by Martin Limon
Without acknowledging them, Ernie and I pushed through the double doors and into the ward.
The inner chamber of the Critical Care Unit was bathed in a green glow. As we waited for our eyes to adjust to the dim light, a blue-smocked technician, and then a doctor, confronted us.
The doctor’s name tag said Oh.
Ernie showed his badge.
“Han Ok-hi,” I said. “Where is she?”
Doctor Oh insisted we put on face masks. A pair were found for us, then he ushered us down a corridor. Patients lay on beds surrounded by paraphernalia: tubes, bottles, air bags, beeping respirator machines. Finally, we stopped. The doctor pointed.
Her feet only reached two-thirds of the way down the bed. A loose plastic mask covered most of her face; the mask gently filled, then deflated. Her black hair had been shoved into a translucent blue cap. Tubes were stuck into her arms and down her throat and into other strategic spots around her body.
Doctor Oh tried to stop me, but I couldn’t help myself. I reached out and touched the palm of her hand. It was much colder than it should’ve been.
This was my fault. Sure, I knew rationally that it was the criminals involved who were responsible. Not me. But that couldn’t change my feelings. That couldn’t change the debt I owed to this small young woman whose fingers lay cold and limp in my palm. It was a matter of honor now. I had to find the men who did this. Not for the Korean National Police, nor for the 8th Army Criminal Investigation Division. Not even for Han Ok-hi herself. But for me.
Dr. Oh grabbed my elbow. Even through his mask, I could tell he was frowning.
“Will she live?” I asked.
Doctor Oh shrugged.
On a coat rack near the bed hung a long traditional Korean silk skirt. I let go of Han Ok-hi’s hand and stepped toward it. The silk was hand-embroidered in red on a pale pink background. Flowers. Mugung-hua. The Rose of Sharon. The national flower of Korea. Then I remembered. Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out the strip of silk I’d found under the desk that belonged to the owner of the Olympos Hotel and Casino. The material hung loosely in my hands, and I realized it was the short blouse that matched this long skirt hanging next to the supine body of Miss Han Ok-Hi. As I hung it on the rack next to the skirt, Dr. Oh stared at me curiously.
He grabbed my elbow again and walked me down the hallway. Ernie followed. At the entranceway, the doctor motioned for us to step outside.
When I hesitated, he slipped off his mask and said, “It was your gun?” His English was precise, expertly pronounced.
I nodded.
“Would you like to see a doctor?”
Before I could answer the double doors burst inward. The middle-aged couple we had seen outside, the parents of Han Ok-hi, stood still for a moment, as if bewildered. Then the woman’s eyes focused on me, and her round face contorted in rage. Somehow, she’d found out who I was. Her husband grabbed her arm, trying to pull her back, but she bulled her way across the tiled floor until she stood in front of me.
Her husband looked disheveled, his suit coat wrinkled, his collar loose and his brown tie askew. She wore a traditional Korean chima-chogori, the skirt and blouse of white silk with blue embroidery, as if she were on her way to church. Or a Confucian ceremony.
Apparently, hospital gossip had reached her already. She knew that her daughter had been shot by an American gun. One that had been lost in a most irresponsible manner. And she wasn’t happy with me. That much was clear.
“Tangshin!” she screamed. You!
Then she opened her fingers wide, sharp nails pointing at my face, and charged.
The thieves carrying my .45 and badge walked into the Olympos Casino at eleven hundred hours, the minute it opened. They presented themselves to the security guard— speaking English, flashing my CID badge—and the guard ushered them behind the blackjack tables to the desk of the casino manager, Mr. Bok.
This is another example of the power of Americans in Korea. In the early Seventies, with the United States still in the throes of the Cold War tussle between capitalism and communism, the military junta running Korea receives millions of dollars annually in American military and economic aid. Therefore, representatives of the U.S. Government—even lowly GIs—are not questioned. We’re presumed to be legitimate. Questioning a GI would be like questioning cash.
