The General's Daughter

rifle range six. I didn’t know how or if he knew what was going to go on there, but I could sort of picture him after General Campbell left: big, tall Bill Kent, probably in his uniform, walking that fifty meters from the road, toward the naked and bound Ann Campbell. He stops and they look at each other, and he realizes that fate has dropped this in his lap. His problem was Ann Campbell and her willingness to take everyone down with her. The answer to his problem was the rope that was already around her neck.

He may or may not have known what this scenario was all about, he may or may not have heard the exchange with her father. If he hadn’t, then perhaps he mistook what he saw for a sexual rendezvous with another man, and he was jealous, enraged. In any event, they certainly spoke, and it was very possible that Ann Campbell said the wrong thing at the wrong time.

Or perhaps it didn’t matter what she said—Kent had had enough. He knew that there was trace evidence from other people at the scene, and he knew he’d be back in an official capacity within hours, and any evidence of his presence was explainable and expected. He’s a cop, and he computes all of it very quickly. Not only would this be the perfect crime, but it was the necessary crime. All he has to do is kneel down and tighten the rope. But did he have the will to act? Didn’t she plead with him? Could he have been that cold and callous? Or was it heat and rage that drove him?

What did I know about this man whom I’d seen maybe a dozen times in the last ten years? I searched my memory, but all I could say for sure about him was that he was always more concerned about the appearance of propriety than with propriety itself. He was very aware of his reputation as Mr. Clean Cop. He never made sexual comments or jokes, and he was tough on the men in his command who did not live up to his high standards of conduct and appearance. But then he was seduced by the general’s daughter. He knew he was the butt of jokes, according to Ms. Kiefer, he knew he was losing respect, and he knew you don’t get to be a general by fucking one of their daughters.

And was it possible, somewhere in the dark recesses of his mind, that he knew that certain people on post, certainly people under his command, would wonder in awe if it was Colonel Kent who had done it, if the top cop at Hadley had solved not only his problem but the problems of thirty senior officers and their wives? The average person might feel revulsion against a killer, but a killer can also command fear and respect, especially if there’s a sense that the killer was doing something not quite all bad.

But given all that, given the fact that these speculations and deductions made sense and fit the facts, did that make Colonel William Kent, provost marshal of Fort Hadley, a suspect in the murder of Captain Ann Campbell? With all the other possible men, and perhaps women, on post who had a motive—revenge, jealousy, concealment of a crime, to avoid humiliation or disgrace, or even homicidal mania—why Kent? And, if Kent, how would I go about proving it? In the rare cases when a cop at the scene of a crime may be the perpetrator of the crime, the investigating officer has a real problem.

I stood in front of Kent’s door a moment, then knocked.

CHAPTER

THIRTY

I pointed the Blazer toward the Officers’ Club, and we drove in silence, then I asked Cynthia, “Why do you think it was Kent?”

“Instinct.”

“Instinct is what put Kent between Ann Campbell’s thighs. Why do you think he murdered her?”

“I don’t know that he did, Paul. But we’ve eliminated other suspects. The Yardley boys have tight alibis, we know what Colonel Moore did, and the Fowlers are each other’s witnesses, and the general, and, for that matter, Mrs. Campbell, are clean as far as I’m concerned. Sergeant St. John and MP Casey, who found the body, are not likely suspects, and neither is anyone else we’ve spoken to or heard about.”

“But there’s Major Bowes, Colonel Weems, Lieutenant Elby, the head chaplain, the medical officer, and about thirty other officers who had a motive. Plus, there are the wives of those officers, if you think about that. That’s a possibility.”

“True. And there could very well be someone else out there whom we haven’t even heard of. But you have to consider opportunity and the will to commit murder.”

“Right. Unfortunately, we don’t have the time to interview all the men in her diary. And I’d hate to think of the FBI doing that, because they’ll write a two-hundred-page report on every one of them. Kent is a possible suspect, but I don’t want him to be a convenient suspect like he—and some others here—tried to make of Colonel Moore.”

“I understand that. But it just struck me at some point that Kent fits.”

“When did it strike you?”

“I don’t know. In the shower.”

“I’ll pass on that.”

“Do you think he’ll join us for a drink?”

“He was vague. But if he’s the murderer, he’ll be there. I’ve never seen it fail yet. They want to be close, to see, to hear, to try to manipulate the investigation. And the bright ones are not obvious about it. I certainly wouldn’t say that if Kent joined us for a drink he is the murderer. But if he doesn’t show up, I’d bet money that he isn’t.”

“I understand.”

In my years in the CID, I had managed to avoid every Department of the Army mandated personnel management class, sensitivity session, race and gender relations course, and so on, which was obviously why I was having problems in the new Army. But I did take lots of leadership classes, and within those classes was everything you needed to know about human relations, such as: respect subordinates and superiors, don’t ask your people to do anything you wouldn’t do, earn respect, don’t demand it, give praise when it’s due. So, in that spirit, I said to Cynthia, “You’re doing a fine job, you’ve shown good initiative, good judgment, and poise under pressure. You’re very professional, very knowledgeable, and very hardworking. It’s a pleasure to be working with you.”

“Is this a recorded message?”

“No, I—”

“No feeling, Paul. Completely atonal. Speak from your heart, if you have one.”

“I resent that.” I pulled into the Officers’ Club parking lot and nosed into a space. “That’s judgmental, very —”

“I love you. Say it.”

“I said it last year. How many times—?”

“Say it!”

“I love you.”

“Good.” She jumped out of the Blazer, slammed the door, and began walking across the parking lot. I followed and caught up. We didn’t exchange another word until we got into the main lounge. I found an empty table in the corner and checked my watch, which gave me the civilian time of eight-fifteen P.M. The dining room was full, but the lounge was half-empty now that half-price Happy Hour was over. The new Army officially frowns on half- price Happy Hour, but the clubs are quasi-independent, and some of them still honor the ancient and honorable tradition of cheap whisky for an hour or two, a minor reward for putting up with bullshit that no civilian—except a recent immigrant from a military dictatorship—would put up with. But the Army has its moments. Unfortunately, there are fewer of them these days. A waitress came around, and Cynthia ordered her bourbon and Coke, and I ordered a Scotch with a beer chaser. I said, “I’m dehydrated. God, it’s hot out there.”

“You’ve been sweating like a pig all day,” she agreed. She smiled. “You need a shower.”

“Do we have time?”

“We might have to share it again.”

“This is a demanding job.”

The drinks came and we toasted. She said, “To Ann Campbell. We’ll do our best for you, Captain.”

We drank.

I said, “This case is getting to me. Is that because of the case, or because I’m tired and old?”

“It’s because of the case, Paul. Because you care. Because it’s not just a case. It’s a human tragedy.”