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 in the case that we are investigating, so I will not read you your rights
under Article 31 of the Uniform Code of Military Justice. You are therefore under orders to answer my questions fully and
truthfully. Of course, your voluntary cooperation would be preferable to a direct order. If, during the course of this interview,
you say something that I or Ms. Sunhill believes would make you a suspect, we will read you your rights, and you have the
right to remain silent at that point.” Not fucking likely, Harry. “Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.” We chatted about nothing important for five minutes while I sized him up. St. John was a balding man of about fifty-five,
with a brownish complexion that I thought could be explained by caffeine, nicotine, and bourbon. His life and career in the
motor pool had probably predisposed him to look at the world as a continuing maintenance problem whose solution lay somewhere
in the
Maintenance Handbook.
It may not have occurred to him that some people needed more than an oil change
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 in the case that we are investigating, so I will not read you your rights
under Article 31 of the Uniform Code of Military Justice. You are therefore under orders to answer my questions fully and
truthfully. Of course, your voluntary cooperation would be preferable to a direct order. If, during the course of this interview,
you say something that I or Ms. Sunhill believes would make you a suspect, we will read you your rights, and you have the
right to remain silent at that point.” Not fucking likely, Harry. “Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.” We chatted about nothing important for five minutes while I sized him up. St. John was a balding man of about fifty-five,
with a brownish complexion that I thought could be explained by caffeine, nicotine, and bourbon. His life and career in the
motor pool had probably predisposed him to look at the world as a continuing maintenance problem whose solution lay somewhere
in the
Maintenance Handbook.
It may not have occurred to him that some people needed more than an oil change
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