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twinkling general’s star that he’d seen in his dreams just blinked out.
    I asked, “Have you notified the local CID yet?”
    “No.”
    “Why in the world not?”
    “Well… this is not going to be handled by them, anyway… I mean, Jesus, this is the post commander’s daughter, and the CID
     commander here, Major Bowes, knew her, and so did everyone else here, so we need to show the general that we’ve gotten top
     talent from Falls Church—”
    “The word you’re looking for is scapegoat. But, okay, I’ll tell my boss in Falls Church that this is best handled by a special
     investigator, but I don’t know if I’m the guy who wants to do it.”
    “Let’s go see the body, then you can decide.”
    As we started to walk to his car, we heard the post cannon boom—actually a recording of some long-scrapped artillery piece—and
     we stopped and faced the direction of the sound. From the loudspeakers mounted on the empty barracks came the recorded bugle
     sound of reveille, and we saluted, two solitary men standing in the predawn light, reacting to a lifetime of conditioning
     and centuries of military custom and ceremony.
    The ancient bugle call, going back to the Crusades, echoed through the company streets and the alleyways between the barracks,
     and over the grassy assembly fields, and somewhere, the flags were being raised.
    It’s been years since I’ve been caught outdoors at reveille, but I sort of enjoy the pomp and ceremony once in a while, the
     communion with the living and the dead, the idea that there is something bigger and more important than I, and that I am part
     of it.
    There is no civilian equivalent of this, unless watching
Good Morning America
has become a tradition, and though I’m on the periphery of Army life, I don’t know if I’m ready yet to make the transition
     to civilian life. But that decision might already be in the making. Sometimes you sense when the last act has begun.
    The final sounds of the bugle died away, and Kent and I continued toward his car. He remarked to me, “Another day begins at
     Fort Hadley, but one of its soldiers will not see it.”

CHAPTER
THREE
    W e headed south in Kent’s car toward the far reaches of the military reservation.
    Colonel Kent began: “Captain Ann Campbell and Sergeant Harold St. John were on duty at Post Headquarters. She was duty officer,
     he was duty sergeant.”
    “Did they know each other?”
    Kent shrugged. “Maybe in passing. They don’t work together. He’s in the motor pool. She’s an instructor at the Special Operations
     School. They just came down on orders and wound up together.”
    “What does she teach?”
    “Psy-ops.” He added, “She’s got—she had a master’s in psychology.”
    “Still has.” There’s always a question of tenses when referring to the recently dead. I asked Kent, “Do instructors usually
     pull that sort of duty?”
    “No, not usually. But Ann Campbell put her name on several duty rosters she didn’t have to be on.” He added, “She tried to
     set an example. General’s daughter.”
    “I see.” The Army runs duty rosters for officers, noncommissioned officers, and enlisted men and women. These are completely
     random lists, ensuring that as nearly as possible everyone gets his or her chance at some sort of crap duty. There was a time
     when female personnel were not on all lists, such as guard duty, but times change. What doesn’t change is that young ladies
     walking around alone at night are at some risk. The hearts of evil men remain the same; the compulsion to stick it in the
     most available vagina supersedes Army regulations. I asked, “And she was armed?”
    “Sure. Had her sidearm.”
    “Go on.”
    “Well, at about 0100 hours, Campbell says to St. John that she is going to take the jeep and check the guard posts—”
    “Why? Isn’t that something the sergeant of the guard or the officer of the guard should do? The duty officer should stay with
     the