The General's Daughter

“What other kind of tragedies are there? We’re all a heartbeat away from tragedy.”

“Right. When we find the killer, it won’t be a time to celebrate. It will be another tragedy. It will be someone who knew her. Maybe loved her.”

“Like Kent.”

“Yes. I keep thinking of something I read once. . . something I think about when I’m interviewing a woman who’s been raped. It goes like this—‘Compared to shame, death is nothing.’ I think that’s what happened here, starting with Ann Campbell’s shame and humiliation at West Point. I mean, think of it, Paul. They teach officers to be proud, to be assertive, to stand tall. People like Ann Campbell are already predisposed to this type of personality, so they gravitate toward someplace like West Point. Then, when something like that happens, a rape, a humiliation, they can’t handle it. They don’t bend like most people. They stand tall, then snap.”

I nodded. “I see that.”

“Right. They pick up the pieces and go on, but they’re never the same again. I mean, no woman is after a brutal rape, but someone like Ann Campbell can’t even begin to heal inside.”

“I understand that some people think that the only cure for shame and humiliation is revenge.”

“Correct. So take that a step further and think of the average male officer. He’s been seduced by Ann Campbell in about twenty minutes, including drinks, he’s been led into a sex room and encouraged or coerced into engaging in kinky acts, then at some point he’s either discarded or asked by Ann to bend a few rules for her. He has a mix of emotions—starting with a little male vanity at his conquest, but eventually, if he’s married and if he takes any of this officer stuff seriously, he feels shame. Most men would not feel a great deal of shame for a consensual sex act, but some men—officers, clergy, pillars of the community—will feel shame. So we get back to ‘Compared to shame, death is nothing.’ Or call it dishonor, to put it in a military context. This could apply to Ann Campbell, General Campbell, and to any number of men who either wished themselves or Ann Campbell dead. That’s why I think it was someone she knew, someone who felt that the act of murder was a way to end the shame and dishonor of the victim as well as of the murderer. Kent, as a ramrod kind of cop, an officer, might well fit that theory.”

I nodded again. I’d thought something similar, though with a different slant. But it was interesting that we both had a psychological profile of the killer that could fit Kent. Then again, there’s nothing like hindsight. “Kent,” I said, “Kent.”

“Speaking of whom. . .”

In walked Colonel Kent, and a few heads turned. Any post’s top cop usually gets a few heads to turn, a few side glances. But now, at Hadley, with a sensational murder still hot news, Kent was the man of the hour. He saw us and walked over.

Cynthia and I stood, as was customary. I might shove it up his butt in private, but in public I gave him the respect he was supposed to deserve.

He sat and we sat. A waitress came over and Kent ordered drinks for us and a gin and tonic for himself. “On me,” he said.

We chatted awhile, everyone agreeing what a strain this had been and how tempers were getting short, sleepless nights, hot days, and all that crap. As casual and chatty as Cynthia and I were, Kent was a pro and he smelled the rat, or perhaps felt like the rat being maneuvered into the corner.

He said to us, “Will you stay on awhile after the funeral, and brief the FBI?”

“I think that’s what we’re supposed to do,” I replied. “But I’d like to be gone by nightfall tomorrow.”

He nodded, then smiled at us. “You two getting along? Or is that a leading question?”

Cynthia returned the smile. “We’re renewing our friendship.”

“Right. Where’d you meet?”

“Brussels.”

“Great city.”

And so on. But every once in a while, he would nonchalantly ask something like, “So Moore’s definitely not the murderer?”

“Nothing is definite,” Cynthia replied, “but we don’t think so.” She added, “It’s scary how close we came to accusing the wrong man.”

“If he is the wrong man. You’re saying he tied her up and left?”

“Right,” I replied. “I can’t reveal why, but we know why.”

“Then he’s an accessory to murder.”

“Not legally,” I said. “It was something completely different.”

“Weird. Did your computer lady get what she needed?”

“I think so. Unfortunately for some guys, Ann Campbell left a sort of sexual diary in the computer.”

“Oh, Jesus. . . am I in there?”

“I think so, Bill.” I added, “With about thirty other officers.”

“My God. . . I knew she had lots of. . . but not that many. . . God, I feel like a fool. Hey, can we get the diary classified?”

I smiled. “You mean like top secret? Come up with a national security angle and I’ll see what I can do. Meanwhile, the decision rests with the judge advocate general, or the attorney general, or both. I think you have enough company not to be too concerned with being singled out.”

“Well, but I’m a cop.”

“There were guys in that diary with more power and prestige than you.”

“That’s good. How about Fowler?”

“Can’t say. Hey, did you know that Burt Yardley was also in the honey?”

“No kidding. . .? Jesus. . .”

“You see, you had more in common with Burt than you realized.” But seriously, Bill. “Do you know him well?”

“Only professionally. We attend the monthly G-5 meetings.”

That’s civilian affairs, and if I’d thought about it, I’d have realized that they were thrown together often enough, chief and provost, top cop and top cop, to work out a mutual ass-covering arrangement.

Kent asked, “Have either of you gone over to the chapel yet?”

“No,” Cynthia replied. “I think we’ll wait until the service tomorrow. Are you going to the chapel tonight?”

He glanced at his watch. “Yes, of course. I was a lover.”

I asked, “How big is that chapel?”

We both shared a little laugh, but it was definitely a crude remark, and Cynthia gave me a really mean look.

I asked him, “Is Mrs. Kent still in Ohio?”

“Yes.”

“Until when?”

“Oh. . . another few days.”

“That’s a long drive. Or did she fly?”

He glanced at me, then replied, “Flew.” He forced a smile. “On her broom.”

I returned the phony smile and said, “Can I ask if her departure is related to ugly rumors about you and Captain Campbell?”

“Well. . . there was a little of that, I guess. We’re trying to work it out. But she really doesn’t know. She just thinks. You’re not married, but maybe you understand.”

“I was married. Cynthia is married.”

He looked at her. “Are you? Military?”

“Yes. He’s at Benning.”

“Tough life.”

And so forth. Perfectly pleasant. Two warrant officers, CID types, and a senior commissioned officer, the MP commander, drinking and talking about life, love, the job, and, every once in a while, sandwiching in the subject of murder. This is an interesting interrogation technique, and it’s quite effective in appropriate situations, like this one. In fact, I call it the murder sandwich—a little bread, meat, lettuce, blood, cheese, tomato, blood, and so forth.