by Martin Limon
“If it makes you feel any better,” Mr. Kill responded, “my government is blaming me, too.”
“Shit rolls downhill,” Ernie said.
“The only good thing,” Kill said, “is that this allegation against your First Corps commander is demanding even more headlines. A little thing like a killing during a bank robbery is easy to ignore. But sex trafficking on the DMZ . . .”
He shook his head without finishing the thought.
“There’s no contest,” Ernie said, “when mere murder has to go up against blonde hookers.”
“Well, in the meantime, the best thing we can do is catch these GIs who shot at you this morning.”
“I agree,” I said. “The question is how.”
Mr. Kill slid a KNP police report toward me. It was typed in hangul. I studied it and picked out a few words and phrases, but to decipher it accurately, I’d have to sit down with my Korean-English dictionary and pull the sentences apart one by one. Mr. Kill realized this and began to explain.
“Are you familiar with Paju-gun?”
I told him I was. It was an administrative district north of Seoul, similar to an American county but smaller, wherein many of the US Army combat units in the Western Corridor were deployed. Ernie and I had been there on more than one case. Unfortunately, all of it was under the military jurisdiction of the 2nd Infantry Division, which meant that “rear-echelon MFs” like Ernie and me were about as welcome as cats at a sardine convention.
“Illegal money changers,” he continued. “Our KNP office in Bopwon-ni monitors them.”
“They don’t bust them?” Ernie asked.
“No point. We close them down, they set up shop somewhere else. Better to tolerate them and make sure no one gets too far out of line.”
The money changers filled a need. GIs who made money on the black market or in other illegal activities needed to change their ill-gotten Korean won into US dollars. At the authorized credit union on base, changing won to US dollars was prohibited. The brass figured that if an American soldier had somehow amassed a large amount of Korean money, he must be up to no good. They were usually right. But the GIs could get what they wanted, with a favorable exchange rate, by dealing with the illicit Korean money changers. Once they had US dollars, they could go on base to the APO, the Army Post Office, buy money orders and send their profits home. But they had to be careful with how much they sent. That, too, was monitored by the Command. Anything substantially above the amount they received according to their rank and pay grade would be reported to military law enforcement.
So the KNPs allowed the illegal money changers to continue doing business, keeping a close eye on them. I also suspected the local cops took a cut of the profits in exchange for their silence. But I wouldn’t be so gauche as to say that out loud in front of Inspector Kill.
“There’s been suspicious activity near Bopwon-ni,” he continued. “Both times immediately after the bank robberies. The money changer in question had to hustle to scrounge up more than two thousand US dollars.”
“For one transaction?” Ernie asked.
Kill nodded.
Ernie slid to the edge of his seat. “Which GI made the buy?”
“We aren’t sure. GIs don’t use names when they go to money changers. At least, not real ones. According to the KNP report, he was in civilian clothes. The money changer was vague about physical description. Just a GI, he said. They all look alike to him.”
“Is the money changer aware that we might be interested in this GI?”
“No. This came to light during casual conversation. Our officer was merely monitoring the money changer’s profits. Something he does routinely. And he was careful not to push for a more precise description and tip his hand.”
That was also, I imagined, when the cop took his cut of the money changer’s profits, passing the lion’s share on up the line to his superiors.
“Is this GI a regular customer of the money changer?” Ernie asked.
“Sporadic. He’s seen him a few times. But only for fairly small amounts. A couple hundred dollars at most. The money changer assumed it was from the usual black marketeering or selling American government property, like C-rations or copper wire—or both. Apparently, this GI had made a big score.”
Ernie looked at me. “We ain’t there yet?”
“We would recommend a cautious approach,” Mr. Kill said. “We don’t want to scare him away.”
“Caution is our byword,” Ernie said.
Coming from him, it was a very odd thing to say.
Mr. Kill gave us the name of the Korean cop in Bopwon-ni and told us he’d make arrangements for a meeting the next night, Monday. I wrote down the information, unsure of how to spell the cop’s name in hangul, when Mr. Kill generously offered his help, taking my pen and my notebook and jotting it down in an easy hand. I read what he’d written, admiring the practiced calligraphy.
“Hey-kyong. That’s a woman’s name, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” he said.
“A female cop,” Ernie said, “working a GI village?”
“Not just any woman,” Kill replied. “She’s almost as tall as you, with a third degree black belt in taekwondo. Tough. And with a mind set on overcoming adversity.”
“How do you know?”
“Because when she was twelve years old, she escaped from North Korea.”
Ernie whistled. “You’re hooking us up with a Commie?”
“To broaden your perspective,” Mr. Kill said.
The next morning when we arrived at the CID Admin office, Staff Sergeant Riley and Miss Kim were both on the phone, and Colonel Walter P. Brace, Provost Marshal of the 8th United States Army, stood in the center of the room, hands on his hips, staring back and forth between the two of them. When he heard us enter, he swiveled and said, “There you are.” Without another word, he thrust a copy of the Stars and Stripes into my hand.
There it was, on the front page: gis accused of bank robbery. And below that, korean bank teller fatally injured.
