The Line

by Martin Limon

  “So why are these mobsters taking this risk?” Ernie asked.

  She frowned. “They are challenging us directly. They think they can push the Korean National Police aside and run the world the way they want to run the world. But it’s not going to work.”

  We watched her smolder until finally I broke the silence and said, “So what now?”

  Officer Oh seemed to awaken from a dream. She looked at me. “Chief Inspector Gil will have a strategy ready, of that you can be sure. By tomorrow.”

  “What do you think he’ll do?”

  She looked me straight in the eye and answered, “He’ll mobilize every resource we have to round up and punish these gang members.”

  “Won’t that compromise Evelyn Cresthill’s safety?”

  “That, I’m afraid, is of lesser importance.”

  “The power of the state comes first.”

  Her eyes widened. “Of course.”

  Ernie and I were in the office the next morning shortly after the start-of-duty day cannon went off. I pilfered a couple of aspirin from the First Aid kit, popped them in my mouth, and soon felt relief as the throbbing began to subside. We’d reached the same conclusion separately and agreed to take action. Without bothering to go through Staff Sergeant Riley, we marched down the hallway and barged into the Office of the Provost Marshal of the 8th United States Army. Colonel Brace sat behind his mahogany desk. When we knocked and entered without permission, he raised his eyebrows at us, surprised. We usually tried to avoid him and he knew it.

  Ernie and I both saluted.

  This time, he returned the salute. “Yes?” he said.

  “It’s about Evelyn Cresthill,” I said.

  “What about her?”

  “We have reason to believe that her life is in danger.” I recounted last night’s incident, leaving out that Ernie had left to buy a bottle of soju, and did my best to explain the dynamics at play.

  “The KNPs are planning to take direct action,” I told him. “They’ll be going all-out to find her and arrest and prosecute the mob members behind all this. Sergeant Bascom and I would like to be there when the rescue operation takes place.”

  “We want to make sure Evelyn Cresthill isn’t hurt,” Ernie added.

  “There was a ‘sir’ missing from that sentence,” Colonel Brace told him.

  “Yes, sir,” Ernie said.

  “So you’re telling me you’ll be out of the office for a while.”

  “Yes, sir,” I replied. “And we might need backup. We thought Staff Sergeant Palinki would be good—him and maybe three MPs. If they could accompany us, be on call for when we need them. That way, when we take on these gangsters we’ll have additional firepower.”

  “Like you didn’t have last night.”

  “Yes, sir,” I replied as I looked down at my feet, embarrassed.

  “Sounds like you’re preparing to start World War Three.”

  “No, sir. We’ll be careful.”

  “You’ve thought this all out.”

  “Yes, sir. The KNPs have good intentions, but when they strike, they sometimes use too much brute force. More than we would. Evelyn Cresthill could become the first dependent casualty Eighth Army’s ever had.”

  “Or not,” Colonel Brace said.

  “Sir?” I asked.

  He tapped his pipe into an ashtray made out of thick, amber-tinted glass. He grabbed a pipe cleaner, scrapped burnt tobacco out of the bowl, and reached for his can of Sir Walter Raleigh. He was stalling, preparing to spring something on us. Ernie fidgeted.

  “Admirable,” Colonel Brace said finally, after he’d lit the new tobacco and sent up his first puff of smoke. “I appreciate that you’re so concerned about the welfare of one of the fine ladies under our care. Unfortunately, you’re a little behind the times.”

  “Sir?”

  “Maybe you should’ve checked the MP blotter report. Some interesting things have happened since last night.”

  Ernie knew we were being sandbagged, and he didn’t like it. “So we stepped in it, sir. Is that what you’re trying to tell us?”

  “Stepped out of it is more like it.” He paused, puffed contentedly on his pipe, watching the smoke rise lazily toward the ceiling. “Evelyn Cresthill,” he said, “was spotted at Gate Number Twelve on South Post shortly after zero four hundred this morning. The Staff Duty Officer was notified and he drove over in his jeep and personally escorted her to her quarters.

  “She’s back with Jenny,” I said. “And her husband?”

  “Major Cresthill has returned to the construction site. But yes, according to the SDO, she and Jenny had quite the emotional reunion.”

  I was happy for them. Even if something didn’t seem quite right about this.

