philosophy looked at from the other point of view.”
“True enough. Unfortunately, these are the legalistic times we live in, and my personal feelings are as unacceptable as yours. I’ve investigated homicides for over ten years, Colonel, and you’ve seen enough of them, too. In almost all cases, the murderer thinks he or she was justified. Civilian juries are starting to buy it, too. Bottom line on that, though, is if you felt it was justified, then let’s hear it.” Somehow, we had gotten from the general to the almost specific, depending on how one interpreted the personal pronoun “you.”
Kent looked at me, then at Cynthia, then said, “I went to the chapel earlier. I’m not a religious man, but I said a prayer for her. She looked very peaceful, by the way. I guess that’s the undertaker’s art, but I’d like to think that her soul is free and her spirit is happy again. . .” He turned and left.
Cynthia and I sat in the silence of the dark office for a few seconds, then Cynthia spoke. “Well, we know where Ann Campbell’s anguish and torment are residing at the moment.”
“Yes.”
“Do you think he’ll confess?”
“I don’t know. Depends on who wins the battle he’s going to fight between now and dawn.”
“I don’t believe in suicide, Paul, and you had no right to even mention it to him.”
I shrugged. “The thought of suicide is a great consolation, and it’s gotten people through many a bad night.”
“Nonsense.”
“No, Nietzsche.”
“Sick.” She stood. “Let’s find Baker.”
“Kiefer.” I stood also, took the folder with the printouts, and we left the office and the building and went out into the night.
Outside, on the steps of the provost marshal’s building, I could see heat lightning in the distance, and a wind was picking up. “Storm coming.”
“Typical Georgia,” Cynthia replied. She said, “If it had stormed two nights ago. . .”
“Right. But more to the point, if men didn’t rape, and if institutions didn’t try to cover their institutional asses, and if parents and children could communicate, and if revenge wasn’t so sweet, and if monogamy was a biological imperative, and if everyone treated everyone else the way they would like to be treated, then we’d be out of a job, and they could use the cell blocks to breed bird dogs.”
Cynthia put her arm through mine, and we walked down the steps to the Blazer.
We got into the vehicle as the first few drops of rain fell, and she asked, “How will we find Kiefer?”
“Kiefer will find us.”
“Where will she find us?”
“Where she knows we will be. The VOQ.” I started the car, put it into gear, and turned on the headlights.
The rain got heavier, and I put on the wipers. We drove in silence through the nearly deserted streets of the main post. My civilian clock said ten to midnight, but, despite the hour and the short sleep the night before, I felt fine. Within a few minutes, I pulled into the VOQ lot, which was when the sky burst open, and the rain was so heavy I could hardly hear myself say to Cynthia, “Do you want me to drive you to the door?”
She called back over the beating rain, “No. Do you want me to drive
There’s an upside to modern women; they don’t melt in the rain. Actually, my suit looked far more expensive than her outfit, and I nearly took her up on it, but after a minute of waiting for the rain to slacken, we dashed for it.
The lot was flooded, compliments of the Army Corps of Engineers, and by the time we got to the door, less than fifty meters away, we were soaked. Actually, it felt good.
In the small lobby, the CQ, a young corporal, informed me, “Some Midland cop came by and left some luggage here for you, sir.”
I shook myself off. “Right.” My buddy Burt was showing me he was true to his word. “Where is it?” I asked. “In my room, all unpacked for me, pressed and hung?”
“No, sir, it’s over there on the floor.”
“How many stars does this place have, Corporal?”
“Well, if we got one more, we’d be up to zero.”
“Right. Any messages?”
“Two.” He handed me two message slips. Kiefer and Seiver. I went over to my luggage, which consisted of two civilian suitcases, an Army duffel bag, and an overnight bag. Cynthia offered to help and took a suitcase and the overnight bag. Together we climbed the interior staircase, and, within a few minutes, we were in my room and dumping the luggage on the floor.
Cynthia caught her breath and said, “I’m going to change. Are you going to return those calls?”
“Yes.” I threw my wet jacket over a chair, sat on the bed, and slipped my shoes off as I dialed the number Kiefer had left. A woman answered, “Five-four-five MP Company, CQ speaking.”
“This is Colonel Hellmann,” I said, as much for kicks as for identification, “may I speak to Specialist Baker, please.”
“Yes, sir, hold on.”
Cynthia had left, and as I waited with the phone cradled between my ear and shoulder, I peeled off my wet shirt and tie and got out of my socks and trousers. Baker-Kiefer had chosen to live in the barracks, which was good for cover, but inconvenient for life. I knew that the CQ runner had gone off to get her, which was the Army’s answer to private telephones in each room.
The line clicked, and I heard her voice, “Specialist Baker here, sir.”
“Can you talk?”
“No, sir, but I’ll call you back from a pay phone here as soon as one opens up. VOQ?”
“Right.” I hung up and sat on the floor, opening my suitcases and looking for my robe. That bastard Yardley had stuffed everything together, including dirty laundry, shoes, and shaving gear. “Bastard.”
“Who?”
I looked over my shoulder and saw that Cynthia was back in the room, wearing a silk kimono and drying her hair with a towel. I said, “I’m looking for my robe.”
“Here, let’s get you organized.” And she began sorting and hanging things in the closet, and folding things, and so on.
Women have this incredible knack with fabrics, and they make it look easy, but I can’t even get a pair of pants to hang straight on a hanger.
I felt a little silly in my undershorts, rooting around on the floor, but I finally found my robe jammed into the duffel bag, and I slipped it on as the phone rang. I said to Cynthia, “Kiefer calling back.”
I picked up the phone and said, “Brenner here.”
But it was not Kiefer, it was Cal Seiver. He said to me, “Paul, I studied that footprint chart until I went blind, and I studied plaster casts until I got a hernia. I can’t find any further evidence that Colonel Kent was at the scene earlier than he says he was. I figured, since we know what we’re looking for now, I could have the footprint team do it again tomorrow, but this rain is a washout.”
“Did you leave the tarps and pavilion there?”
“No. Maybe I should have, but Colonel Kent said he’d take care of scene security and cover the whole area with rolled canvas. But I was out there a little while ago, and there’s no canvas down, and not even an MP to secure the scene. The crime scene is ruined, polluted.”
“Yup. Sure is.”
“Sorry.”
“No problem. Did you get the cast off to Oakland?”
“Yeah. Chopper to Gillem, and they’ll find a military flight to the left coast. I’ll hear something by morning.”
“Fine.”
“You still want the latent-footprint team?”
“What do you think?”
