by James Church
"I can't, not yet."
"Well, whatever it is, it's your problem. Just keep it clear of me from now on, alright?"
"If it were just my problem, I wouldn't be here, Inspector. A word of advice." He paused.
"I'm listening."
Kang tore a page from that nice little notebook of his and wrote down one word. He pushed it across my desk and then walked into the hall. My headache heard the door slam. The word on the paper was what I expected. "Finn."
9
"Ethnicity is not an identification." The woman wore a white lab coat like armor plating. "No identification, no autopsy. I already told you that."
"His name is Gustav." I'd left my notebook in the office, which was a mistake. Taking notes makes it look like you're in charge; that's what they taught us in training class. Asking this iron lady for a piece of paper would just give her the advantage. I put my hands in my pockets and rocked back on my heels. Maybe she'd think I had total recall.
Maybe she had an aspirin.
She sneered. "Gustav is a Swedish name. You lose, Inspector. I'm busy. Get me an ID, and it better be quick. The refrigeration is uneven at best in the summer, and these bodies don't keep too long. And find yourself a notebook, while you're at it. Good night."
"Wait a minute. I need to see the effects."
"They're bagged. You'll have to sign a form. And then I need to make a phone call." She looked at me coolly. "The bag is in that desk.
When I get back with permission from Military Security, if I get permission, you can go through it." There was a phone on her desk, but I figured she knew that.
"I don't suppose you have a pot of tea."
"Tea is bad for you, Inspector. People drink entirely too much of it."
"Maybe some people do," I muttered as the door closed. As soon as I heard her footsteps receding down the corridor, I started going through the drawers. The bag was in the bottom one. Behind the first bag was a second, tagged car accident/hi. On a hunch, I opened it and quickly rummaged through. It was from the body in the car Kang had told me about, the one with the smashed side window. The car might not have been there when I went by, but something bad had happened to someone.
There was plenty of blood on the clothing, which looked like the uniform of a Military Security colonel. It was new, good quality. Even for a colonel's uniform, it was well tailored. The stitching was neat and tight, the buttons were imported and fastened with strong thread; they were black, which was standard, but I looked twice in the dim light of the room just to make sure. There were two sets of keys in the trousers.
I pocketed them both. There was a black leather wallet, real soft, obviously foreign, made out of some poor calf. It was most likely European, but it had never been stamped or embossed with a brand or country of origin. I ran my fingers along the inside edge to make sure. The wallet was practically empty. All identification had been stripped out. At one time, though, the wallet must have been bulging, because it was badly misshapen. An overstuffed wallet didn't match the trim look of the uniform. Sitting in a back pocket or even inside a coat, it must have ruined the tailored lines something awful. There was not much hope of finding what had been taken from the wallet; it could have been emptied by whoever killed him, maybe by a passing farmer, maybe by security people here in the morgue.
I went into the other bag, marked koryo. The clothing was not of the same quality as the uniform, not even close, and wasn't as clean, but there was no blood on the clothes. No blood on the clothing, no mess on the carpet in the hotel. Maybe the guy had no brains. In the trouser cuffs I found some pine needles, which I pocketed. The labels on the clothes all said made in Austria, but every one of them had been sewn in after the clothing was bought and worn. The thread was wrong and the stitching was off, though not by much. The wallet was new, nothing special, maybe a gift just before his trip, or purchased at an airport store en route. On the inside bottom edge were tiny gold embossed letters, made in Spain. Like the other wallet, this one had also been stripped, though it didn't look like there had ever been much in it.
Most of the plastic sleeves for credit cards had never been opened. The wallet didn't show any signs of having sat in someone's back pocket during a long plane ride. It was in perfect shape. Maybe he carried it in his coat. So, where was the coat?
I heard footsteps down the hall, put both bags back in the drawer, and moved over to gaze at a chart of the human skeleton.
"The answer is no. I can't give you permission to see the bag."
"Too bad. Has the stuff at least been logged, so I can be sure it's all here when I come back with a procurator's order?"
