I was still wearing the battle dress uniform I’d had on in the armory, and Cynthia was, as I said, in jeans and windbreaker. As we approached the front door of unit forty-five along the row of red brick façades, I said to her, “Are you armed?”
She nodded.
“All right. You wait here. I’ll go in through the back. If I flush somebody out the front, you stop them right here.”
“Okay.”
I made my way around the row of units and came to the back. The rear yard was a common stretch of grass, but each unit had a patio separated from the next by a wooden fence for privacy. On Ann Campbell’s patio was the standard barbecue grill and lawn furniture, including a lounge chair on which lay suntan oil and a travel magazine.
There were sliding glass doors facing onto the patio, and I was able to see through the vertical blinds into the dining area and part of the living room. There didn’t appear to be anyone home. Certainly, Ann Campbell was not home, and I couldn’t imagine a general’s daughter having a live-in male lover, or even a female roommate, who would compromise her privacy. On the other hand, you never know who’s inside a house, and when the subject is murder, you proceed with caution.
Where the patio met the back wall of the house was a basement window well, which meant these units had basements, which also meant a tricky descent down an exposed staircase. Maybe I’d send Ms. Gung Ho down there first. In any case, the window well was covered with a Plexiglas bubble that was bolted to the outside wall, so that no one could get out that way.
To the right of the sliding doors was a door that opened into the kitchen. There was a buzzer there, and I pushed it. I waited and rang again, then tried the doorknob, which is a good idea before breaking and entering.
I should have gone straight to the Midland city police, of course, as Colonel Kent suggested, and the police would have been happy to get a search warrant, and happier still to be included in the search of the victim’s house. But I didn’t want to bother them with this, so I found the house key on Ann Campbell’s key chain and unlocked the door. I entered the kitchen, then closed the door behind me and relocked it.
On the far side of the kitchen was a solid-looking door that probably led to the basement. The door had a bolt, which I slid closed, so if someone was down there, he or she was locked in.
Having secured my rear, or perhaps having cut off my line of retreat, I moved unarmed and cautiously went through the house to the front door and opened it, letting Cynthia in. We stood there in the cool, air-conditioned foyer a moment, looked around, and listened. I motioned for Cynthia to draw her pistol, which she did, a .38 Smith &; Wesson. That done, I shouted, “Police! Stay where you are and call out!” But there was no reply. I said to Cynthia, “Stay here and he prepared to use that.”
“Why do you think I’m carrying the fucking thing?”
“Good point.” Bitch. I walked first to the coat closet and pulled the door open, but no one was standing there with a tent peg in his hand. I moved from room to room on the ground floor, feeling a little silly, ninety-nine percent sure the house was empty, but remembering a case when it wasn’t.
A staircase led from the foyer to the second floor, and staircases, as I indicated, are dangerous, especially if they squeak. Cynthia positioned herself at the base of the stairs, and I bounded up three steps at a time and flattened myself against the upstairs hallway wall. There were three doors coming off the upstairs hallway, one open, two closed. I repeated my order to stay put and call out, but again no answer.
Cynthia called up to me, and I looked down the stairs. She was halfway up and pitched the Smith &; Wesson underhand. I caught it and motioned her to stay where she was. I flung open one of the closed doors, dropped into a firing stance, and shouted, “Freeze!” But my aggressiveness did not provoke a response. I peered into the unlit room and saw what appeared to be a spare bedroom, sparsely furnished. I closed the door, then repeated the procedure with the second closed door, which turned out to be a large linen closet. Despite all the acrobatics, I knew that if there was anyone up there with a gun who wanted to use it, I’d be dead by now. But you have to go through the drill. So I spun back against the hallway wall and glanced inside the door that had been open. I could see a large bedroom and another door that led to a bathroom. I motioned Cynthia to come up the stairs and handed her the Smith &; Wesson. “Cover me,” I said, and entered the large master bedroom, keeping an eye on the sliding doors of the closet, and the open bathroom. I picked up a bottle of perfume from the dressing table and threw it in the bathroom, where it shattered. Recon by fire, as we used to say in the infantry, but again I did not provoke a response.
