“How many people does it take to look at broken bush?”
“You were out there? Did you find anything?”
“Yes. A vehicle definitely went off Jordan Field Road, fifty meters from Rifle Range Road. Left ruts, though the tread marks are washed out, but there’s broken bush, including a freshly skinned pine tree.” I sipped on the coffee as I tried to clear my head. Cynthia was dressed in blue jeans and a white tennis shirt, and looked good. I asked, “Skinned a tree?”
“Yes. So I went over to Jordan Field and woke up poor Cal. He and another guy went back with me to the place, and cut off the damaged section of the tree.”
“And?”
“Well, we went back to the hangar, and under magnification we could see flecks of paint. Cal is sending the wood sample to Fort Gillem. I told him we suspected a black Jeep Cherokee, and he says that they can confirm that with the manufacturer, or through their on-file samples of car paint.”
“Right. And we’ll find the scrape on Mrs. Kent’s Jeep.”
“I hope so. Then we’ll have the evidence we need to support your reconstruction of Kent’s movements.”
“Right.” I yawned and cleared my throat. “Unfortunately, if the paint is from a black Jeep Cherokee, it only proves that a black Jeep Cherokee scraped that tree. Still, it settles it in my mind.”
“Me, too.”
I finished the coffee and put the mug on the nightstand. “I wanted to be woken. Did you try to wake me?”
“No. You looked dead.”
“Well… okay. Good job.”
“Thanks. I also took your boots to Cal Seiver, and he matched your prints to unidentified plaster casts and was able to post your prints on his chart.”
“Thank you. Am I a suspect?”
“Not yet. But Cal did need to disqualify your prints.”
“Did you polish my boots?”
She ignored this and said, “Cal’s got a computer program from Fort Gillem, and he’s programming the computer in the hangar to show the footsteps of each identified and unidentified person. I gave Cal a complete briefing on what we think happened that night.” She stood and went to the window. “Rain stopped. Sun’s out. Good for the crops. Good for the funeral.”
I noticed a sheet of paper on the bed and picked it up. It was the computer printout of Ann Campbell’s letter to Mrs. Kent. It began: “My dear Mrs. Kent, I’m writing you regarding a situation that has developed between your husband and me.” The letter ended: While I respect your husband professionally, I have no personal interest in him. I would suggest that he seek counseling, alone or with you, and that perhaps he should seek a transfer, or ask for a leave of absence. My concern is for his career, his reputation, my reputation, and the avoidance of any appearance of impropriety within my father’s command. Yours very truly, Ann Campbell. I said aloud, “Impropriety within my father’s command.” I almost laughed, and Cynthia turned around and commented, “She had balls. I’ll give her that.”
I threw the letter on the nightstand. “I’m sure Kent saw the original of this, and it freaked him out. Anyway, did Cal hear from the footprint guy in Oakland?”
“Not yet.”
“Okay, I’m going to rise and shine, and I’m naked.”
Cynthia threw me my robe and turned back to the window. I got out of bed and into the robe and went into the bathroom. I washed my face and lathered up.
The phone rang in my room, and Cynthia took it. I couldn’t hear much over the running water, but a minute later, Cynthia stuck her head in the door while I was shaving and said, “That was Karl.”
“What did he want?”
“He wanted to know if he’d rung the wrong room.”
“Oh…”
“He’s in Atlanta. He’ll be here by 1000 hours.”
“Call him back and tell him we’re having tornados.”
“He’s on his way.”
“Great.” I finished shaving and began brushing my teeth. Cynthia went back to my room. As I turned on the shower, I heard the phone ringing in her room. I didn’t think she could hear it, so I looked into my room, but she was on my phone. So, thinking it was official and important, I went into her room and picked it up. “Hello?”
A male voice inquired, “Who’s this?”
I replied, “Who are you?”
“This is Major Sholte. What are you doing in my wife’s room?”
Good question. I could have said the clerk rang the wrong room, I could have said a lot of things, but I said, “Basically, I’m doing what I did in Brussels.”
