Free The General's Daughter by Nelson DeMille Page A

West
     Point, picnics, Christmas, Thanksgiving, ad nauseam, and I had the impression her mother put the album together for her daughter.
     This was documentary proof positive that the Campbells were the happiest, most loving, best adjusted, most socially integrated
     family this side of the Father, Son, and the Holy Spirit, with Mary taking most of the snapshots. “Pablum,” I said. “But it
does
tell one something, does it not?”
    “What?” asked Cynthia.
    “They probably all hate one another.”
    “You’re being cynical,” she said. “And jealous,” she added, “because we don’t have families like this.”
    I closed the album. “We’ll soon find out what’s behind their cheesy smiles.”
    At this point, the enormity of what we were doing seemed to hit Cynthia and she said, “Paul… we have to question General Campbell…
     Mrs. Campbell…”
    I replied, “Murder is unpleasant enough. When it’s rape and murder and it doesn’t appear random, and the victim’s father is
     a national hero, then the idiots who are going to examine the victim’s life had better know what they’re getting into. Understand?”
    She contemplated this a moment and informed me, “I really want this case. I feel… you know… some affinity for her. I didn’t
     know her, but I know life wasn’t easy for her in this man’s Army.”
    “Spare me, Cynthia.”
    “Well, really, Paul, how would you know?”
    “Try being a white man these days.”
    “Give me a break.”
    “Now I remember what we used to fight about.”
    “Neutral corners.”
    We walked to opposite sides of the room, though not the corners, and continued our search. I looked at the framed things on
     the wall—Ann Campbell’s West Point diploma, her Army commission, training certificates, commendations, and a few other Department
     of the Army and Department of Defense certificates, including one that recognized her contribution to Operation Desert Storm,
     though the nature of the contribution was not specified. I cleared my throat and said to Ms. Sunhill, “Did you ever hear about
     Operation Bonkers during Desert Storm?”
    She replied, “Not that I recall.”
    “Well, some smart cookie in psy-ops had this idea of dropping hard-core porno photos on the Iraqi positions. Most of those
     poor bastards had not seen a woman in months or years, so this psy-ops sadist wants to bury them in photos of hot, pink flesh,
     which will drive them bonkers. The idea goes all the way up to the joint command, and it’s a definite winner, a go, until
     the Saudis hear about it and go ballistic. You know, they’re a little tight and not as enlightened as we are about bare tits
     and ass. So the thing was squashed, but the word was that the idea was brilliant and could have shortened the ground war from
     four days to fifteen minutes.” I smiled.
    Cynthia replied frostily, “It’s disgusting.”
    “Actually, I agree in theory. But if it saved one life, it might have been justified.”
    “The means do not justify the ends. What’s the point?”
    “Well, what if the idea of the porno bombardment had come from a woman instead of some male pig?”
    “You mean Captain Campbell?”
    “Certainly that idea came out of the Special Operations School here. Let’s check it out.”
    Cynthia went into one of her contemplative moods, then looked at me. “Did
you
know her?”
    “I knew
of
her.”
    “What did you know
of
her?”
    “What most everyone else knew, Cynthia. She was perfect in every way, made in the USA, pasteurized and homogenized by the
     Public Information Office, and delivered fresh to your doorstep, creamy white and good for you.”
    “And you don’t believe that?”
    “No, I don’t. But if we discover that I’m wrong, then I’m in the wrong business and I’ll resign.”
    “You may wind up doing that anyway.”
    “Most probably.” I added, “Please consider how she died, how bizarre it was, and how unlikely it would be for a stranger to
     have