I gave the bedroom and bathroom a quick look, then rejoined Cynthia, who was in a crouched firing stance off to the side door, covering all the doors. I half expected, half wanted someone to be in this house so I could arrest him—or her—wrap the case, and get the hell back to Virginia. But that was not to be.
Cynthia looked into the large bedroom and commented, “She made her bed.”
“Well, you know how those West Pointers are.”
“I think it’s sad. She was so neat and orderly. Now she’s dead and everything will be a mess.”
I glanced at Cynthia. “Well, let’s begin in the kitchen.”
CHAPTER
FIVE
Indeed, there is something sad and eerie about intruding into a dead person’s house, walking through rooms they will never see again, opening their cabinets, closets, and drawers, handling their possessions, reading their mail, and even listening to the messages on their answering machine. Clothes, books, videotapes, food, liquor, cosmetics, bills, medicine… a whole life suddenly ended away from home, and no one left behind, and a house filled with the things that sustain, define, and hopefully explain a life—room by room with no living guide to point out a favorite picture on the wall, to take you through a photo album, to offer you a drink, or tell you why the plants are dry and dying.
In the kitchen, Cynthia noticed the bolted door, and I informed her, “It leads to the basement. It’s secure, so we’ll check it out last.”
She nodded.
The kitchen yielded very little except for the fact that Ann Campbell was for sure a neat-freak and ate the kind of healthful foods—yogurt, bean sprouts, bran muffins, and such—that make my stomach heave. The refrigerator and pantry also held many bottles of good wine and premium beer.
One cupboard was crammed with hard liquor and cordials, again all high-priced, even at post exchange prices. In fact, by the price tags still stuck on some of the bottles, the liquor did not come from the PX. I asked, “Why would she pay civilian prices for liquor?”
Cynthia, who is sensitive, replied, “Perhaps she didn’t want to be seen in the PX liquor store. You know—single woman, general’s daughter. Men don’t worry about that.”
I said, “But I can relate to that. I was once spotted in the commissary with a quart of milk and three containers of yogurt. I avoided the O Club for weeks.”
No comment from Cynthia, but she did roll her eyes. Clearly, I was getting on her nerves.
It occurred to me that a junior male partner would not be so disrespectful. And neither would a new female partner. This familiarity obviously had something to do with us having once slept together. I had to process this.
“Let’s see the other rooms,” she said.
So we did. The downstairs powder room was immaculate, though the toilet seat was in the up position, and having just learned a thing or two from that colonel at the O Club, I concluded that a man had been here recently. In fact, Cynthia commented on it, adding, “At least he didn’t drip like most of you old guys do.”
We were really into this gender and generation thing now, and I had a few good zingers on the tip of my tongue, but the clock was ticking and the Midland police could show up any minute, which would lead to a more serious difference of opinion than that which was developing between Ms. Sunhill and me.
Anyway, w
e searched the living room and dining area, which were pristine, as though they were sanitized for public consumption. The decor was contemporary but, as with many career military people, there were mementos from all over the world—Japanese lacquers, Bavarian pewter, Italian glass, and so forth. The paintings on the walls would have been appropriate in a geometry classroom—cubes, circles, lines, ovals, and that type of thing, in mostly primary colors. They conveyed nothing, which was the point, I suppose. So far, I couldn’t get a handle on Ann Campbell. I mean, I remember once searching the home of a murderer, and within ten minutes I had a grip on the guy. Sometimes it’s a small thing like a record album collection, or paintings of cats on the walls, or dirty underwear on the floor. Sometimes it’s the books on the shelves or the lack of them, a photo album, or, eureka, a diary. But here, in this place, so far, I felt I had mistakenly broken into the realtor’s model unit.