A procurator's order would impress Military Security like pork fat impressed a hot frying pan, and even she knew that. She folded her arms. It didn't soften her overall appearance. "I'm a doctor, Inspector, not a clerk. I don't log things, I keep track of people's health. Or I do when I'm not being harassed. It's past midnight, I have patients who need help. And with what am I supposed to help them, Inspector?
Procurator's orders? Find me some medicine. Especially aspirin for the children."
I gave an imitation bow. "Excuse my intrusion. Thanks for your time."
As I walked towards the door she called after me. "You walk so musically, Inspector."
"I do?" I turned and saw that her face had dropped its mask.
"Your keys, Inspector. They are jangling."
10
It was late enough when I left the morgue that I decided to take the duty car home with me. If I got it back early in the morning, Pak wouldn't care. My apartment was surprisingly cool when I stepped inside.
There was nothing to eat, so I drank the rest of the vodka and tried to think of Finland, what it would be like to walk with Lena around a lake in the stillness of twilight. I fell asleep remembering her perfume, but all I dreamed about was bread and jam.
The sun was shining full in my window when I woke with a start, past 8:00 a.m. My headache was gone, but I could tell it hadn't wandered far. The woman next door was complaining loudly that their flowers would all be dead by noon if her husband didn't go downstairs for some water, because the tap in their apartment wasn't working again. I should have been at the office by now. I yawned. Pak would cover for me if someone else needed the car, but I knew he was going to make me feel guilty when he found out how little I'd learned at the morgue. "Never mind, Inspector," he'd say, and turn his chair to the window. "We have plenty of clues already, mountains of clues. Who could possibly need an autopsy in a case like this? Glad you went to the morgue. Good use of the office vehicle. That almost makes up for the fact that you didn't bother to sign for it."
I was already late; Pak was only going to be unpleasant; I might as well get some more sleep. If the man next door had gone downstairs to get the water like his wife asked, that might have been possible, but the two of them started arguing about one thing, and one thing led to another.
At least I could get some tea at work.
Driving to the office, I yawned and went over what the doctor had said the night before. "Ethnicity is not an identification." It wasn't much of an excuse, but it was worth a try with Pak. As I pulled into the gate at our compound, I saw a military jeep in one of the parking spots.
I decided it was the wrong moment to put in an appearance, backed out, and turned onto the road leading toward the place where I'd been on photo-watch, waiting for the black car. I didn't know what I'd find when I got there; maybe driving over the same route would show me something I didn't know I had seen. I rolled down both front windows.
If I drove fast enough, maybe the breeze would blow away my headache, which was back.
The day was bright and getting hot, but you could tell autumn was coming on. The sky was higher, bluer, without the flatness of summer.
Farmers stood in small groups on the side of the road, staring at the fields, as if willing themselves to begin the work of harvesting the corn.
The countryside was ripe. Back from t
he road, farmhouses sat like dwellings lost in a Central American jungle. Roofs were overgrown with squash vines; a wall of corn towered over the pathways that wound between the buildings. Here and there, a few women squatted on the edge of the fields, enjoying the clarity of the August morning.
I was focused on a couple of goats strolling across the road from the opposite shoulder when, out of nowhere, an oxcart lumbered onto the highway. In a split second it emerged from a dirt path in the field to my right, where it had been hidden by the corn. I slammed on the brakes, barely missed the goats and the back of the cart, and then began a skid that, after a few anxious moments, put me in a ditch about ten meters down the road. The oxcart continued plodding across the highway and disappeared into the cornfield on the other side. Two men ran over to the car. One of them, the older of the two, put his head in the open passenger window. "You all right? This is a damned unlucky stretch of road. People drive like crazy. We lose an ox a month. In July we lost three. We can't afford that."
I shoved the door open, climbed out, and made a quick check of the car. If I could get it out of the ditch, it would get me back to the office.
