“I can’t stay here. This has been an upsetting day for me. This wouldn’t be right. It wouldn’t be any good, anyway.” And so on.
I said, “I understand. Go get some sleep. I’ll call you when I get the wake-up call.”
“Okay. Sorry. I’ll leave the bathroom doors unbolted.”
“Fine. See you in a few hours.”
“Good night.” She went toward the bathroom door, turned and came back, kissed me lightly on the lips, started to cry, then disappeared into the bathroom. I heard the water running, then heard the other door open to her room, then silence.
I undressed and hung my clothes and got into bed. I must have passed out within seconds, then the next thing I remember is the phone ringing. I answered it, expecting to hear a wake-up call, or hear Cynthia’s voice asking me to come to her room. But, no, it was the deep, bass voice of Colonel Fowler. “Brenner?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Sleeping?”
“No, sir.”
“Good. Do you take milk?”
“Excuse me?”
“I don’t have any milk or cream, Brenner.”
“That’s okay—”
“I wanted to let you know.”
“Thank you, Colonel.”
I thought I heard a laugh before the phone went dead. My watch said it was nearly five A.M., so I got up, stumbled into the bathroom, turned on the shower, and got under it. What a day. Half of it didn’t even seem real. I was firing on two cylinders and my tank was on empty. But I needed about forty-eight more hours at this pace, then I’d be out of here in a blaze of glory, or I’d crash in flames.
Personal and career considerations aside, there was something very wrong here at Fort Hadley, a festering sore, and it needed to be lanced and washed clean. That much I knew I could do.
Through the rippled glass and steam on the shower door, I saw a figure standing in the entrance to Cynthia’s room. “Okay if I come in?”
“Sure.”
She was wearing something white, probably a nightshirt, and disappeared into the stall where the toilet was. A few minutes later she reappeared and went to the sink, her back to me. She washed her face and called out over the noise of the shower, “How do you feel?”
“Fine. How about you?”
“Not bad. Did I hear your phone ring?”
“Yes. Colonel Fowler. Just a harassment call.”
She laughed. “You deserve it.” She began brushing her teeth.
My phone rang again, and I said, “That’s the CQ. Can you get it?”
She rinsed her mouth. “Sure.” She went into my room and came back a few seconds later. “It’s five-thirty.” She went back to the sink, gargled, then asked me, “Are you taking one of your marathon showers?”
“Yes. Do you want to save time?”
Silence. Maybe that was too subtle. “Cynthia?”
She turned away from the sink, and I heard her say to herself, “Oh, what the hell.”
I saw her pull off her nightshirt, and she opened the shower door and stepped inside. “Do my back.”
So I did. Then I did her front. We embraced and kissed, and the water ran over us, and our bodies pressed closer together. The body remembers an old lover, I think, and a flood of good memories came back to me, and it was as if we were in Brussels again. Woody remembered, too, and rose happily, like an old hound dog whose master walks in the door after a year’s absence. Ruff, ruff!
“Paul… it’s all right… go ahead.”
“Yes, it’s all right. It’s good. Here or in bed?”
“Here. Now.”
But, as luck would have it, the phone rang again, and she said, “You’d better get that.”
“Damn it!” We separated, and Cynthia hung the washcloth on my hook and laughed.
I threw the washcloth aside and said, “Don’t go anywhere.” I got out of the shower, grabbed a towel on my way, and picked up the phone on my nightstand. “Brenner here.”
“Well, now, you’re a hell of a hard man to find.”
“Who’s this?”
“It ain’t your mommy, son.”
“Oh…”
Chief Yardley informed me, “Bill Kent just told me you decided to stay on post. Why don’t you come on home to your trailer?”
“What?”
“I spent the whole damn day tryin’ to figure where you were at, and I get here and you’re AWOL, boy. Come on home.”
“What the hell—are you in my trailer?”
“Sure thing, Paul. But you ain’t.”
“Hey, Chief, do you practice that cracker accent, or what?”
