The General's Daughter Read Online Free PDF Page B

explained, “Well, I didn’t have a positive identification until I saw the body myself. I mean, I couldn’t go to his house
     and tell him that his daughter—”
    “Who made the tentative identification?”
    “A Sergeant St. John. He found the body.”
    “And he knew her?”
    “They were on duty together.”
    “Well, that’s a pretty positive identification. And you knew her?”
    “Yes, of course. I made a positive identification.”
    “Not to mention dog tags and the name on her uniform.”
    “Well, that’s all gone.”
    “Gone?”
    “Yes… whoever did it took her uniform and dog tags…”
    You get a sense for these things, or maybe you get a backlog of cases stored in your head, and when you hear the evidence
     and see the scene, you ask yourself, “What’s wrong with this picture?” I asked Colonel Kent, “Underwear?”
    “What? Oh… it’s there…” He added, “Usually they take the underwear. Right? This is weird.”
    “Is Sergeant St. John a suspect?”
    Colonel Kent shrugged. “That’s your job.”
    “Well, with a name like St. John, we’ll give him the benefit of the doubt for the moment.” I looked around at the deserted
     barracks, the Battalion Headquarters, the mess hall, and the company assembly areas overgrown with weeds now, and in the gray
     light of dawn, I could imagine the young troops falling in for roll call. I can still remember being always tired, cold, and
     hungry before breakfast. I remember, too, being frightened, knowing that ninety percent of us standing there in formation
     were going to Vietnam, and knowing that the casualty rate among the frontline troops was high enough so that a Midland bookie
     wouldn’t give you better than two-to-one odds that you’d make it back in the same shape you left. I said to Kent, “That was
     my company over there. Delta Company.”
    “I didn’t know you were infantry.”
    “Long time ago. Before I became a copper. You?”
    “Always an MP. But I saw some stuff in ’Nam. I was at the American Embassy when the Cong came over the walls that time. January
     ’68.” He added, “I killed one of them.”
    I nodded. “Sometimes I think the infantry was better. The bad guys were never one of your own. This crap is different.”
    “Bad guys are bad guys,” Kent informed me. “The Army is the Army. Orders are orders.”
    “Yup.” And therein lies the essence of military mentality. Ours is not to reason why, and there is no excuse for failure.
     This works pretty well in combat and most other military-type situations, but not in the CID. In the CID you must actually
     disobey orders, think for yourself, ignore the brass, and, above all, discover the truth. This does not always sit well in
     the military, which thinks of itself as a big family, where people still like to believe that “all the brothers are valiant,
     and all the sisters virtuous.”
    As though reading my thoughts, Colonel Kent said, “I know this could be a real messy case. But maybe not. Maybe it was committed
     by a civilian. Maybe it can be wrapped up right away.”
    “Oh, I’m sure it can, Bill. And you and I will get letters of commendation inserted into our permanent files, and General
     Campbell will invite us for cocktails.”
    Kent looked very troubled. He said, “Well, my ass is on the line here, frankly. This is my post, my beat. You can beg off
     if you want and they’ll send another homicide guy. But you happen to be here and you happen to be special unit, and we’ve
     worked together before, and I’d like your name next to mine on the prelim report.”
    “And you didn’t even bring me a cup of coffee.”
    He smiled grimly. “Coffee? Hell, I need a drink.” He added, “You can get some rank out of this.”
    “If you mean a reduction, you’re probably right. If you mean a promotion, I’m topped out.”
    “Sorry. I forgot. Bad system.”
    I asked him, “Are you up for a star?”
    “Maybe.” He looked a bit worried, as if the