The General's Daughter by Nelson DeMille Read Free Book Online

where I located the body. I felt for a pulse, listened for a heartbeat,
     tried to detect breathing, and shined my flashlight into the victim’s eyes, but they did not respond to the light. I determined
     that the victim was dead.”
    I asked her, “Then what did you do?”
    “I returned to my vehicle and called for assistance.”
    “You followed the same path to and from the body?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Did you touch anything except the body? The ropes, the tent pegs, the undergarments?”
    “No, sir.”
    “Did you touch the victim’s vehicle?”
    “No, sir. I did not touch the evidence beyond determining that the victim was dead.”
    “Anything else you want to mention?”
    “No, sir.”
    “Thank you.”
    PFC Casey saluted, turned, and resumed her position.
    Kent, Cynthia, and I glanced at one another, as if trying to see what the others were thinking, or feeling. Truly, moments
     like this try the soul and become indelibly burned into the mind. I have never forgotten a death scene, and never want to.
    I looked down at Ann Campbell’s face for a full minute, knowing I would not see it again. This is important, I think, because
     it establishes a communion between the living and the dead, between the investigator and the victim. Somehow it helps—not
     her, but me.
    We went back to the road and walked around the humvee that Ann Campbell had driven, then looked inside the driver’s side window,
     which was open. Many military vehicles have no ignition keys, only a starter button switch, and the switch on the humvee was
     in the off position. On the front passenger seat was a black leather nonmilitary-issue handbag. Cynthia said to me, “I would
     have gone through the bag, but I didn’t want to do that without your permission.”
    “We’re off to a good start. Retrieve the handbag.”
    She went around to the passenger side, and, using a handkerchief, opened the door, took out the bag with the handkerchief,
     then sat on the lower bench of the bleachers and began laying out the contents.
    I got down on the road and slid under the humvee, but there was nothing unusual on the blacktop. I touched the exhaust system
     at various points and found it slightly warm in spots.
    I stood, and Colonel Kent said to me, “Any ideas?”
    “Well, a few possible scenarios come to mind. But I have to wait until forensic gets finished. I assume you called them.”
    “Of course. They’re on their way from Gillem.”
    “Good.” Fort Gillem is outside Atlanta, about two hundred miles north of Hadley, and the CID lab there is a state-of-the-art
     operation that handles all of North America. The people who work there are good, and like me they go where they’re needed.
     Major crimes are still relatively rare in the Army, so the lab can usually muster the resources it needs when a big one comes
     down. In this case, they’d probably show up with a caravan. I said to Colonel Kent, “When they get here, tell them to be very
     curious about a black smudge on the sole of her right foot. I want to know what it is.”
    Kent nodded, probably thinking to himself,
Typical CID bullshit.
And he might well have been right.
    “Also, I want you to do a grid search. Let’s say two hundred meters in each direction from the body, excluding an area fifty
     meters immediately around the body.” This would mess up any footprints, but there were hundreds of bootprints in the area
     of the rifle range anyway, and the only ones I was interested in were those within fifty meters of the body. I said to Kent,
     “I want your people to gather up anything that isn’t natural flora—cigarette butts, buttons, paper, bottles, and all that,
     and record the grid where they found it. All right?”
    “No problem. But I think this guy got in and got out clean. Probably by vehicle, just like the victim.”
    “I think you’re right, but we’re creating files.”
    “We’re covering our asses.”
    “Right. We go by the book.” Which was safe and