The article was bylined by an Associated Press reporter, not a Stripes reporter. Now that it was international news, they were obligated to carry the story, but since the subject matter was sensitive, the editorial staff wasn’t about to do their own write-up or in any way leave their fingerprints on this mess.
Riley was speaking to someone at the personnel records section about providing us a list of all GIs in 8th Army who had been allowed to enlist despite prior criminal convictions. Apparently, it would be an enormous list, and he was receiving a lot of flak about how much time and effort it would take.
“Top priority,” Riley kept saying. “By order of the Provost Marshal.”
Miss Kim was speaking in Korean to someone who seemed to be questioning her about how much the family of the murdered woman would receive in compensation. She was trying to refer them to either the 8th Army Claims Officer or Judge Advocate General, but the person on the other end of the line wasn’t having it. Miss Kim was trying to appease them, but I could tell she was getting nowhere. She was too nice and too honest for our way of doing things in military law enforcement. Riley would’ve just hung up on them.
“I’ve put Burrows and Slabem back on the case,” Colonel Brace said. “We need all hands on deck.”
Ernie said, “Mr. Kill doesn’t want Burrows and Slabem on this case.”
Wrong answer. Blood rushed to Colonel Brace’s face. “Mr. Kill doesn’t run the goddamn Eighth Army Provost Marshal’s office,” he said. “I have Burrows and Slabem down at Personnel now, putting together a list of soldiers in the command who were granted waivers for their civilian criminal behavior prior to enlistment. Kill can’t control that.”
Ernie’d been behaving pretty well lately, refraining from pissing off the brass, but I guess I couldn’t have expected it to last forever.
�
�That could help, sir,” I said, trying to divert his attention, “especially if the information they gather intersects with the leads we’re developing.”
“What leads are those?”
“Still working on them,” I said, “but apparently, we struck a nerve.”
“How so?”
I told him about the shooting.
“Oh, that,” he said. “Yes, I saw that on this morning’s blotter. Gunfire reported in Samgakji. That was directed at you?”
“Both of us,” I replied. “So we believe.”
“Oh. Maybe you did strike a nerve.” As an afterthought, he said, “Either of you hurt?”
“No, sir,” Ernie said. “Caught the bullet between my teeth.”
Colonel Brace shot him a furious look. “Always the wiseass, huh, Bascom?”
Ernie didn’t reply, and Colonel Brace didn’t continue his inquiry on our physical welfare. Instead, he repeatedly jammed his fingertip onto the edge of Miss Kim’s desk as he said, “I expect a full written report on all your activities on this bank robbery each and every morning, starting with this morning. Is that clear?”
“Clear, sir.”
Actually, since we’d been released to work with Mr. Kill, Colonel Brace was temporarily not our boss. But I knew better—even Ernie did—than to piss him off over some damn report.
He took a deep breath to calm himself and said, “So, what did this Katie Byrd Worthington have to say?”
“Well, sir,” I replied, “I’m afraid she didn’t want to cooperate.”
“Didn’t want to? Did you tell her we could pull her Eighth Army press credentials?”
It was a threat that our previous conversation had made clear we weren’t supposed to make, but, once again, I didn’t argue.
“Actually, sir, we were unable to talk to her at all. When we located her at the Bando Hotel, she avoided us by climbing down the fire escape.”
“The fire escape?”
We both nodded.
“What’s wrong with this woman?”
Neither of us tried to answer that one.
“Well, find her, goddamn it. And get me a full report on this bank robbery investigation. Now!” Then he seemed to remember something. “Come with me, both of you.”
We followed him down the hallway and I expected him to lead us to his office but halfway there, he turned and stared at us.
“You’re under pressure,” he said. “I understand that. But we can’t let up now. There’s a lot on the line for the Command”—he paused for dramatic effect—“and for you.”
I supposed he wanted us to ask what he meant, but neither of us did. He cleared his throat and spoke again. “This ROK Army Third Corps business, these ridiculous accusations against General Crabtree.” The I Corp Commander. “It’s been decided that we want you to look into them.”
“Along with the bank robbery investigation?” Ernie asked.
“Yes. Along with that. And we want you to look into these accusations pronto. I’ve called the Second Division commander and told him to expect you to be operating in his area.”
“Bet he wasn’t happy about that,” Ernie said.
“Damnit, Bascom, I don’t care if he’s happy. This is coming straight from the head shed. They want to know the truth behind these accusations.”
“So if we find out,” Ernie said, prodding him, “that General Crabtree did in fact ship hookers up north with an MP escort for indecent purposes, should we arrest him?”
“No!” Colonel Brace seemed shocked. “Just report back to me. We’ll take it from there.”
“We” being him and the 8th Army power structure.
“We’ll be stretched sort of thin,” Ernie said. “Any chance of an increase in our expense allowance?”
Colonel Brace nodded and waved his hand dismissively, as if this was too petty for him to waste time on. “Tell Riley I said to double it. And report back to me immediately when you know something.” He pointed a knobby forefinger at me. “And I mean immediately. You got that, Sueño?”
“Yes, sir.”
With that, he turned and strode toward his office.
