to bring discredit upon the armed forces.” I asked him, “How’s that, Counselor?”
“That’s not true.”
“Do you know how you can tell when a lawyer is lying? No? His lips move.”
He didn’t appreciate the joke, and said, “You’d better have damn good evidence to back that up.”
Spoken like a true lawyer. I said, “Do you know what three hundred lawyers at the bottom of the ocean are called? No? A good start.”
“Mr. Brenner—”
“Have you lost any sleep over that basement playroom? I found it, and you’re in a videotape.” Maybe.
“I was never… I…”
“Polaroid photos.”
“I…”
“And in her diary.”
“Oh…”
“Look, Colonel, I don’t care, but you really can’t be involved with this case. Don’t compound your problem. Call the judge advocate general, or better yet, fly to Washington and ask to be relieved of your command. Draw up a charge sheet on yourself or something. Meanwhile, turn this over to someone who kept his dick in his pants. No, better yet, who’s the ranking woman on your staff?”
“Uh… Major Goodwin…”
“She’s in charge of the Campbell case.”
“You can’t give me orders—”
“Colonel, if they could bust officers, you’d be a PFC tomorrow. In any case, by next month you’ll be looking for a job in a small firm, or you’ll be the attorney-in-resident at Leavenworth. Don’t stonewall this. Cut a deal while you can. You may be called as a witness.”
“To what?”
“I’ll think about it. Have a good day.” I hung up.
Cynthia put down the phone and inquired, “Have you caused enough misery for one day?”
“I told them to have a good day.”
“Paul, you’re going a little overboard. I realize you hold most of the cards—”
“I have this post by its collective balls.”
“Right. But you’re exceeding your authority.”
“But not my power.”
“Take it easy. It’s not personal.”
“Okay… I’m just angry. I mean, what the hell is the officer code about? We’ve sworn to do our duty, to uphold high standards of morality, integrity, and ethics, and we’ve agreed that our word is our bond. So now we find out that about thirty guys threw it all away, for what?”
“Pussy.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “Right. Pussy. But it was pussy from hell.”
“We’re not so pure, either.”
“We never compromised our duty.”
“This is a murder case, not an ethics inquiry. One thing at a time.”
“Right. Send in the clowns.”
Cynthia called Baker on the intercom and said, “Send in the… civilian gentlemen.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Cynthia said to me, “Now calm down.”
“I’m not angry at those bozos. They’re civilians.”
The door opened, and Specialist Baker announced, “Chief Yardley and Officer Yardley.”
Cvnthia and I stood as the Yardlevs, dressed in tan uniforms, came into the office. Burt Yardley said, “Don’t appreciate bein’ kept waitin’. But we’ll let that slide.” He looked around the small room and commented, “Hell, I got holdin’ cells bigger an’ nicer than this.”
“So do we,” I informed him. “I’ll show you one.”
He laughed and said, “This here’s my son Wes. Wes, meet Miss Sunhill and Mr. Brenner.”
Wes Yardley was a tall, extremely lean man of about twenty-five, with long swept-back hair that would have gotten him in trouble on most police forces, except the one he was on. We didn’t shake hands, but he did touch his cowboy hat and nod to Cynthia.
The southern male doesn’t usually remove his hat indoors when he’s calling on inferiors or peers, because to arrive with his hat literally in his hand is to admit he’s in the presence of social superiors. It all goes back to plantation houses, gentlemen, sharecroppers, slaves, white trash, good families and bad families, and so on. I don’t quite get it, but the Army is heavy on hat rules, too, so I respect the local customs.
Lacking enough chairs, we all remained standing. Burt Yardley said to me, “Hey, I got all your stuff packed nice and neat in my office. You come on down and pick it up any ol’ time.”
“That’s very good of you.”
Wes sort of smirked, and I wanted to bury my fist in his bony face. The guy looked hyperactive, sort of jiggling around, like he was born with two thyroids.
I said to Burt, “Did you bring the government property with you?”
“Sure did. Don’t need no trouble with the government. I gave it all to your little girl out there. That’s sort of a peace offering, Paul. Can I call you Paul?”
“Sure thing, Burt.”
“Good. And I’m thinkin’ about lettin’ you into the deceased’s house.”
“I’m real pleased, Burt.”
“Now, you want to talk to my son about this business?” He looked at Wes and said, “Tell these people everything you know about that girl.”
Cynthia said, “She was a woman, an officer in the United States Army. Specialist Baker is also a woman, a soldier in the United States Army.”
Burt did a little bow and touched his hat. “I’m sorry, ma’am.”
I really felt like pulling my Glock on these two yahoos, and I would have painted them red in a heartbeat, except that I had a short deadline on this case.
Anyway, Wes started his spiel. “Yeah, I was seein’ Ann now and then, but I seen other women, too, and she was seein’ other men, and neither of us took it real personal. The night she was killed, I was ridin’ patrol in North Midland, midnight-to-eight shift, and I got about a dozen people who seen me, includin’ my partner and gas station guys, 7-Eleven guys, and like that. So that’s all you got to know.”
“Thank you, Officer Yardley.”
No one spoke for a few seconds, then Cynthia asked Wes, “Are you upset over Ann Campbell’s death?”
He seemed to think that over, then replied, “Yes, ma’am.”
I asked him, “Can I get you a sedative or something?”
Burt laughed and said to his son, “Forgot to tell you, boy, this here guy’s real funny.”
I said to Burt, “I’d like to speak to you alone.”
“Anything you got to say, you can say in front of my boy.”
“Not everything, Chief.”
He looked at me a moment. “Well…” He said to his son, “I’m gonna leave you alone with this young lady, Wes, and you behave now.” He laughed. “She don’t know what a mover you are. Probably thinks you just fell off the turnip truck.”
On that note, Burt and I left the office, and I found an empty interview room. We sat across a long table, and Burt said, “Damned reporters out there are gettin’ too damn nosy. Startin’ to ask about these rumors that the general’s daughter got around. Understand?”