The last room on the ground floor was a study lined with books, in which sat a desk, sofa, and armchair. There was also an entertainment console that held a TV and stereo equipment. On the desk was a telephone answering machine with a blinking light, but we left it alone for the moment.
We gave the study a thorough search, shaking out the books, looking in and under the desk drawers, and finally reading book titles and CD titles. Her taste in books ran to military publications, a few cookbooks, health and fitness books, no fiction or literature whatsoever. But there was a complete collection of Friedrich Nietzsche, and a large collection of titles on psychology, which reminded me that we were dealing with a person who not only was a psychologist but worked in a very arcane branch of this field, to wit: psychological warfare. This might develop into one of the most relevant aspects of this case, or the least relevant.
Heart and hormones aside, all crimes and criminal behavior begin in the mind, and the call to action comes from the mind, and the concealment of the crime completely occupies the mind afterward. So we eventually had to get into the minds of a lot of people, and that’s where we would learn about the general’s daughter, and learn why she was murdered. With a case like this, when you knew why, you could usually figure out who.
Cynthia was flipping through CDs and announced, “Elevator music, a few golden oldies, some Beatles and classical stuff, mostly Viennese guys.”
“Like Sigmund Freud playing Strauss on the oboe?”
“Something like that.”
I turned on the TV, expecting that it would be tuned to a fitness or news channel. But instead it was on the VCR channel. I rummaged through the videotape collection, which consisted of a few old black-and-white classics, a few exercise tapes, and some hand-labeled tapes marked “Psy-Ops, Lecture Series.”
I put one of them in the recorder and pushed the play button. “Take a look.”
Cynthia turned around and we both watched as Captain Ann Campbell’s image filled the screen, dressed in battle fatigues and standing at a rostrum. She was, indeed, a very good-looking woman, but beyond that she had bright and alert eyes that stared into the camera for a few seconds before she smiled and began, “Good morning, gentlemen. Today we are going to discuss the several ways in which psychological operations, or psy warfare, if you wish, can be used by the infantry commander in the field to decrease enemy morale and fighting effectiveness. The ultimate objective of these operations is to make your job as infantry commanders somewhat easier. Your mission—to make contact with and destroy the enemy—is a tough one, and you are aided by other branches of the Army, such as artillery, air, armor, and intelligence. However, a little-understood and too-little-used tool is available to you—psychological operations.”
She went on, “The enemy’s will to fight is perhaps the single most important element that you must calculate into your battle plans. His guns, his armor, his artillery, his training, his equipment, and indeed even his numbers are all secondary to his willingness to stand and fight.” She looked out over her offscreen audience and let a moment pass before continuing. “No man wants to die. But many men can be motivated to risk their lives in defense of their countries, their families, and even an abstraction, or a philosophy. Democracy, religion, racial pride, individual honor, unit and interpersonal loyalty, the promise of plunder, and, yes, women… rape. These are among the historical motivators for frontline troops.”
As she spoke, a slide projection screen behind her flashed images of ancient battle scenes taken from old prints and paintings. I recognized “The Rape of the Sabines,” by Da Bologna, which is one of the few classical paintings I can name. Sometimes I wonder about myself.
Captain Campbell continued, “The objective of psychological warfare is to chip away at these motivators, but not to tackle them head-on, as they are often too strong and too ingrained to be changed in any significant way through propaganda or psy-ops. The best we can hope to do is to plant some seeds of doubt. However, this does not crack morale and lead to mass desertions and surrender. It only lays the groundwork for stage two of psy-ops, which is, ultimately, to instill fear and panic into the enemy ranks. Fear and panic. Fear of death, fear of grotesque wounds, fear of fear. Panic—that least understood of all psychological states of mind. Panic—a deep abiding, free-floating anxiety, often without any reason or logical basis. Our ancestors used war drums, war pipes, bloodcurdling shouts, taunts, and even breast beating and primal screams to induce panic in the enemy camps.”
The image on the screen behind her now looked to be a depiction of a Roman army in full flight, being chased by a horde of fierce-looking barbarians.
