demille.thegeneralsdaughter-第12部分

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　〃Just　a　minute。〃　I　opened　the　bottom　three　drawers；　finding　more　sexual　paraphernalia；　toys　for　twats　as　they're　known　in　the　trade；　along　with　panties；　garter　belts；　a　cat…o'…nine　tails；　a　leather　jockstrap；　and　a　few　things　that　I　confess　I　couldn't　figure　out。　I　was　actually　a　bit　embarrassed　rummaging　through　this　stuff　in　full　view　of　Ms。　Sunhill；　and　she　was　probably　wondering　about　me　by　now；　because　she　said；　〃What　else　do　you　have　to　see？〃
　〃Rope。〃
　〃Rope？　Oh　。。。〃
　And　there　it　was：　a　length　of　nylon　cord；　curled　up　in　the　bottom　drawer。　I　took　it　out　and　examined　it。
　Cynthia　said；　〃Is　it　the　same？〃
　〃Possibly。　This　looks　like　the　rope　at　the　scene…standard　Army…green　tent　cord；　but　there's　about　six　million　miles　of　it　out　there。　Still；　it　is　suggestive。〃　I　looked　at　the　bed；　which　was　an　old　four…poster；　suitable　for　bondage。　I　don't　know　a　great　deal　about　sexual　deviations　except　for　what　I've　read　in　the　CID　manual；　but　I　do　know　that　bondage　is　a　risky　thing。　I　mean；　a　big　healthy　woman　like　Ann　Campbell　could　probably　defend　herself　if　something　got　out　of　hand。　But　if　you're　spread…eagled　on　the　bed　or　the　ground　with　your　wrists　and　ankles　tied　to　something；　you'd　better　know　the　guy　real　well；　or　something　bad　could　happen。　Actually；　it　did。
　I　turned　out　the　lights　and　we　left　the　bedroom。　Cynthia　swung　the　framed　recruiting　poster　closed。　I　found　a　tube　of　wood　glue　on　the　workbench；　opened　the　hinged　poster　a　crack；　and　ran　a　bead　of　glue　along　the　wood　frame。　That　would　help　a　little；　but　once　you　figured　out　that　some　floor　space　was　missing；　you'd　figure　out　the　rest　of　it；　and　if　you　didn't　realize　some　space　was　missing；　the　poster　looked　like　it　belonged　there。　I　said　to　Cynthia；　〃Fooled　me　for　a　minute。　How　smart　are　MPs？〃
　〃It's　more　a　matter　of　spatial　perception　than　brains。　And　if　they　don't　find　it；　the　police　might　when　they　get　here。〃　She　added；　〃Someone　might　want　that　poster。　I　think　we　either　have　to　let　the　MPs　empty　the　room　for　the　CID　lab；　or　we　cooperate　with　the　civilian　police　before　they　padlock　this　place。〃
　〃I　think　we　do　neither。　We　take　a　chance。　That　room　is　our　secret。　Okay？〃
　She　nodded。　〃Okay；　Paul。　Maybe　your　instincts　are　good　on　this。〃
　We　went　up　the　basement　stairs；　turned　off　the　lights；　and　closed　the　door。
　In　the　front　foyer；　Cynthia　said　to　me；　〃I　guess　your　instincts　were　right　about　Ann　Campbell。〃
　〃Well；　I　thought　we'd　be　lucky　if　we　found　a　diary　and　a　few　steamy　love　notes。　I　didn't　expect　a　secret　door　that　led　into　a　room　decorated　for　Madame　Bovary　by　the　Marquis　de　Sade。〃　I　added；　〃I　guess　we　all　need　our　space。　The　world　would　actually　be　a　better　place　if　we　all　had　a　fantasy　room　in　which　to　act　out。〃
　〃Depends　on　the　script；　Paul。〃
　〃Indeed。〃
　We　left　by　the　front　door；　got　into　Cynthia's　Mustang；　and　headed　back　up　Victory　Drive；　passing　a　convoy　of　Army　trucks　heading　the　other　way　as　we　approached　the　post。
　As　Cynthia　drove；　I　stared　out　the　side　window；　deep　in　thought。　Weird；　I　thought。　Weird。　Weird　things；　right　on　the　other　side　of　a　gung…ho　recruiting　poster。　And　that　was　to　bee　metaphor　for　this　case：　shiny　brass；　pressed　uniforms；　military　order　and　honor；　a　slew　of　people　above　reproach；　but　if　you　went　a　little　deeper；　opened　the　right　door；　you　would　find　a　profound　corruption　as　rank　as　Ann　Campbell's　bed。