“Sure ’nuf, boy.” He laughed. “Hey, tell you what—I’m cleanin’ this place out for you. No use payin’ rent someplace you ain’t gonna see again.”
“You have no right—”
“Hold that thought awhile, son. We might get back to that. Meantime, come on down to my office and gather up your stuff.”
“Chief, there is government property in there—”
“Yeah, I saw that. Had to bust a lock. Got a gun here, some official-lookin’ papers, some weird book fulla codes or somethin’… what else we got here? Pair of cuffs, some uniforms and ID from a guy named White… you sleepin’ with some guy?”
Cynthia came into the room wrapped in a bath towel and sat on the bed. I said to Yardley, “Okay, you skunked me.”
“Let’s see… box of rubbers, prissy little bikini shorts . . that yours or your boyfriend’s?”
“Chief—”
“Tell you what, son—you come on over to the station and pick this here stuff up. I’ll be waitin’ on ya.”
“You deliver the government property to the provost office. I’ll meet you there at noon.”
“Let me think on that awhile.”
“You do that. And bring Wes with you. I’d like to talk to him.”
Silence, followed by, “You can talk to him at my office.”
“I’ll just wait to see him at the funeral service here. I assume he’ll attend.”
“I reckon he will. But we don’t conduct business at funerals around here,”
“You should. That’s where everybody shows up after a murder.”
“I’ll tell you what—I’ll let you talk to him because I want to see the son-of-a-bitch who done this in the pokey. But I’m lettin’ you know now, my boy was on duty when it happened, and his partner will verify that, and we got tapes of his radio calls all night.”
“I’m sure of that. Meanwhile, you can have access to the hangar as of now. I want to send my lab people to Captain Campbell’s house.”
“Yeah? What for? Y’all took every damn thing. My boys had to bring their own damn toilet paper.”
“I’ll see you and Wes at noon. Bring my stuff and the government’s stuff.”
“Don’t hold your breath, son.”
He hung up, and I stood, wrapping the towel around me. Cynthia asked, “Burt Yardley?”
“Sure ’nuf.”
“What did he want?”
“My ass, mostly. The SOB cleaned out my trailer.” I laughed. “I like this guy. Too many wimps around these days. This guy is a genuine, hard-ass old prick.”
“That’ll be you next year.”
“I hope so.” I looked at my watch on the nightstand. “It’s ten after six. Do we have time?”
She stood. “I have to dry my hair, get dressed, do my face—”
“All right. Rain check?”
“Sure.” She walked to the bathroom door, then turned and asked me, “Are you seeing anyone?”
“Yes. Colonel Fowler at seven, then Moore about eight—”
“I forgot, you don’t like that expression. Are you romantically involved with anyone?”
“No, I’m kind of between meaningful relationships at the moment. Truth is, no one since you.”
“Good. Keeps it simple.”
“Right. Except for Major what’s-his-name. Your husband?”
“I’m very clear about that now.”
“That’s encouraging. We don’t want a repeat of Brussels, do we?”
She laughed. “Sorry. Why do I find that funny?”
“Because you weren’t looking down the muzzle of the gun.”
“No, but you didn’t have to listen to him for the next year. But, okay, Paul, I owe you for that. I’ll pay off tonight, then we’ll see where it goes.”
“Looking forward to it.”
“Me, too.” She hesitated, then said, “You’re too obsessed with… this case. You need a release.”
“You’re a sensitive and nurturing partner.”
She disappeared into the bathroom, and I found yesterday’s shorts and yesterday’s socks. I got dressed, thinking, as I went through the motions, that life is a series of complications, some small, like where to get clean underwear, some a little bigger, like the one who just left the room. How you handle life depends a lot on how you handle plan B, or if you have a plan B.
Anyway, as I checked to see if my Glock had a firing pin and ammunition, I considered that the time had come for me to settle down a bit, and that what I didn’t need anymore was a little light sport-fucking now and then.
