"Thank you." I added, "The family often has information that, without realizing it, can be critical in resolving a case."

"I understand." He thought a moment, then asked, "Do you think... was this someone she may have known?"

"It's quite possible," I replied, and our eyes met.

He kept good eye contact and said to me, "I have that feeling, too."

I asked him, "Has anyone, aside from Colonel Kent, spoken to you about the circumstances of your daughter's death?"

"No. Well, Colonel Fowler did. He briefed me."

"About the possible rape, and how she was found?"

"That's correct."

There was a long silence, and I knew from past experience with general officers that he was not waiting for me to speak, but that the interview was over. I said, "Is there anything we can do for you at this time?"

"No... just find the son-of-a-bitch." He stood and pressed a button on his desk, then said, "Thank you for your time."

Cynthia and I stood, and I said, "Thank you, General." I shook his hand. "And, again, my deepest sympathy to you and your family."

He took Cynthia's hand, and perhaps it was my imagination, but he seemed to hold it a long time and he looked into her eyes. Then he said, "I know you'll do your very best. My daughter would have liked you. She liked self-assured women."

"Thank you, General," Cynthia replied. "You have my promise I'll do my best, and again, my deepest condolences."

The door behind us opened, and Colonel Fowler escorted us out, through the central hallway and toward the front door. He said to me, "I understand that you have special arrest powers. But I'm going to ask that before you arrest anyone, you notify me."

"Why?"

"Because," he replied a bit sharply, "we don't like our personnel being arrested by outside people without our knowing about it."

"It happens fairly often," I informed him. "In fact, as you may know, I just threw the armory sergeant in jail a few hours ago. But if you wish, I'll notify you."

"Thank you, Mr. Brenner." He added, "As always, there are three ways of doing things-the right way, the wrong way, and the Army way. I have the feeling you're trying to do it the right way, which is the wrong way, Mr. Brenner."

"I know that, Colonel."

He looked at Cynthia and said, "If you change your mind about thirty days' free leave, let me know. If you don't, please keep in touch with me. Mr. Brenner appears to be the type of man who gets so immersed in his work that he could forget the protocols."

"Yes, sir," Cynthia replied. "And please try to get us an early appointment with General and Mrs. Campbell. We'll need at least an hour. Also, please call us at the provost marshal's office if you think of anything significant."

He opened the door and we stepped outside. Before he closed it, I turned and said to him, "By the way, we heard your message to Captain Campbell on her answering machine."

"Oh, yes. It seems a bit silly now."

"What time did you make that call, Colonel?"

"About 0800 hours. The General and Mrs. Campbell expected their daughter at about 0700 hours."

"Where did you make the call from, sir?"

"I was at work-at Post Headquarters."

"Did you look around Post Headquarters to see if Captain Campbell was delayed on duty?"

"No... I just assumed she forgot and went home." He added, "It wouldn't be the first time."

"I see. Did you look to see if her car was in the headquarters' parking lot?"

"No... I suppose I should have."

I asked him, "Who briefed you regarding the details of Captain Campbell's death?"

"I spoke to the provost marshal."

"And he told you how she was found?"

"That's correct."

"So you and General Campbell know that she was tied, strangled, and sexually assaulted?"

"Yes. Is there something else we should know?"

"No, sir." I asked him, "Where can I contact you during off-duty hours?"

"I live in officer housing on post. Bethany Hill. Do you know where that is?"

"I believe so. South of here, on the way to the rifle ranges."

"That's right. My phone number is in the post directory."

"Thank you, Colonel."

"Good day, Mr. Brenner, Ms. Sunhill."

He closed the door, and Cynthia and I walked toward her car. She asked me, "What did you think of Colonel Fowler?"

"Not as much as Colonel Fowler thinks of himself."

"He actually has an imposing presence. Some of it is just spit-shined staff pompousness, but I suspect he's as cool, smooth, and efficient as he looks."

"That doesn't do us any good. His loyalty is to the general, and only the general. His fate and the general's are intertwined, and his Silver Star rises only when the general's career is on course."

"In other words, he'll lie to protect the general."

"In a heartbeat. In fact, he lied about his call to Ann Campbell's house. We were there before 0800, and the message was already on her answering machine."

Cynthia nodded. "I know. There's something not right about that call."

"Add a suspect," I said.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

Cynthia asked, "Psy-Ops School?"

It was five-fifty P.M. on my civilian watch, and a new Happy Hour was about to begin. "No, drop me off at the O Club."

We headed out toward the Officers' Club, which is set on a hill, away from the activities of the post, but close enough to be convenient.

Cynthia inquired, "How are we doing so far?"

"Do you mean personally or professionally?"

"Both."

"Well, professionally, I'm doing a hell of a job. How about you?"

"I'm asking you. you."

"So far, so good. You're a pro. I'm impressed."

"Thank you. And personally?"

"Personally, I enjoy your company."

"And I enjoy yours."

After a few seconds of pregnant silence, she changed the subject and asked me, "How did General Campbell seem to you?"

I thought a moment. It's important to gauge the reaction of friends, family, and coworkers to the news of a death as soon after the death as possible. I've solved more than one homicide case just by determining who didn't act right and following up on that. I said to Cynthia, "He did not have that look of total desolation and inconsolable grief that a parent has on learning of the death of a child. On the other hand, he is who he is."