　
　
　CHAPTER　SEVEN
　
　
　As　Cynthia　drove；　she　divided　her　attention　between　the　road　and　Ann　Campbell's　address　book；　mostly　at　the　expense　of　the　road。　I　said；　〃Give　me　that。〃
　She　threw　it　on　my　lap　in　a　gesture　that　was　definitely　meant　to　be　aggressive。
　I　flipped　through　the　address　book；　a　thick　leather…bound　and　well…worn　book　of　good　quality；　written　in　a　neat　hand。　Every　space　was　filled　with　names　and　addresses；　a　good　number　of　them　crossed　out　and　reentered　with　a　new　address　as　people　changed　duty　stations；　homes；　wives；　husbands；　units；　countries；　and　from　alive　to　dead。　In　fact；　I　saw　two　entries　marked　KIA。　It　was　a　typical　address　book　of　a　career　soldier；　spanning　the　years　and　the　world；　and；　while　I　knew　it　was　probably　her　desktop　official　address　book　and　not　the　little　black　book　that　we　hadn't　yet　found；　I　was　still　fairly　certain　that　someone　in　this　book　knew　something。　If　I　had　two　years；　I　could　question　all　of　them。　Clearly；　I　had　to　give　the　book　to　headquarters　in　Falls　Church；　Virginia；　where　my　immediate　superior；　Colonel　Karl　Gustav　Hellmann；　would　parcel　it　out　all　over　the　world；　generating　a　stack　of　transcribed　interviews　taller　than　the　great　Teutonic　pain…in…the…ass　himself。　Maybe　he'd　decide　to　read　them　and　stay　off　my　case。
　A　word　about　my　boss。　Karl　Hellmann　was　actually　born　a　German　citizen　close　to　an　American　military　installation　near　Frankfurt；　and；　like　many　hungry　children　whose　families　were　devastated　by　the　war；　he　had　made　himself　a　sort　of　mascot　for　the　American　troops　and　eventually　joined　the　U。S。　military　to　support　his　family。　There　were　a　good　number　of　these　galvanized　German　Yankees　in　the　U。S。　military　years　ago；　and　many　of　them　became　officers；　and　some　are　still　around。　On　the　whole；　they　make　excellent　officers；　and　the　Army　is　lucky　to　have　them。　The　people　who　have　to　work　for　them　are　not　so　lucky。　But　enough　whining。　Karl　is　efficient；　dedicated；　loyal；　and　correct　in　both　senses　of　the　word。　The　only　mistake　I　ever　knew　him　to　make　was　when　he　decided　I　liked　him。　Wrong；　Karl。　But　I　do　respect　him；　and　I　would　trust　him　with　my　life。　In　fact；　I　have。
　Obviously；　this　case　needed　a　breakthrough；　a　shortcut　by　which　we　could　get　to　the　end　quickly；　before　careers　and　reputations　were　flushed　down　the　toilet。　Soldiers　are　encouraged　to　kill　in　the　proper　setting；　but　killing　within　the　service　is　definitely　a　slap　in　the　face　to　good　order　and　discipline。　It　raises　too　many　questions　about　that　thin　line　between　the　bloodcurdling；　screaming　bayonet　charge…〃What's　the　spirit　of　the　bayonet？　To　kill！　To　kill！〃…and　peacetime　garrison　duty。　A　good　soldier　will　always　be　respectful　of　rank；　gender；　and　age。　Says　so　in　the　Soldier's　Handbook。
　The　best　I　could　hope　for　in　this　case　was　that　the　murder　was　mitted　by　a　slimeball　civilian　with　a　previous　arrest　record　going　back　ten　years。　The　worst　I　could　imagine　was　。。。　well；　early　indications　pointed　to　it；　whatever　it　was。
　Cynthia　said；　apropos　of　the　address　book；　〃She　had　lots　of　friends　and　acquaintances。〃
　〃Don't　you？〃
　〃Not　in　this　job。〃
　〃True。〃　In　fact；　we　were　a　bit　out　of　the　mainstream　of　Army　life；　and　so　our　colleagues　and　good　buddies　are　fewer　in　number。　Cops　tend　to　be　cliquish　all　over　the　world；　and　when　you're　a　military　cop　on　continuing　TDY…temporary　duty…you　don't　make　many　friends；　and　relationships　with　the　opposite　sex　tend　to　be　short　and　strained；　somewhat　like　temporary　duty　itself。