“What? Who the hell… Brenner? Is this Brenner?”
“At your service, Major.”
“You bastard. You’re dead meat. You know that, Brenner? You’re dead meat.”
“You had your chance in Brussels. You only get one chance.”
“You son-of-a-bitch—”
“Ms. Sunhill is not here. May I take a message?”
“Where is she?”
“In the shower.”
“You bastard.”
Why was this guy getting so bent up if they were getting a divorce and he had a girlfriend? Well, men are funny, and they still feel proprietary toward their wives, even when they’re finalizing a divorce. Right? No, something was not right, and I had the distinct feeling I’d made a big boo-boo.
Major Sholte said to me, “Your ass is grass, Brenner, and I’m the fucking Grim Reaper.”
Interesting metaphor. I asked him, “Are you and Cynthia in the process of a divorce?”
“Divorce? Who the fuck told you that? You put that bitch on the phone.”
“Trial separation?”
“Put her on the goddamned phone. Now!”
“Hold on.” I laid the phone on the bed and thought about things. Life really sucks sometimes, then it gets better and you get optimistic again, and your heart lightens up a little and you get a little spring back in your step, then somebody pulls the rug out and you’re on your ass once more. I picked up the phone and said, “I’ll have her call you back.”
“You fucking well better, you rat-fucking, mother-fucking—”
I hung up and went back into the common bathroom. I slipped off my robe and got into the shower.
Cynthia stood in the doorway and called out over the water, “I phoned the Psy-Ops School and confirmed that Colonel Moore spent the night there. I left a message for him to meet us at the provost office in an hour. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“I laid out your uniform. We should wear our uniforms to the service.”
“Thanks.”
“I’m going to change into uniform.”
“Okay.”
I could see her through the glass, walking across the bathroom into her own room. Her door closed, and I shut off the shower and got out.
By 0800 hours, we were dressed in the A uniform, and we were in my Chevy Blazer, pulling up to the provost building. Cynthia asked, “Is something bothering you?”
“No.”
I had another cup of coffee in our office and went through phone messages and memos. Colonel Moore showed up looking a bit ragged, but dressed in his A uniform for the funeral. He had acquired a pair of dress shoes somewhere. Cynthia offered him a seat. Without preliminaries, I said to him, “Colonel, we have reason to suspect that Colonel Kent murdered Ann Campbell.”
He seemed surprised, almost stunned, and didn’t reply.
I asked him, “Does it fit?”
He thought about that for a long moment, then replied, “He was becoming a problem, but…”
“What did Ann say to you about him?”
“Well… that he was calling her at all hours, that he wrote her letters, dropped in on her unexpectedly at home and in the office.”
And so on. I asked him, “On the night she was murdered, when you called her at Post Headquarters, did she say he’d been around to see her or that he’d called her?”
He thought a moment, then answered, “As a matter of fact, she did tell me that sh
e wouldn’t be using her BMW that night, which was the original plan. She told me to look for a humvee instead. She said that Bill Kent was annoying her again and that she’d be less conspicuous in a humvee, and that she wanted him to see her car in the headquarters lot all night. This presented a problem because her car had a wired-in phone, and I had a portable phone, and we intended to stay in touch as she drove out to the range. But it wasn’t a major problem, and she drove out with the humvee and we rendezvoused on schedule.”
Cynthia asked him, “Did she mention Kent when you met?”
“No…”
“Did she mention that she’d been followed?”
“No… Well, she said she saw one vehicle behind her, but it turned off toward Jordan Field.” He added, “She felt that everything was all right, and I placed the call to her father on my portable phone.”
Cynthia said, “Then you went out on the rifle range?”
“Yes.”
“After you were done, you waited by the latrine shed to be sure it went as planned.”
“Yes.”
“Did it occur to you,” Cynthia asked, “that Colonel Kent might be a likely person to come on the scene?”
He pondered that a moment, then replied, “I suppose it crossed my mind. He seemed to be hounding her.”
