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you do clear your mind and listen to what isn't said and see things that aren't there。
That aside； Karl needed a written report； so I drafted one in my mind： Further to our phone conversation； the general's daughter was a whore； but what a magnificent whore。 I can't get her out of my mind。 If I had been obsessively in love with her and found out she was fucking for everyone； I would have killed her myself。 Nevertheless； will find son…of…a…bitch who did it and see that he faces a firing squad。 Thanks for the case。 （Signed） Brenner。
That might need a little work。 But it's important； I think； to admit to yourself the truth of how you feel about things。 Everyone else is going to lie； posture； and dissemble。
Regarding that； I thought about Cynthia。 In truth； I couldn't get the woman out of my mind。 I kept seeing her face and hearing her voice； and I was right then missing her。 This is presumptive evidence of a strong emotional attachment； perhaps a sexual obsession； and； God forbid； love。 This was worrisome； not only because I wasn't ready for this but because I wasn't sure how she felt。 Also； there was the murder。 When you get handed a murder； you have to give it everything you've got； and if you don't have much left to give； you have to draw on psychic energy that you've been saving for other things。 Eventually； of course； there's nothing left to borrow； and people like Cynthia； young and filled with a sense of duty and enthusiasm； call you cold； callous； and cynical。 I deny this； of course； knowing I'm capable of emotions and feelings； of love and warmth。 I was sort of like that in Brussels last year； and look at what it got me。 Anyway； murder deserves one's undivided attention。
I looked out the windshield as I approached Whispering Pines Trailer Park。 Up ahead； on the left； I saw a county road crew making a blacktop repair； and I recalled two and a half decades ago when I saw my first Georgia chain gang。 I don't think they use chain gangs on the roads anymore； and I hope they don't。 But I recall the sight vividly； the prisoners； filthy and bowed； their ankles connected by chains； and the guards in sweaty tan uniforms； carrying rifles and shotguns。 I couldn't believe at first what I was seeing。 Paul Brenner； late of South Boston； simply could not prehend that men were chained together； working like slaves in the blistering sun； right here in America。 I actually felt my stomach tighten as though someone had punched me。
But that Paul Brenner no longer existed。 The world had bee softer； and I'd bee harder。 Somewhere on the time line； the world and I had been harmonious for a year or two； then went our separate ways again。 Maybe my problem was that my worlds changed too much： Georgia today； Brussels last year； Pago Pago next week。 I needed to stop in one place for a while； I needed to know a woman for more than a night； a week； or a month。
I passed between two stripped pine trees to which had been nailed a hand…painted sign overhead that once read 〃Whispering Pines。〃 I parked the pickup truck near the owner's mobile home and began the trek to my aluminum abode。 I think I liked rural southern poverty better when it was housed in wooden shacks with a rocking chair and a jug of corn squeezings on the front porch。
I did a walk around the trailer； checking for open windows； footprints； and other signs that someone had been there。 I came around to the entrance and inspected the strand of sticky filament I'd placed across the door and the frame。 It's not that I'd seen too many movies where the detective goes into his house and gets clubbed over the head。 But I spent five years in the infantry； one of them in 'Nam； and about ten years in Europe and Asia dealing with everyone from drug traffickers； to arms smugglers； to just plain murderers； and I know why I'm alive； and I know how to stay that way。 In other words； if you have your head up your ass； four of your five senses aren't working。
I entered the mobile home and left the door open as I checked to see that I was the only one there。 I seemed to be alone； and the premises seemed to be the way I'd left them。
I walked to the back bedroom。 This was 'the room I used for my office where my pistols were kept； along with my notes； reports； codebooks； and other tools of the trade。 I had put a hasp and padlock on this bedroom door so no one； including the owner of the trailer park； could get into it； and I'd also put epoxy glue in the sliders of the only window。 I unlocked the padlock and went inside。
The bedroom furniture came with the place； but I'd signed out a camp desk and chair from the post quartermaster； and on the desk I saw that the light on the telephone answering machine was blinking。 I hit the message button； and a prerecorded male voice with a nasal problem announced； 〃You have one message。〃 Then another male voice said； 〃Mr。 Brenner； this is Colonel Fowler； the post adjutant。 General Campbell wishes to see you。 Report to his home； ASAP。 Good day。〃
Rather curt。 All I could deduce from that was that Colonel Kent had finally got around to informing the deceased's next of kin and had volunteered the information that this Brenner guy from Falls Church was the investigating officer and had given Colonel Fowler my phone number。 Thanks； Kent。
I had no time for General or Mrs。 Campbell at the moment； so I erased the message from the tape and from my mind。
I went to the dresser and took my 9mm Glock automatic with holster； then exited the spare bedroom； closing the padlock behind me。
I entered the master bedroom； changed into a blue tropical wool suit； adjusted the holster； went into the kitchen； popped a cold beer； then exited the trailer。 I left the pickup truck where it was and got into the Blazer。 Thus transformed； I was outwardly prepared to deal with rape and murder； though somewhere along the line I had to log some cot time。
I took a few pulls on the beer as I drove。 This state has a law about open alcoholic beverage containers which the locals say means； if you open it； you have to finish it before you throw it out the window。
I detoured into a depressing suburb of small ranch houses called Indian Springs。 There were no Indians around； but there were plenty of cowboys； judging from the souped…up vehicles in the driveways。 I pulled into the driveway of a modest home and hit the horn a few times。 This is in lieu of getting out and ringing the bell； and is perfectly acceptable hereabouts。 A wide woman came to the door； saw me； and waved； then disappeared。 A few minutes later； Sergeant Dalbert Elkins ambled out of the house。 One of the good things about pulling night duty is that you get the next day off； and Elkins was obviously enjoying the day； dressed in shorts； T…shirt； and sandals； a beer in each hand。 I said to him； 〃Get in。 We got to see a guy on post。〃
〃Aw； sheet。〃
〃e on。 I'll get you back here； ASAP。〃
He yelled back into the house； 〃Gotta go！〃 Then he climbed into the passenger seat and handed me one of the beers。
I took it； backed out of the driveway； and drove off。 Sergeant Elkins had four questions for me： Where'd you get this Blazer？ Where'd you get that suit？ How was the pussy？ Who we gotta see？
I replied that the