　Midland　is　officially　six　miles　from　Fort　Hadley；　but　as　I　said；　the　town　has　grown　southward　along　Victory　Drive；　great　strips　of　neon　merce；　garden　apartments；　and　car　dealers；　so　that　the　main　gate　resembles　the　Brandenburg　Gate；　separating　chaotic　private　enterprise　and　tackiness　from　spartan　sterility。　The　beer　cans　stop　at　the　gate。
　Cynthia's　Mustang；　which　I　had　noted　sported　a　visitor's　parking　sticker；　was　waived　through　the　gate　by　an　MP；　and　within　a　few　minutes　we　were　in　the　center　of　the　main　post；　where　traffic　and　parking　are　only　slightly　better　than　in　downtown　Midland。
　She　pulled　up　to　the　provost　marshal's　office；　an　older　brick　building　that　was　one　of　the　first　permanent　structures　built　when　Fort　Hadley　was　Camp　Hadley　back　around　World　War　I。　Military　bases；　like　towns；　start　with　a　reason　for　being；　followed　by　places　to　live；　a　jail；　a　hospital；　and　a　church；　not　necessarily　in　that　order。
　We　expected　to　be　expected；　but　it　took　us　a　while；　dressed　as　we　were…a　male　sergeant　and　a　female　civilian…to　get　into　his　majesty's　office。　I　was　not　happy　with　Kent's　performance　and　lack　of　forethought　so　far。　When　I　went　through　Leadership　School；　they　taught　us　that　lack　of　prior　planning　makes　for　a　piss…poor　performance。　Now　they　say　don't　be　reactive；　be　proactive。　But　I　have　the　advantage　of　having　been　taught　in　the　old　school；　so　I　know　what　they're　talking　about。　I　said　to　Kent；　in　his　office；　〃Do　you　have　a　grip　on　this　case；　Colonel？〃
　〃Frankly；　no。〃
　Kent　is　also　from　the　old　school；　and　I　respect　that。　I　asked；　〃Why　not？〃
　〃Because　you're　running　it　your　way；　with　my　support　services　and　logistics。〃
　〃Then　you　run　it。〃
　〃Don't　try　to　browbeat　me；　Paul。〃
　And　so　we　parried　and　thrusted　for　a　minute　or　two　in　a　petty　but　classical　argument　between　uniformed　honest　cop　and　sneaky　undercover　guy。
　Cynthia　listened　patiently　for　a　minute；　then　said；　〃Colonel　Kent；　Mr。　Brenner；　there　is　a　dead　woman　lying　out　on　the　rifle　range。　She　was　murdered　and　possibly　raped。　Her　murderer　is　at　large。〃
　That　about　summed　it　up；　and　Kent　and　I　hung　our　heads　and　shook　hands；　figuratively　speaking。　Actually；　we　just　grumbled。
　Kent　said　to　me；　〃I'm　going　to　General　Campbell's　office　in　about　five　minutes　with　the　chaplain　and　a　medical　officer。　Also；　the　victim's　off…post　phone　number　is　being　forwarded　to　Jordan　Field；　and　the　forensic　people　are　still　at　the　scene。　Here　are　Captain　Campbell's　medical　and　personnel　files。　The　dental　file　is　with　the　coroner；　who　also　wants　her　medical　file；　so　I　need　it　back。〃
　〃Photocopy　it；〃　I　suggested。　〃You　have　my　authorization。〃
　We　were　almost　at　it　again；　but　Ms。　Sunhill；　ever　the　peacemaker；　interjected；　〃I'll　copy　the　fucking　file。〃
　This　sort　of　stopped　the　fun；　and　we　got　back　to　business。　Kent　showed　us　into　an　interrogation　room…now　called　the　interview　room　in　newspeak…and　asked　us；　〃Who　do　you　want　to　see　first？〃
　〃Sergeant　St。　John；〃　I　replied。　Rank　has　its　privileges。
　Sergeant　Harold　St。　John　was　shown　into　the　room；　and　I　indicated　a　chair　across　a　small　table　at　which　Cynthia　and　I　sat。　I　said　to　St。　John；　〃This　is　Ms。　Sunhill　and　I　am　Mr。　Brenner。〃
　He　glanced　at　my　name　tag；　which　said　White；　and　my　stripes；　which　said　staff　sergeant；　and　he　didn't　get　it　at　first；　then　he　got　it　and　said；　〃Oh　。。。　CID。〃
　〃Whatever。〃　I　continued；　〃You　are　not　a　suspect