Right. Whatever happened tonight with Cynthia would be the real thing. Something good had to come out of this mess.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-ONE
Bethany Hill is Fort Hadley’s Shaker Heights, though considerably smaller and not as well manicured. There are about thirty solid brick colonial-style homes set in an area of some sixty acres of oaks, beech, maple, and other high-ranking trees, while the lowly southern pine is specifically absent. All of the houses go back to the 1920s and ’30s, when officers were gentlemen, were expected to live on post, and there weren’t so many of them
Times change, and the officer population has swelled beyond the Army’s needs and its ability to give each one a house, a horse, and a manservant. But the top dogs on post still get the houses on the hill if they want them, and Colonel Fowler probably felt that living on post was good politics. Mrs. Fowler may have also preferred Fort Hadley. Not that Midland is a bastion of Old South attitudes toward blacks; it is not, having been influenced by decades of close proximity to the fort. But Bethany Hill, sometimes called the colonels’ ghetto, was probably more comfortable in social terms than a similar neighborhood in town.
Bethany Hill’s only disadvantage was its proximity to the rifle ranges, range number one being about five miles south of the hill. I could imagine that during a night firing exercise, with the wind from the south, you could hear the gunfire. But for some of the old infantry types, it was probably as soothing as a lullaby.
Cynthia was wearing a green silk blouse and a tan skirt, and, presumably, clean undergarments. I said to her, “You look very nice this morning.”
“Thank you. How long do I have to see that blue suit?”
“Think of it as the duty uniform of the week.” I added, “Your makeup didn’t cover the dark circles under your eyes, which are also bloodshot and puffy.”
“I’ll look fine with a good night’s sleep. You need a more recent birthday.”
“Are you a little grumpy this morning?”
“Yes. Sorry.” She put her hand on my knee. “These aren’t the best circumstances for us to renew our friendship.”
“No. But we got real close there.”
We found the house, a good-sized brick structure with standard green door, green trim, and green shutters. A Ford station wagon and Jeep Cherokee were parked in the driveway. American-made vehicles are not de rigueur for high-ranking officers, but it’s not a bad idea, either.
We parked on the street, got out of Cynthia’s Mustang, and proceeded up the front walk. It was still cool on the hill at 0700 hours, but the hot sun was slanting in at a low angle under the trees, and it felt like another one of those days in the making.
I said to Cynthia, “Colonels with enough time in grade and time in service to be a general, such as Colonels Fowler and Kent, are extremely sensitive to career-limiting problems.”
Cynthia replied, “Every problem is an opportunity.”
I said, “Sometimes every problem is a problem. Kent, for instance, is finished.” It was exactly 0700 hours and I knocked on the green door.
An attractive black woman, wearing a nice aqua summer dress, opened the door and forced a smile. Before I could announce ourselves, which is customary, she said, “Oh… Ms. Sunhill and Mr. Brenner. Correct?”
“Yes, ma’am.” I was willing to forgive her for recognizing the younger and obviously lower-ranking warrant officer first. Civilians, even colonels’ wives, sometimes got it wrong, and to be honest, rank among warrant officers is like virginity among prostitutes: there ain’t none.
We stood there awkwardly a moment, then she showed us in and escorted us down the center hall.
Cynthia said to her, “This is a beautiful home.”
She replied, “Thank you.”
Cynthia asked her, “Did you know Captain Campbell well?”
“Oh… no… not well.”
Which was a rather odd reply. I mean, how could General Campbell’s adjutant’s wife not know General Campbell’s daughter? Clearly, Mrs. Fowler was distracted, forgetting all sorts of little social courtesies that should be second nature to a colonel’s wife. I asked her, “Have you seen Mrs. Campbell since the tragedy?”
“Mrs. Campbell? No… I’ve been… too upset…”
Not as upset as the victim’s mother, however, and that was a sympathy call that should have been made by now.
I was about to ask another question, but we reached our destination, a screened porch in the rear of the house where Colonel Fowler was speaking on the telephone. He was already dressed in his green A uniform, his shirt buttoned and his tie snug, though his jacket was draped over a chair. He motioned us into two wicker chairs opposite him at a small table, and we sat.