Pak would murder me over the repairs. He wouldn't let us drive a car that was banged up, said it undermined our dignity. Worse, when it went to the repair shop, they would check the log, and he would have to explain why I had the car overnight and hadn't signed it in. Hell, I hadn't even signed it out.
"You people have to drive so reckless?" The younger of the two men was angry. The older man put a restraining hand on his shoulder.
"What's your problem? Your ox is fine, my car is wounded, and I think I strained my back. I'd say your side came out on top." I didn't want any trouble. If a co-op farm manager wrote a letter of complaint to the Ministry, it would be referred to a discipline committee and I would find myself in endless meetings. I would also have to help with the harvest. This would entail days, maybe weeks, of bending under a hot sun.
The older man tightened his grip on the younger man's shoulder, then let his hand drop free. "We had an accident a couple of weeks ago.
Car came flying across the road and killed his nephew."
"Cars don't fly." I had a sudden feeling that the ox I almost hit had not put me in a ditch but rather on the road to a solution. "What did you say about last month?"
"Three oxen hit by crazy drivers. Never seen anything like it."
"How come? More traffic?"
"Only in the morning. We like to move the carts across the road early. That way the ox gets to browse for a few hours before we get to work. For a long time, there was no problem, never any traffic that early. A couple or three years ago, a car came out of nowhere and killed an ox, must have been about six in the morning. It was a Thursday. Local security man came around and told us to keep away from the road every other Thursday morning."
"He tell you why?"
"I don't care. I'm not curious. Twice a month I sleep late, that's all."
"So, what happened last month? Couldn't sleep?"
"It was a Monday. Not me, one of the other men, it was his turn to move the carts. Ox stepped into the road. Wham. Dead ox, and the driver of the car almost killed."
"Did you see the driver?"
"No, I told you, it wasn't my day to move the carts. I was somewhere else."
"Alright, you were somewhere else. What about the other two accidents?"
"Following
week, we stayed off the road on Monday, figured Tuesday was alright. It was my day for the cart. Same thing. About six in the morning. Ox stepped in the road. This time the driver tried to stop, sort of like you did. Only he was going faster than you were. He lost control.
The car spun around and the back end hit the ox. Killed the beast, but it saved the driver."
"What did he look like?"
"Small guy, skinny, mad as hell."
"Was he in any sort of uniform?"
"Nah."
"The car?"
"Back end was caved in. Too bad, nice car."
"Black?"
"Yup. Clean as you'd want to see, except for the gore all over the back."
"Didn't anyone from Pyongyang come out to question you?"
"Funny thing, no one did. I kept thinking the party committee would chew us out, even though it wasn't our fault. They always blame us."
"You sure no one came to see you?"
The older man crossed his eyes and looked at the sky. "Well, no one except the local security man."
"And?"
"He told us he was sorry about the ox."
"And?"
"He gave us a little money to keep quiet. Wasn't much."
"Wasn't much. Alright. Third time. Must have been a Wednesday or a Friday."
"Wednesday. The youngster here had the lead. I was just walking alongside." The older man nodded at the younger one. "He looked both ways, didn't see anything, though there was a little mist. The ox got halfway across when it stopped. Must have felt the vibrations on the road. Wouldn't move. Sure enough, there was a car, almost stopped this time, but almost wasn't good enough for the ox. Not much damage to the car, though the driver howled that he'd have us all shot."
"Skinny guy again?"
"No, this one was military of some sort. Muscular, short hair. Gray uniform, nothing like I've seen before. Banged his fist into the top of the car, he was so mad."
"Still no investigation?"
"Not a thing. And no compensation for the three oxen, either. Just some hush money. Not very much. How are we supposed to explain losing three animals?"
"But last week it was worse--it wasn't an ox, was it, it was a child.
You know what happened?"
Both men stood quietly, as if an invisible hand had pulled a string attached to their jaws.
"Okay, let me tell you what happened." I let my imagination spin out a reasonable scenario, based on what I knew. I liked to hear myself say these things out loud. When I just had a conversation in my head, it was always brilliant, but when it got fashioned into words, my ears could spot the weak points and tell my brain to take a walk. "The car took off after its side window, the driver's side window, was shot out.