The blond-haired criminal told Mr. Bok that they were from 8th Army CID. They were investigating a case concerning a GI who had been frequenting the casino, attempting to buy American currency with Korean won. Mr. Bok denied that there had been any such transaction. Buying American dollars with Korean won is a widespread practice on the black market, but it is not legal. Korean casinos allow players to buy chips with U.S. dollars but if you win, the winnings are paid in Korean won. Dollars will be replaced only up to the amount for which you bought in. Won is a controlled currency and is not internationally traded. Besides, Bok told them, few Americans venture into the Olympos Casino. He would’ve remembered.
Both of the supposed CID agents wore civilian jackets and ties—just like real 8th Army CID agents—and both wore sunglasses. The man doing all the talking resembled Ernie in that he had light, sandy blond hair and white skin.
The other man, the one who presented my CID badge, didn’t speak. He was dark-complected, with brown, wavy hair, and was dressed in the same manner, in coat and tie and shades. He appeared to be American. That is, he was tall, almost six feet, and his shoulders were husky and his arms and legs long, and he had hair on the back of his hands.
Maybe his appearing with an American, and being dressed the same way, had thrown Mr. Bok off. I asked him about this.
He disagreed. He knows a Korean when he sees one. This man wasn’t Korean.
I asked Bok if he’d taken a good look at the photograph that accompanied the CID badge. He admitted that he hadn’t. The dark man had flashed it at him as if impatient, and after Bok saw the official-looking American document in its impressive leather case, he hadn’t mustered the nerve to examine it more closely.
Understandable. Korea is a police state. People aren’t in the habit of questioning badges.
Most Korean casinos don’t have cameras. The film and the necessary apparatus are seen as being too expensive. What with total gun control, the rate of armed robberies in Korea is less than one-tenth of what it is in the States. Korea is a safe society. Even for a woman walking alone at night through a dark alley. At least, it’s usually safe.
Once the two phony CID agents were inside the cashier’s cage, the staff stopped paying attention to them. Quietly, so as not to ignite a panic, the Caucasian man pulled a .45 and ordered the security guard to lie face down on the floor. He disarmed the security guard, kept his weapon, and tossed what I presumed to be my .45 to his darker-skinned accomplice. While the Caucasian thief watched Mr. Bok stuff money into a canvas bag, the other thief exited through the back door of the cashier’s cage. The Caucasian thief seemed to be surprised and upset by this, Bok said, but he continued collecting the money and making sure that neither Bok nor the supine security guard nor any of the three cashiers alerted other casino personnel.
By Bok’s estimate, the Caucasian thief had systematically plundered 2.4 million won, about five thousand dollars U.S.
Ten minute later, the taller and darker thief returned, face flushed and out of breath. He was alone, but he looked extremely upset and agitated and, with his .45, he motioned to his partner that it was time for them to leave.
They did. Without further incident. Carrying the canvas bag loaded with loot between them.
After they left, Mr. Bok notified the Korean National Police and soon the entire casino was aware of what had happened. Gaming stopped. Employees and customers alike gathered around the iron-barred cage as the cashiers tearfully told their story. With the now recovered security guard and a couple of the male pit bosses, Mr. Bok entered the hallway behind the cashier’s cage and ventured up to the owner’s office. There they found the smashed and t
orn photo of the owner’s relatives and, beyond that, the undisturbed office.
Or at least the office seemed at first to be undisturbed. The small fire-escape door was open, and sea air laced with rain blew in. When Mr. Bok went to close the door, he found her. Tearfully, he explained to Ernie and me that Miss Han Ok-hi lay naked and unconscious in a pool of her own blood.
Naked? I questioned him about that, but Lieutenant Won interrupted angrily and claimed that her lack of clothing had nothing to do with this case and nothing to do with Ernie and me finding the GI who shot her. When I asked about the whereabouts of the boss, he grew even more angry.
Apparently, the Inchon KNPs were on the payroll of the owner of the Olympos Casino. No surprise there. In Korea, civil servants supplement their income in creative ways. Technically, it’s not legal, but the practice is so widespread that people expect it, so much so that the official salaries of policemen and other government employees are purposely kept low. The public expects them to make as much as their salary, if not more, on the side. Why pay them well if they’re going to steal anyway?
