A Corpse in the Koryo

by James Church

  She smiled tightly.

  “Okay. So you never miss a spot. But if you did, where do you think it would be?”

  “Believe me, this room was spotless three days ago. I came in twice to make sure.” She paused and gave a little frown. “Anything in here since then came with …” She didn’t finish the thought.

  “I’ll get that call now.”

  The phone was in the manager’s office behind the reception desk. The manager was sitting on a wooden folding chair at a small table, sipping tea, not even pretending to go through his papers. His teacup was cracked down the side. I thought about asking him to leave, but it didn’t matter. All the hotel phones were tapped anyway.

  It was Kang’s voice on the other end. “You free tonight?”

  “Depends.”

  “I’ll buy dinner.”

  “No goat meat.”

  “That doesn’t leave much.”

  “You’ll think of something. Fish, maybe.”

  “How’s life at the Koryo these days, Inspector?”

  “Fine.” It was clear that he knew who talked to the floor lady. “Best hotel on the peninsula.”

  “Nine o’clock, if that’s not too late. I’ll swing by your office.”

  “You do that.” I hung up.

  The manager cleared his throat and gave me a sour smile when I turned toward him. “We’re trying real hard to run a good hotel here.” He paused. “This won’t help.”

  The first law of capitalism, I thought. Corpses are bad for business. I tried to sound friendly and serious at the same time. “As soon as I get what I need and can clear out of here, I will. But if this isn’t solved soon, you’ll have a reputation, if you know what I mean. Bad for the honeymoon tours.”

  He thought a moment. “The eighth floor is hard to sell.” I noticed his hands. They were folded. His knuckles were white, as if he were holding his fingers too tight.

  “Thanks for the use of your phone.” I got up and wrote down my number on a scrap of paper. “You probably won’t remember anything. Don’t strain yourself.”

  8

  Kang showed up shortly past nine. He stopped in to see Pak for a few minutes. Then he came down to my office. “No dinner. Pak forbids it.”

  I put my feet on the desk. A headache was creeping up the back of my neck. “I knew it wouldn’t happen. You’re here. What do you want to say?”

  “Remember our friend Chong?”

  “The stone head?”

  “His body disappeared. They don’t even know he’s dead. They’ve convinced themselves he’s planning to skip into China, if he hasn’t already. Kim is fit to be tied. He’s put all of his people along the border on alert. He can’t afford to have one of his men defect. Screws up the discipline.”

  “Bad for his reputation, too, I would think.”

  “We can hope. Meantime, he’s distracted. He doesn’t know you were up in Manpo.”

  “He must know by now.”

  “Then why have they issued a lookout for a guy from Wonsan, first name unknown, last name unknown?”

  “What about the goat lady?”

  “She won’t help them much. All she knows is you were a little fuzzy about fish and flashed food coupons.”

  “That’s what you came here about? Chong’s corpse?” The headache had found itself a good home and was going to spend the night. I’d brought back a bottle of aspirin from Berlin but had used the last one a few weeks ago. Pak didn’t have any; I checked.

  “No. Your corpse. Kim’s people talked to the Koryo staff.”

  “Thanks for nothing.”

  Kang started to say something, then stopped.

  “What?”

  “Not much. Only, Kim isn’t mean, he’s psycho. If he puts you on his list, there’s not much I’ll be able to do. He’s watching me, waiting to move.”

  “So get out of the way.”

  “Not that easy.”

  “Why? One night, you just disappear.”

  “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/H1. 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 the 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.�
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  “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.