We made an about-face and walked the other way. “Double,” Ernie whispered to me, proud of his coup. We’d now receive a hundred dollars a month each for miscellaneous expenses instead of fifty.
“We’re in the money,” he said, smiling. “Thanks to me.”
I wasn’t so sure that an extra half-a-yard was going to cover the grief we were about to be subjected to at the ROK Army III Corps headquarters. But Ernie didn’t seem worried about it. So I decided not to worry either.
-11-
In the Military Police Arms Room, the weapons checkout form attached to a battered clipboard had multiple columns, one of them headed purpose. Before Ernie received his .45, he wrote down, To stop people who are trying to kill me.
The new guy in charge of the Arms Room was Specialist 4 Elgin. He was of average height and weight, with a slight potbelly. His hair was combed much in the way Adolph Hitler once combed his hair, but instead of a Charlie Chaplin mustache, the main thing one remembered about Specialist Elgin were the red acne spots covering a face as pale as a West Texas desert. He was from Oklahoma and talked slowly, considering every word, which was probably a good thing. And pretty unusual in the US Army. He stared at Ernie’s entry, then looked up and said, “Who’s trying to kill you?”
“If I knew that,” Ernie said, “I would’ve arrested them already.”
Elgin pondered the answer, nodded, and said, “You want a protective vest?”
“How heavy are they?”
Elgin grabbed one from a wooden crate and hoisted it onto the counter with a clunk. The thick contraption was covered with olive drab canvas material. Slide-in metal plates kept the front and back stiff. Ernie slipped it on and buckled it, and it fit fine.
“How do I look?” he asked me, holding his arms out to the side.
“Smashing.”
“Nah,” Ernie told Elgin, slipping the vest off and slapping it back on the counter. “That wouldn’t be sporting. The bad guys haven’t worn any protective vests so far, so I won’t wear one either.”
“There’s more than one guy trying to kill you?” Elgin asked.
“We think so.”
“Damn,” Elgin said, shaking his head. “I didn’t know Korea had gunfighters.”
“Yeah,” Ernie said. “Frozen Chosun’s becoming a regular OK Corral.”
Elgin issued me my .45 along with the accompanying shoulder holster. I signed for it and under the purpose column, I wrote: Mayhem.
He stared at the entry and paused, and I almost expected him to say something. In the end, he didn’t. He looked at me and blinked. I didn’t think he was a hundred percent sure what mayhem meant.
I wasn’t sure what it meant to us right now either. But as we got deeper into these cases, it seemed to be chasing us, evolving into something more dangerous by the minute.
Ernie fueled up the jeep at the POL point before we went to the barracks and changed into our running-the-ville outfits: blue jeans, sneakers, sports shirts with a collar, and nylon jackets with writhing dragons embroidered on the backs. We stopped at the 8th Army Snack Bar just as noon chow was ending. Strange sat at his usual table, an empty mug in front of him.
“He’s been waiting for us,” Ernie said.
I nodded. That was why he hadn’t replenished his mug of hot chocolate. He expected us to do it. We joined Strange at his table.
“Had any strange lately?” he asked, studying us through his opaque shades.
“More than even I can handle,” Ernie said. “What’s the latest at the head shed?”
For once, Strange didn’t demand up-front quid pro quo. Instead, he leaned forward and said, “You’re toast.”
“Sourdough or English muffin?�
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“Knock off the bullshit, Bascom,” Strange said. “I’m serious.”
“Okay, you’re serious,” Ernie replied patiently, waiting for him to spill.
Strange glanced at the empty tables at our sides as if he were about to cross the Hollywood Freeway. Satisfied that no Commie spies were lurking near the short-order line, he leaned forward again and told us what he’d learned from a classified transcript of this morning’s 8th Army Command briefing.
“The First Corps Commander, Lieutenant General Crabtree, is having a nervous breakdown. A local MD up there at First Corp headquarters recommended he be airlifted back to the One-Two-One for further evaluation.” The army’s 121st Evacuation Hospital in Seoul.
“Okay,” Ernie said. “With the kind of publicity he’s getting from the Overseas Observer about him pimping hookers using the MPs, it figures he’d be a little out of sorts.”
“But that’s nothing a laxative can’t cure,” Strange said. “According to Second ID reports, he was seen wandering around headquarters at night in only his skivvies, shouting at the moon, yelling orders for a DMZ-wide move-out alert.”
“Did anybody follow the order?” I asked.
“No. It got rescinded before it became official.”
“By who?”
Ernie and I both knew that when a Corps Commander issued an order in this man’s army, it was usually followed.
“By his Command Sergeant Major. A guy named Screech Owl Tapia.”
“Screech Owl?” Ernie said.
“Yeah. He’s an Apache or something. With a combat record as long as your arm. He policed up General Crabtree and took him back to his quarters, then tucked him in his bunk and ordered the Staff Duty Officer not to mention the outburst in his log.”
“That’s not kosher.”
“No. And that’s not the only thing Command Sergeant Major Screech Owl is up to.”
“Like what?”
Strange paused, staring at us cagily. “You’re going up there, aren’t you?”
“What’s it to ya?” Ernie said.
“You’ll be gone a while.” He glanced at his empty mug and frowned. I took the hint.