I asked again about the owner. I felt it was important that we interview him. Lieutenant Won steadfastly refused. Ernie took over the argument, raising his voice, causing Lieutenant Won to grow red in the face. While Ernie waved his arms and ranted, I pulled Mr. Bok aside. Under further questioning, Bok admitted that occasionally some of the female blackjack dealers perform hostess duties for the casino owner when he entertains guests in his office. Had there been any guests today? No, not that Bok knew of. Then why was Han Ok-hi acting as hostess? Bok blushed at that but wouldn’t answer. I asked if Miss Han’s hostess duties included taking off her clothes. He flushed and shook his head and refused to answer further questions on the subject.
The Korean National Police arrived only moments after Mr. Bok’s telephone call.
A quick search of the surrounding area turned up nothing. It was thought that the thieves must’ve had a vehicle waiting nearby. So far, the KNPs had discovered no witnesses who had seen the two men enter the casino or, more importantly, leave. But they were still canvassing the neighborhood and had high hopes that they would convince some courageous citizen to talk to them soon.
Koreans, by the nature of their experience during most of the Twentieth Century, are reluctant to become involved with the police. But they will open up, Lieutenant Won told us, when offered an incentive. The weathered old cop slugged his fist into his leather-clad palm and grinned a crooked-toothed grin.
Before the claws belonging to the mother of Han Ok-hi could rip into my flesh, I threw up my arms. But by then it was too late. She was on me, swinging at my chest, my face, shoving into me with all her strength. I staggered backward and almost tumbled onto one of the patients, but at the last second the technician braced me and kept me from falling. By now, Ernie had stepped past me, and he and the husband and Doctor Oh surrounded the writhing woman and held her. Her face blazed an angry red and she screamed invective at me, most of which I couldn’t understand, and then she was spitting and trying to push forward again. The three men held firm. The mother of Han Ok-hi strained against them, and then, as if all her massive strength had left her, she stopped. Her mouth shut and she stared at me, confused. She gazed around the green glow of the Critical Care Unit, as if she had just awoken from a dream.
Her face fell and her palms shot up to cover her open mouth. She crumpled to the ground, crying and screaming and moaning again. Calling out: “Ok-hi, Ok-hi, Ok-hi-ah.”
The doctor, the husband, and the technician lifted her back to her feet. Someone rolled in a wheel chair and, after arranging her properly, the husband pushed the mother of Han Ok-hi out of the Critical Care Unit.
Ernie came to stand by me. Doctor Oh talked to me some more but I don’t remember what was said. I don’t know if I turned down care or promised to see a doctor or anything at all. I don’t even remember leaving the hospital.
But we did leave.
And the next thing I knew, I was breathing salt air.
I wasn’t surprised that Lieutenant Won hadn’t allowed Ernie or me to speak to the owner of the Olympos Hotel and Casino. The Japanese and Hong Kong high rollers brought millions of dollars into the casino every year. With money like that, power had to be close by. The casino owner was probably more influential in the City of Inchon than the mayor. And in Korea, one iron rule I’d learned: important people don’t talk to American GIs. Even when those GIs are conducting a murder investigation. Especially when they’re conducting a murder investigation.
And without subpoena power, I couldn’t do a thing about it. Not without the consent of the Korean National Police, and that wasn’t likely. When the owner entered the cashier cage with his henchmen, Lieutenant Won, the tough old cop, had been terrified. Even Ernie had been a little intimidated. I could tell by the way he bristled.
Still, I’m a cop. And like any cop in the middle of a murder investigation, I had questions: Did the casino owner keep money in his office? I hadn’t seen a safe but maybe there was one hidden somewhere. Is that why the thief went back there? Did the crook have inside information concerning the whereabouts of a safe? And why had Han Ok-hi been in the office? What was she doing? Serving tea? If so, who to? And why had she taken off her clothes? Where was the casino owner while the thief was wandering around his office? Where were his bodyguards? Had the casino owner seen the thief? Did he think he could identify him and pull him out of a line-up?
I had other questions that maybe had nothing to do with the crime: Who tore up the photograph on the small shrine in the alcove? Who picked up and returned the pieces to their proper place on the pedestal? Who relit the sticks of incense? Who were those two people in the photograph? What did ancestors have to do with all this?