“And it never occurred to you that he did follow her and possibly murdered her?”
“Well… now that I think about it—”
I said, “You’re some sharp detective, Colonel.”
He seemed put off by that and replied, “I thought it was the general who… Well, I didn’t know what to think. My first thought when I heard she’d been murdered was that her father had done it… but it also occurred to me that her father had simply left her there, and some other person… some maniac… happened along… I just never thought in terms of Kent…”
“Why not?” I asked.
“He… he’s the provost… a married man… he loved her… but, yes, now that you mention it, it does fit. I mean, from a psychological point of view, he had become obsessed and irrational. Ann could no longer control him.”
“Ann,” I pointed out, “had created a monster.”
“Yes.”
“Did she understand that?”
“On one level. But she wasn’t used to dealing with men she couldn’t control. Except her father, and perhaps Wes Yardley. In retrospect, she didn’t pay enough attention to Bill Kent. She misjudged.”
“She failed Abnormal Psych 101.”
He didn’t respond.
“Okay, what I want you to do is go back to your office and write it out.”
“Write what?”
“Everything. A full account of your involvement in this matter. Deliver it to me at the chapel after the service. You have almost two hours. Type fast. Don’t mention a word of this to anyone.”
Colonel Moore got up and left, looking, I thought, like a faint shadow of the man I’d met just the other day.
Cynthia commented, “This case looked hard, and we all worked hard, but the answer was literally under our nose the whole time.”
“That’s why it was hard to see it.”
Cynthia made small talk for a few minutes, and I made big silences. She kept looking at me.
To avoid any unpleasantness, I picked up the phone and called Colonel Fowler at Post Headquarters. He took my call immediately, and I said to him, “Colonel, I’d like you to take the shoes that you and Mrs. Fowler wore out to rifle range six and destroy them. Secondly, get your story straight with General Campbell. You never went out to the range. Third, get Mrs. Fowler in a car or on a plane immediately after the funeral.”
He replied, “I appreciate what you’re saying, but I feel I have to reveal my involvement in this.”
“Your commanding officer’s wish is that you don’t do that. A general’s wish is his command.”
“It’s an illegal command.”
“Do everyone a favor—yourself, your wife, your family, the Army, me, the Campbells—forget it. Think about it.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Question—did you take her West Point ring?”
“No.”
“Was there a bayonet stuck in the ground when you got there?”
“Not in the ground. The handle was stuck in her vagina.”
“I see.”
“I removed it and disposed of it.”
“Where?”
“I threw it off the Chickasaw River Bridge.” He added, “I suppose you’d have liked to check it for fingerprints.”
“I would have, yes.” But in fact, Kent would not leave a print behind.
“I apologize. It was a gut reaction.”
“Lot of that going around.”
“This is a mess, Brenner. We’ve all made a mess of things.”
“Shit happens.”
“Not to me it doesn’t. Not until she got here two years ago. But you know what? It was our fault, not hers.”
“I tend to agree.” I added, “I may make an arrest this afternoon.”
“Who?”
“Can’t say. I’ll see you at the service.”
“Fine.”
I hung up. Just when you think you’ve got your ration of shit-happens for the day, someone heaps on another helping. In this case, an MP major named Doyle was the bearer of the shit. He came into the office and glanced at Cynthia, then addressed me. “Mister Brenner, you signed a release order for a Staff Sergeant Dalbert Elkins. Correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“We found him quarters at the MP company barracks.”
“Fine.” Who gives a shit?
“Under the terms of his restriction, he was to sign into the company dayroom every three hours.”
“Sounds reasonable.”
“He missed his first sign-in at 0800 hours.”
Jesus H. Christ. “What?”
“And no one has seen him since.”
Cynthia looked at me, then looked away.
Major Doyle informed me, “We’ve put out an all-points bulletin for his arrest, and notified the Midland police, the county police, and the Georgia state police.” He added, “The CID commander, Major Bowes, demands a full report from you on this matter.” Major Doyle smiled unpleasantly and said, “You blew it.” He turned and left.