  Colonel Brace set his pipe down in the tray. “Report to Staff Sergeant Riley,” he said. “You’re back on black market detail.”

  We saluted and walked out of Colonel Brace’s office. Once we were in the hallway, Ernie muttered, “Lower than whale shit.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “That’s us. Lower than whale shit. Getting the JSA murder investigation yanked away and Evelyn Cresthill wandering home on her own makes us look ridiculous.”

  I thought of how frightened she’d seemed the previous night. Had the mobsters done this as a last-ditch effort to cut their losses after realizing how hard the KNPs were going to come down on them? I needed to talk to Evelyn Cresthill. To make sure she was all right, but also to understand what the hell she’d been thinking. But contacting her might make our situation worse. Though I’d never met Evelyn Cresthill, the one thing I knew about her was that she was trouble. And that kind of trouble, especially when it came to domestic disputes, had a way of rubbing off on investigators. If we were going to have any chance of sneaking back into the JSA murder case, it would be wise to stay away from her. But I figured Ernie also wanted to talk to her, given the embarrassment she’d caused us, and I had to admit that my curiosity had the better of me, whether this was a wise move or not.

  Staff Sergeant Riley was at his desk now. He looked up from last night’s blotter report, saw our expressions, and realized something had gone wrong in the Provost Marshal’s office. He was about to open his trap when Ernie fixed him with a murderous glare. Confused for a moment, Riley glanced at Ernie’s knotted fist and, for once stifling his bravado, snapped his pie-hole shut.

  I nodded to Miss Kim, who returned the gesture, immediately sizing up the situation. Instead of speaking, she relaxed her furrowed brow and resumed pecking away at her hangul typewriter.

  Without even bothering to stop for a cup of coffee, Ernie and I grabbed our jackets and headed toward the door.

  “Where do you guys think you’re going?” Riley asked.

  “Out,” Ernie replied.

  “You’re on the black market detail. As of now,” Riley shouted after us. “The commissary opens at ten hundred hours. I expect you to be there!”

  We didn’t answer. Outside, neither of us spoke as we marched toward the jeep.

  Strange met us in the narrow street behind 8th Army headquarters. He had covered the entrenching tool in wrapping paper.

  “Why’d you do that?” Ernie asked. “It just makes it more obvious.”

  “Hey, it worked for Lee Harvey Oswald—he wrapped his rifle before going into the Texas Book Depository.”

  “Christ, Strange,” Ernie said. “Why would you want to imitate that?”

  “The name’s Harvey.”

  “Yeah, okay, Harvey. So what’re you, his cousin?”

  Strange ignored Ernie and leaned against the passenger side of the jeep, his head practically inside the open window. I pressed back into the canvas seat as far as I could, wondering what the hell Strange had eaten for breakfast. Limburger cheese came to mind. But the commissary didn’t carry the stuff,
and the mess hall damn sure didn’t serve it. Must’ve been something else. I was afraid to ask.

  “Stinky bean curd,” Strange said.

  “Huh?”

  “You’re wincing, wondering what I ate. The answer is stinky bean curd. Good stuff. You ought to try it. Does wonders for the health.”

  “Cut the crap,” Ernie said. “What is it you want?”

  Strange glanced along the row of parked cars, as if expecting someone to be lurking nearby. When he determined no one was, he lowered his voice and said, “You need to be careful.” A blast of eau-de-old-socks emanated from his mouth.

  “Careful?” Ernie asked. “Us? Why?”

  “You fucked up the Evelyn Cresthill missing person’s case.”

  Apparently, the entire compound already knew about her return. Gossip traveled at the speed of light at 8th Army headquarters.

  “So she came home on her own. What of it?”

  “She’s going to divorce her old man. That’s what everyone is saying.”

  “Maybe he’ll leave her first,” Ernie said.

  “Maybe. But worse than that is the shit that happened up at the JSA.”

  I sat up straighter. “What about the JSA?”

  “The North Koreans are still hopping mad. They’ve complained to the Neutral Nations Supervisory Commission, and those pukes have started their own investigation. The North claims an innocent Korean citizen, forced into the South Korean army against his will, was degraded by us American imperialists.”

  The Democratic People’s Republic of Korea, or North Korea, claimed the entire Korean Peninsula was their sovereign territory. And therefore every Korean born on the peninsula—either in North Korea or South Korea—they considered a citizen of the DPRK, including the late Corporal Noh.