There were too many questions, all swirling madly through my mind. And while I struggled to sort them out, all I could see was the small body of Han Ok-hi, lying unmoving and helpless beneath white sheets. How I wished that she would sit up and tell me, and then her mother, that she was all right.
After leaving the Huang Hei Medical Center, Ernie and I drove to the Inchon Headquarters of the Korean National Police. I sat in the jeep for a few minutes, breathing deeply of the fresh salt air. Ernie waited patiently. When I felt I’d recovered, we went inside. Using the accounts of the casino employees, one of the police artists had already made sketches of the two thieves. After meeting with Lieutenant Won to discuss strategy, Ernie and I returned to the jeep and sat outside the red-brick headquarters building, staring at the sketches.
“Ugly fuckers,” Ernie said.
“Yeah,” I said, “but now I understand why everyone in the casino was so frightened when we walked in. These two guys look like us.”
“Naw, they don’t. It’s just because of the way they’re dressed. Coat and tie. And they’re wearing shades. And one of them’s Caucasian and a little shorter, and the other one is dark and a little taller. That’s the only similarity.”
Ernie didn’t want to see the resemblance but it was there. Still, he was right that if you took away the Western clothing and set them out on the street standing next to us, no one would mistake them for two stalwart enforcers of the law like Agents George Sueño and Ernie Bascom.
The City of Inchon rises from the sea up to the hills that comprise the downtown business district. From where we sat we could see the big cement block building of the Olympos Hotel and Casino, out to the Port of Inchon, and beyond to the rippling waters of the Huang Hei, as the Koreans call it— the Yellow Sea. The sun was low on the horizon.
I thought of Miss Han Ok-hi. Would she pull through? Would she one day be whole and healthy again? Or would she give up the ghost and allow her spirit to rise through this golden glow to join her ancestors?
Ernie broke the spell.
“The KNPs will be looking for more leads all night, talking to cab drivers, checking with the bus companies, seeing if they can locate witnesses and a getaway car.”
When a foreigner kills a Korean it makes headlines in the morning papers. The KNPs, although prime players in a highly controlled state, are not completely insensitive to public opinion. Pressure, and a lot of it, would be coming down from on high, and coming down soon. A GI—or someone who appears to be a GI—callously shot a fine young Korean woman. No politician could put up with that. And the sooner the KNPs arrested a suspect, the safer they would be.
I saw where Ernie was going. “So we have to go some place where the KNPs can’t.”
“The GI angle,” Ernie said. “That’s why Lieutenant Won let us examine the crime scene. He wants us to figure out who these guys are and where they’re stationed so he can collar them.”
“We’ll make the collar,” I said.
“Good,” Ernie agreed. “Let’s do that. So our first step is to think like these guys. If you had just robbed a casino, shot an innocent girl, and were now on the run with a bag full of money, where would you go?”
“To Seoul,” I said.
“Right. To hide amongst the multitudes. But think of how fast the KNPs arrived on the scene, and Lieutenant Won told us the roadblocks on the highways leaving Inchon were set up in a matter of minutes.”
“The thieves must’ve had a vehicle waiting.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Still, it would’ve been risky to flee Inchon right away.”
Ernie was right about that. There was only one superhighway running from here to Seoul, another old meandering country road running roughly parallel, and a third thoroughfare heading south along the coast. Nothing going north or east to the Yellow Sea. KNP traffic units routinely patrolled those three roads, and as soon as they were notified by radio of the bank robbery, they’d have set up roadblocks, checking everyone out, searching bags. They hadn’t found any wads of cash or suspicious Miguks trying to leave town. If the thieves had tried to escape by sea, they’d be even easier to catch. Korean fishermen talk, and the Korean Navy had been alerted. It was hard to believe that two Americans wouldn’t soon have come to the attention of the inquisitive Korean National Police. Fleeing via aircraft was out of the question. Kimpo International, the nearest airport, is located on the road to Seoul, beyond the KNP roadblocks, and all other aircraft was strictly controlled by the Korean military.