The driver, wounded or dead, lost control. The car was going at high speed, hit a bump on this lousy highway, blew a tire, spun around, and landed in a ditch. Almost where I am now. Your nephew, who saw it all happen from that hill over there, was naturally curious and came to investigate.
He saw someone going through the driver's wallet. He turned to go, but the person, more likely two men, saw him, ran him down, and killed him. They told you later he'd been hit by the car, but they never let you see his body. All you got was an urn of ashes, which was buried the same night." It sounded plausible, not brilliant but plausible, though I made up the fact about the car landing on its left side and omitted that the boy's throat had been cut.
The two of them stared at me. The younger one trembled until I thought he would fall over. The older one shook his head slowly. "We don't want trouble."
"Well, trouble is what you've got, and you'll have even worse if you tell anyone, anyone at all, what I just said to you." I let that sink in. "Now help me get this car out of the ditch." Neither of them moved. "I'll put it another way for you. I'm your only hope of finding out who killed that boy, believe me. Or don't. If I were you, I wouldn't believe me. If I were you, I'd get to a phone and call the local security man, Li Min Sung. He and I were in the army together.
We stayed in touch." I could see from the face of the younger man that this made an impression. The locals liked Li; they trusted him.
He had been around here a long time and was always fair with them, didn't give them a lot of trouble over minor regulations. If Li and I were friends, then maybe they could trust me, too. "Tell him Inspector O says hello."
The older one spit on his hands. "Let's get this car back on the road."
11
"Where are you?" Pak was irritated.
"I'm calling from a str
eet phone."
"You're supposed to be in here. People are looking for you."
"I gathered as much. Someone parked in my parking space, so I figured I'd take a ride."
Pak's voice donned the cloak it wore when he wanted me to listen closely. "A couple of muscular types were here about a guy named Chong. You know anyone named Chong?"
"Just a minute. Let me think." I let a decent interval pass. "No.
What are the odds? You go through your whole life and never meet a Chong. Isn't that an Arab name?" I glanced out onto the street to see if anyone had stopped to watch. No one.
"Who's talking about Arabs? They wanted to know where you've been the past week. I told them you were jumpy so I gave you time off to rest. You felt rested when you came back to work, didn't you?"
"Rested isn't the word for it."
"One more thing. They said your brother is joining the case. He'll be here tomorrow to get briefed by you."
"Forget it."
There was a long silence. "Inspector, we weren't asked for our opinion.
We don't get a vote. Your brother has been assigned to monitor this case. Do I make myself clear?"
"I told you. Forget it. And I meant it. I'm not working near him.
Five years ago, we reached an agreement. We're not brothers anymore.
We don't meet. We don't speak. We live on different planets. I'm sticking to the agreement. If he's on the case, you'll have to take me off."
"Family matters cannot interfere--"
"Look, Pak, it's not your business, it's not the Ministry's business, it's not the party's business. This is between me and my former brother.
He's dirtying my grandfather's name. I won't have it. Can I say it again for you? I won't have it. Let's drop it, alright?"
Pak must have thought I was crazy, talking like that on the phone.
Most of the time our line wasn't monitored--too many other targets and not enough personnel--but we both knew that this case had probably put us on the Military Security Red List, meaning the office phones were near the top of some roving team's weekly priorities. I was banking on it. What I'd said would get to my brother. I wanted him to hear it directly from me, even if it wasn't face-to-face. And I wanted the transcript to get circulated in places where it would put a question mark after his name. Not a big one, but a nagging doubt. It wouldn't destroy him, but he would be in limbo for a while. People wouldn't return his phone calls; invitations would dry up. That would make him mad, maybe ruin his appetite for a few days as he tried to figure out why people were avoiding him. He might even lose some sleep, wondering if his name was on the short, black list of those who had unknowingly said the wrong thing, made the wrong decision, had their heads up when they should have been down.