She asked, "But who is is he?" he?"

"A soldier, a hero, a leader. The higher up the power ladder you go, the more distant the individual becomes."

"Maybe." She stayed silent a moment, then said, "Taking into account how Ann Campbell died... I mean, how she was found... I certainly don't think her father was the killer."

"We don't know that she died where she was found, or if she died with her clothes on or off. Things are not always as they seem. With a clever killer, you only see what the killer wants you to see."

"Still, Paul, I can't believe he would strangle his own daughter."

"It's not common, but it's not unheard of, either." I added, "If she were my daughter, and I knew about her sexual antics, I might be enraged."

"But you wouldn't fly into a homicidal rage with your own daughter."

"No, I wouldn't. But you never know. I'm just identifying motives."

We pulled up to the Officers' Club, which, as I said, is a Spanish-style stucco building. This was apparently a popular style in the 1920s when this club and other permanent structures were built after Camp Hadley became Fort Hadley. The war to end all wars had been won, but somewhere in the back of a bunch of collective minds must have been the thought that there was a need for a large standing Army for the next war to end all wars, and I had the pessimistic thought that the current reduction in force was just a temporary state of affairs.

I opened the car door and said to Cynthia, "You're not dressed for the club or I'd invite you to dinner."

"Well... I'll change, if you'd like. Unless you'd rather dine alone."

"I'll meet you in the grill." I got out of the car and she drove off.

I went into the club as retreat was being sounded over the PA system. I found the secretary's office, showed my CID badge, and commandeered the telephone and post directory. Colonel Charles Moore had no post housing listing, so I called the Psy-Ops School. It was a little after six, but the nice thing about the Army is that there's usually somebody on duty somewhere. We never sleep. A duty sergeant answered and connected me to Colonel Charles Moore's office. "Psy-Ops, Colonel Moore speaking."

"Colonel Moore, this is Warrant Officer Brenner. I'm with the Army Times."

"Oh..."

"Regarding the death of Captain Campbell."

"Yes... oh, God, how awful... just tragic."

"Yes, sir. Could I trouble you for a few words?"

"Of course. Well... I was Captain Campbell's commanding officer-"

"Yes, sir. I know that. Colonel, would it be convenient for you to meet me at the O Club now? I won't keep you more than ten minutes." Unless you interest me, Colonel.

"Well..."

"I have a deadline in about two hours, and I'd like to get at least a few words from her commanding officer."

"Of course. Where-?"

"The grill. I'm wearing a blue suit. Thank you, Colonel." I hung up. Most Americans know that they don't have to speak to the police if they choose not to, but somehow they think that they have an obligation to speak to the press. Be that as it may, I'd spent the better part of the day as Paul Brenner, CID, and the need to be deceitful was more than I could bear.

I pulled the Midland telephone directory toward me and located a Charles Moore in the same garden apartment complex where Ann Campbell had lived. In and of itself, this was not unusual, though Victory Gardens was not where a colonel would normally choose to live. But maybe he had debts, or maybe, as a shrink, he didn't care if he bumped into lieutenants and captains in the parking lot. Or maybe he wanted to be near Ann Campbell.

I jotted down his address and phone number, then called the VOQ and reached Cynthia just as she got into her room. "Colonel Moore is meeting us. We're from the Army Times. Also, see if you can get me a room there. I can't go back to Whispering Pines with Chief Yardley on the prowl. Stop at the PX and pick me up a toothbrush, razor, and all that. Also, jockey shorts, medium, and socks. Maybe a fresh shirt, too, size fifteen collar, and be sure to bring walking shoes for yourself for later when we go out to the rifle range, and a flashlight. Okay? Cynthia? Hello?"

Bad connection, I guess. I hung up and went downstairs to the grill room, which is not as formal as the main dining room, and where you can get immediate sustenance. I ordered a beer from the bar and dined on potato chips and bar nuts while I listened to the conversations around me. The subject was Ann Campbell, and the tone of the conversation was cautious and muted. This was, after all, the Officers' Club. The subject in the Midland bars would be the same, but there would be more opinions expressed.

I saw a middle-aged man in dress greens with colonel's eagles enter the grill, and he scanned the big open basement room. I watched him for a full minute, noting that no one waved or said hello to him. Obviously, Colonel Moore was not well known or perhaps not well liked. I stood and approached him. He saw me and smiled tentatively. "Mr. Brenner?"

"Yes, sir." We shook hands. Colonel Moore's uniform was wrinkled and badly tailored, the true sign of an officer in one of the specialized branches. "Thank you for coming," I said. Colonel Moore was about fifty, had black curly hair that was a bit too long, and an air about him that suggested a civilian shrink called to active duty the day before. Army doctors, Army lawyers, Army shrinks, and Army dentists always intrigue me. I can never determine if they're on the run from a malpractice suit or if they're simply dedicated patriots. I led him to a table in the far corner, and we sat. "Drink?"

"Yes."

I signaled a waitress, and Colonel Moore ordered a glass of cream sherry. We were off to a bad start already.