She continued, “In our pursuit of technical excellence and high-tech solutions to battlefield problems, we have forgotten the primal scream.” Ann Campbell hit a button on the rostrum and a high-decibel, bloodcurdling scream filled the room. She smiled and said, “That will loosen your sphincter.” A few men in the classroom laughed, and the microphone picked up some guy saying, “Sounds like my wife when she climaxes.” More laughter, and Captain Campbell, reacting to the remark, laughed too, an almost bawdy laugh, completely out of character. She looked down a moment, as if at her notes, and when she looked up again, her expression had returned to business and the laughter died down.
I had the impression she was playing the crowd, getting them on her side the way most male Army instructors did with an off-color joke or an occasional personal comment. Clearly, she had reached out and touched the audience, had shared a moment of sexual complicity and revealed what was beneath the neat uniform. But only for a moment. I turned off the VCR. “Interesting lecture.”
Cynthia said, “Who would want to kill a woman like that? I mean, she was so alive. So vital and so self-assured…”
Which may be why someone wanted to kill her. We stood in silence a moment, sort of in respect, I suppose, as if Ann Campbell’s presence and spirit were still in the room. In truth, I was quite taken with Ann Campbell. She was the type of woman you noticed, and once seen, was never forgotten. It wasn’t only her looks that grabbed your attention, but her whole demeanor and bearing. Also, she had a good command voice, deep and distinct, yet feminine and sexy. Her accent was what I call Army brat—a product of ten or twenty duty stations around the world, with an occasional southern pronunciation taking you by surprise. All in all, this was a woman who could command the respect and attention of men, or drive them to distraction.
As for how women related to her, Cynthia seemed impressed, but I suspected that some women might find her threatening, especially if their husbands or boyfriends had any proximity to Ann Campbell. How Ann Campbell related to other women was, as yet, a mystery. Finally, to break the silence, I said, “Let’s finish this business.”
We went back to our search of the study. Cynthia and I both went through a photo album we found on the shelf. The photos appeared to be entirely en famille: General and Mrs. Campbell, a young man who was probably the son, shots of Daddy and Ann in mufti, uncle and aunt types, West Point, picnics, Christmas, Thanksgiving, ad nauseam, and I had the impression her mother pu
t the album together for her daughter. This was documentary proof positive that the Campbells were the happiest, most loving, best adjusted, most socially integrated family this side of the Father, Son, and the Holy Spirit, with Mary taking most of the snapshots. “Pablum,” I said. “But it does tell one something, does it not?”
“What?” asked Cynthia.
“They probably all hate one another.”
“You’re being cynical,” she said. “And jealous,” she added, “because we don’t have families like this.”
I closed the album. “We’ll soon find out what’s behind their cheesy smiles.”
At this point, the enormity of what we were doing seemed to hit Cynthia and she said, “Paul… we have to question General Campbell… Mrs. Campbell…”
I replied, “Murder is unpleasant enough. When it’s rape and murder and it doesn’t appear random, and the victim’s father is a national hero, then the idiots who are going to examine the victim’s life had better know what they’re getting into. Understand?”
She contemplated this a moment and informed me, “I really want this case. I feel… you know… some affinity for her. I didn’t know her, but I know life wasn’t easy for her in this man’s Army.”
“Spare me, Cynthia.”
“Well, really, Paul, how would you know?”
“Try being a white man these days.”
“Give me a break.”
“Now I remember what we used to fight about.”
“Neutral corners.”
We walked to opposite sides of the room, though not the corners, and continued our search. I looked at the framed things on the wall—Ann Campbell’s West Point diploma, her Army commission, training certificates, commendations, and a few other Department of the Army and Department of Defense certificates, including one that recognized her contribution to Operation Desert Storm, though the nature of the contribution was not specified. I cleared my throat and said to Ms. Sunhill, “Did you ever hear about Operation Bonkers during Desert Storm?”