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〃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 Ca