I stared at nothing in particular for a while. Cynthia finally spoke. “That happened to me once.”
I didn’t reply.
“But it happened to me only once. So you can’t get cynical about human nature.”
Wanna bet? Timing being everything, this was the time to mention her husband’s phone call, but Karl Hellmann’s timing was not good, and he picked that moment to show up.
Cynthia and I stood as the big man walked into the little office. He nodded perfunctorily, glanced around, then we all shook hands. Cynthia, being the lowest-ranking person in the room, offered him her desk chair, which he took, while Cynthia took the spare chair, and I sat at my desk.
Karl was wearing his green dress uniform, as we were, and he threw his hat on the desk.
Like me, Karl was once an infantryman, and we both served in Vietnam at about the same time. Our uniforms sported basically the same awards and decorations, including the Bronze Star for valor and the coveted Combat Infantryman’s Badge. Being products of the same crucible, and both being middle-aged, we usually dispense with some of the formalities. But I wasn’t in a Karl mood that morning, so I intended to stick to courtesies and protocols. I said, “Coffee, sir?”
“No, thank you.”
Karl is a good-looking man with a full head of grayish-black hair, firm jaw, and blue eyes. Women, however, don’t find him sexy. It may be his manner, which is stiff and formal. In fact, he’s rather tight-assed, and if you put a lump of coal up his butt, he’d produce a diamond within a week. That aside, he’s a pro.
We exchanged pleasantries for three seconds, then Karl said to me in his slight accent, “I understand our star witness in the arms
sale case has become a fugitive.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Can you recall your line of reasoning in releasing him?”
“Not at the moment, no, sir.”
“One wonders why a man who has been offered immunity would decide to commit yet another felony and flee.”
“One does wonder.”
“Did you explain to him that he had immunity?”
“Yes, sir, but apparently not very well.”
“It’s a problem, you know, Paul, dealing with stupid people. You project your own intelligence and rationality onto a person who is a complete idiot, and he lets you down. He’s ignorant and frightened, and he is a slave to his instincts. The jail door opens, and he runs. Quite understandable.”
I cleared my throat. “I thought I had reassured him and won his trust and confidence.”
“Of course you did. That’s what he wanted you to think when he was on the other side of the bars. They’re cunning.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Perhaps you’ll consult me the next time, before you release a prisoner in a major felony case.”
“He was actually a witness, sir.”
Karl leaned toward me and said, “He had not one fucking iota of understanding regarding the difference. You put him in jail, you let him out, he ran.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Article 96 of the Uniform Code of Military Justice deals with the improper releasing of a prisoner through neglect or design. You’re in trouble.”
“Yes, sir.”
He leaned back in his chair. “Now, tell me, what are the most recent developments here?”
Well, to begin with, I never got the chance to sleep with Cynthia, she lied to me about her husband, I’m crushed and pissed, I still can’t get Ann Campbell out of my mind, the provost marshal down the hall is probably a murderer, dopey Dalbert beat feet, and I’m not having a good day.
Hellmann turned to Cynthia. “Perhaps you’ll speak to me.”
“Yes, sir.” Cynthia began by discussing forensic evidence, Grace Dixon’s computer discoveries, the Yardley boys, and the unfortunate involvements of Major Bowes, Colonel Weems, and other staff officers.
Karl listened.
Cynthia then reported an edited version of our conversations with General Campbell, Mrs. Campbell, Colonel Fowler, Mrs. Fowler, and Colonel Moore. I was barely listening, but I did note that she did not mention Colonel and Mrs. Fowler’s precise role in the case, or Ann Campbell’s basement room, and neither did she mention Bill Kent at all. This is exactly the way I would have handled it, and I was impressed with how much she’d learned in the last two days. Cynthia said to Karl, “So you see, it all had to do with revenge, retribution, a perverted experiment in psychological operations, and what happened at West Point a decade ago.”