But Bill Kent wasn’t your average suspect, and I had the distinct impression that he knew what this was about, and that he knew that we knew that he knew, and so on. So it became a little dance, a charade, and at one point our eyes met, and then he knew for sure, and I knew for sure.
At this point, when a guy realizes you’re on to him, it’s kind of awkward for everyone, and the suspect goes into an exaggerated nonchalance, trying to show how completely at ease he is. Sometimes, too, a perverse or reverse sort of logic takes over, and the suspect gets ballsy. In fact, Kent said to us, “I’m glad I asked you two to take this case. I was pretty sure Bowes was involved with her, but I didn’t want to say that in case it wasn’t true. He has no special homicide investigators on his team here anyway, and they’d have just sent somebody like you two from Falls Church eventually. Or they’d have called the FBI right away. So I was glad you were here.” He looked at me and said, “We’ve worked together before, and I knew you’d be right for this case.” He added, “You’ve only got until noon tomorrow, right? But you know what? I think you’re going to wrap it up before noon.”
And so we sat there a minute, playing with cocktail stirrers and napkins, Cynthia and I wondering if there was a murderer at the table, and Bill Kent contemplating the end of his career at the very least, and perhaps wrestling with the notion of telling us something that would get us out of here by noon tomorrow.
Sometimes people need encouragement, so I said to him in a tone he’d understand, “Bill, do you want to take a walk? Or we can go back to your office. We can talk.”
He shook his head. “I have to go.” He stood. “Well. . . I hope those butchers at the morgue left enough of her for an open casket. I’d like to see her again. . . I don’t have a photo. . .” He forced another smile. “There aren’t too many souvenirs of an extramarital affair.”
Actually, there had been a room full of them. Cynthia and I stood also, and I said, “Get one of those recruiting posters before everyone else thinks the same thing. Collector’s item.”
“Right.”
“Thanks for the drinks,” I said.
He turned and left.
We sat. Cynthia watched him walking away, then said, as if to herself, “He could be upset over the end of his career, his soon-to-be-public disgrace, his troubled marriage, and the death of someone he cared for. Maybe that’s what we’re seeing. Or. . . he did it.”
I nodded. “Hard to evaluate his behavior given all he’s going through. Yet, there is something about a person’s eyes. . . they speak their own language, from the heart and soul. They speak love, grief, hate, innocence, and guilt. They speak the truth even as the person is lying.”
Cynthia nodded. “They sure do.”
We both sat in silence awhile, then Cynthia asked, “So?”
I looked at her, and she looked back into my eyes, a sort of experiment, I guess, and we both agreed without speaking that Bill Kent was our man.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-ONE
We skipped dinner and drove out on Rifle Range Road toward Jordan Field. As Kent had indicated earlier, there was an MP checkpoint on the road, and we had to stop and identify ourselves. When we got to the MP booth at the entrance to Jordan Field, we went through another identification procedure, then yet another at the door of hangar three. The Army liked to keep reporters in the press conference room, where the Army thought they belonged. Reporters liked to roam. These differences of opinion have been going on for a few hundred years. The Army citing security considerations, the press invoking their traditional and lawful privileges. The Army has gotten the upper hand in recent decades, having learned at least one lesson in Vietnam.
My own experiences with the press began in Vietnam when a reporter stuck a microphone under my nose while we were both pinned down by machine-gun fire. The news camera rolled, and the reporter asked me, “What’s happening?” I thought the situation spoke for itself, but young idiot that I was, I replied, “An enemy machine gun’s got our range.” The guy asked, “What are you going to do now?” I said to him, “Leave you and the camera guy here.” And I made a hasty withdrawal, hoping the enemy gunner would concentrate his fire on the gentlemen of the press. Somewhere, that news footage was in an archive, preserved for posterity. I never saw the two guys again.
The hangar was nearly deserted, most of the forensic people having gone back to Fort Gillem, or on to other assignments, with their equipment. But about half a dozen people had stayed behind to type reports and complete a few more tests.
Ann Campbell’s home was still there, as well as the humvee and her BMW, but her office was gone. Nevertheless, Grace Dixon sat at a camp desk, yawning, in front of an IBM personal computer.
She looked up at us as we approached and said, “I requisitioned another PC. I’m sorting files, reading letters and diaries, but not printing out, as you said. You got that stuff on Yardley that I sent you?”
“Yes,” I replied. “Thanks.”
Grace said, “This is very hot stuff here. I love it.”
“Take a cold shower tonight, Grace.”
She laughed and wiggled her ample rear end in the seat. “I’m sticking to the chair.”
Cynthia asked, “Where are you staying tonight?”
“Guest house on post. I’ll sleep with the disk. No men. Promise.” She added, “The post chaplain is in this diary. Is nothing sacred?”
I wanted to point out that sleeping with a goddess was itself a sacrament, but I didn’t think either of the two ladies would appreciate it. I asked Grace, “Can you print out all entries that mention the name of Colonel William Kent?”
“Sure. I’ve seen him in here. I can scan for that. What’s his job or title in case it’s under that?”
“He’s the provost marshal. Known to friends as Bill.”
“Right. I saw him in here. You want printouts every time his name appears, right?”
“Correct. Also, the FBI may be around tonight or early tomorrow. The MPs outside will not stop them from coming through that door. But if you see the type walking across the hangar, you take the disk out and make believe you’re typing a report. Okay?”
“Sure. But what if they have a court order or a search warrant or something?”
It’s easier to deal with military types because they follow orders. Civilians want explanations and ask too many questions. I replied to her, “Grace, you’re just typing reports. Put the disk on your person, and if they want to look under your dress, slap them.”
She laughed. “What if they’re cute?”
Obviously, something had fired up this woman’s libido.
Cynthia said to her, “It’s really important, Grace, that no one but us three sees that stuff.”
“Okay.”
I asked her, “Is Cal Seiver still here?”
“Yes. He’s grabbing some cot time over there.” Grace was playing with the keys again. I don’t know much about computers, and I want to know less. But people like Grace, who are into them, are a little weird. They can’t seem to break away from the screen, and they sit there, talk, type, mumble, curse, squeal with delight, and probably go without sex, sleep, and food for extended periods. Actually, I guess that goes for me, too. Cynthia and I left Grace without bothering her with a farewell.
I rolled a chalkboard in front of her so that anyone coming in the door wouldn’t see her, then we found Cal Seiver in a deep sleep on a cot, and I woke him. He stood unsteadily and seemed confused by his surroundings.
I gave him a few seconds, then asked him, “Did you find anything new and interesting?”
“No, we’re just putting it all in order now.”
“You have disqualifying footprints and fingerprints from Colonel Kent?”
“Sure.”
“Did you find any of his prints out at the scene? On the humvee, on her handbag, the latrines?”
He thought a moment, then said, “No. But his bootprints are all over. I took boot impressions from him to