The military is perhaps the last American bastion of fixed and clearly defined social customs, rank, responsibilities, and required courtesies, and in case you needed guidance, there’s an entire six-hundred-page book for officers, explaining what your life is and should be about. So when things seem a little askew, you start wondering.
Mrs. Fowler excused herself and disappeared. Colonel Fowler was listening on the phone, then said, “I understand, sir. I’ll tell them.” He hung up and looked at us. “Good morning.”
“Good morning, Colonel.”
“Coffee?”
“Please.”
He poured two cups of coffee and indicated the sugar. He began without preamble, “I’ve encountered very little discrimination in the Army, and I can speak for other minorities when I say that the Army is, indeed, a place where race and religion are not a factor in advancement or in any other area of Army life. There may be racial problems among the enlisted personnel, but there is no systemic racial discrimination.”
I wasn’t sure where this was going, so I put sugar in my coffee.
Colonel Fowler looked at Cynthia. “Have you experienced any discrimination based on your sex?”
Cynthia hesitated, then replied, “Perhaps… yes, on a few occasions.”
“Have you ever been harassed because of your gender?”
“Yes.”
“Have you been the subject of rumors, innuendos, or lies?”
“Maybe… once that I know of.”
Colonel Fowler nodded. “So you see that I as a black man have had fewer problems than you as a white woman.”
Cynthia replied, “I know that the Army is less accepting of females than of males. But so is the rest of the world. What is the point, Colonel?”
“The point, Ms. Sunhill, is that Captain Ann Campbell had a very difficult time here at Hadley. If she had been the general’s son, for instance, and had fought in the Gulf, Panama, or Grenada, she would have been idolized by the troops as so many sons of great warriors have been throughout history. Instead, the rumor going around is that she fucked for everyone on post. Excuse m
y language.”
I offered, “And if Captain Campbell had been the son of a fighting general who came home covered with glory and fucked all the female personnel on post, he’d never have to buy another drink in the O Club.”
Colonel Fowler looked at me. “Precisely. We have that odd double standard for men and women that we would not tolerate if it were racial. So if you have some hard information concerning Captain Campbell’s sexual conduct, I’d like to hear it, though I don’t care if it’s true or not.”
I replied, “I’m not at liberty to reveal my sources at this time. My only interest in Captain Campbell’s sexual conduct is how or if it relates to her murder. I have no prurient interest in her sex life as an entertaining sidelight to her rape and strangulation out there on the rifle range.” Actually, of course, she wasn’t raped, but I wasn’t giving out free copies of the autopsy.
Colonel Fowler said, “I’m sure that’s true, Mr. Brenner, and I didn’t mean to question your professional ethics. But you’d damned well better keep that connection in mind and not let your investigation become a witch-hunt.”
“Look, Colonel, I appreciate your distress, and the distress of the deceased’s family. But we’re not talking about rumor and innuendo, as you suggested. We’re talking about hard facts that I have. Ann Campbell had not only an active sex life, which in her position in this man’s Army is not solely her business, but she led a potentially dangerous sex life. We can argue about double standards all morning, but when I hear that a general’s daughter slept with half the senior married officers on post, I think of suspects, not tabloid headlines. The words ‘slut’ and ‘whore’ don’t pop into my detective’s mind. But the words ‘blackmail’ and ‘motive’ do. Do I make myself clear, sir?”
Colonel Fowler must have thought so, because he was nodding, or perhaps he was agreeing with some thought in his head. He said to me, “If you make an arrest, do I have your assurances that only the minimal amount of this information appears in your report?”
I had half a mind to tell him about Ann Campbell’s hidden store of sexual delights and how I had already compromised myself to minimize the damage. I said, “The evidence in Captain Campbell’s house could have and should have been shared with Chief Yardley. But Ms. Sunhill and I took a precautionary move to ensure that anything in the house of an unmarried, attractive female officer that would be embarrassing to her family or the Army did not wind up as a public amusement. Actions speak louder than words, and that’s the only assurance I can give you.”