  “They claim that Noh was murdered just to set an example for the other troops. To coerce them into never crossing the Military Demarcation Line and thereby stopping them from defecting to the land of freedom blessed by their Great Leader Kim Il-sung’s shining light of socialism.”

  “You have that down pretty good,” Ernie said.

  “But it’s not just talk this time. The NKs are fully mobilized. Plenty of petroleum for their tank divisions is being shipped down from Hamhung, and dozens of Soviet transports are waiting to unload in the harbor. It looks like they’re getting froggy—ready to jump.”

  “All because one guy was killed?”

  “Sure,” Strange said. “Could just be a bluff or an excuse to spread propaganda, but they’re making the most of it.”

  “So what is Eighth Army going to do about it?”

  “Colonel Peele wants to slam them right back, pin the murder on them at the next MAC meeting.” Strange glanced around again to make sure no one had approached. “But the North Koreans have let it be known that if he does that, they’re going to take action next time we go to red-alert level.” When we mobilized all the ROK and US divisions along the DMZ, as well as brought in the Seventh Fleet off the coast and our B-52 bombers from Okinawa. “In retaliation, the North Koreans are threatening to open fire on Seoul. They’re calling it ‘preemptive defense.’ All because one KATUSA corporal had his head bashed in.”

  “And they lost face during our pre-dawn standoff at the JSA,” Ernie said.

  “Exactly,” Strange replied. “You have no idea what you two started when you stole the body from their side of the line.”

  “We didn’t steal anything,” Ernie said.

  “Sure, have it your way. But not to worry. Peele’s being overruled. Cooler heads have decided to burn this PFC whatshisname.”

  “Fusterman,” I interjected.

  “Yeah. Him. Make an example of him on the international stage. And the sooner the better. Pulls the rug out from beneath the North Koreans. Shows that someone’s been convicted of and punished for the murder and the case is closed. Before some idiot pops a cap across the line and the Commies retaliate and we have a real war on our hands.” He pointed at the entrenching tool. “What do you plan to do with this?”

  “Get Fusterman off,” I said.

  “Fat chance.”

  “He didn’t do it,” I replied.

  “What the hell’s that got to do with it?” Strange asked. “PFC Fusterman is going down, and no power on earth can save him. Unless you’d prefer another Korean War?”

  I didn’t see those as the only two options. But apparently 8th Army did.

  Ernie started the jeep’s engine. “Thanks for hiding the entrenching tool for us, Harvey. See you soon.”

  “You two better hold on to your butts,” he replied.

  As we backed away, I let out a whoosh of air. Ernie waved his hand in front of his face.

  “Where does Strange come up with this stuff?” I asked. “Stinky bean curd for breakfast.”

  “He hangs around in back alleys. Eats at the same mom-and-pop stands the taxi drivers do.”

  “Why?”

  Ernie shrugged. “Looking for some strange, I guess.”

  I pulled the entrenching tool closer.

  “Not getting cold feet, are we, Sueño?”

  “Not a chance.”

  Paper rustled. I hadn’t realized I was clutching the entrenching tool so hard.

  -19-

  We were a few minutes late for our zero nine hundred appointment with Corrine Fitch, Esq., but it didn’t matter because she hadn’t arrived yet. The door to JAG Annex Number Two stood locked. We cooled our heels on the sidewalk outside like a couple of dummies until First Lieutenant Margaret “Peggy” Mendelson emerged from a side door of the main 8th Army JAG office. She walked toward us, waving a pink slip of paper.

  Ernie groaned.

  Peggy, a stout woman in a dress-green uniform, was all smiles. “I have a phone message for you.” She thrust it at me. “From Fusterman’s defense attorney. She asked me to let you know she won’t be able to make your nine o’clock.”

  Her smile stretched so wide across her face that I thought her cheeks might pop.

  “Awfully neighborly of you,” Lieutenant Mendelson continued. “Helping out the stateside gun-for-hire. Especially considering you’re supposed to be on our side.”

  “Fusterman didn’t kill anybody,” I said.

  Her eyes widened in mock surprise. “Please, do tell. Then we won’t need to bother with this silly court-martial,” she said, indicating with her hand the brick courthouse on the far side of the lawn. “I’ll just inform the Eighth Army Commander that Buck Sergeant Sueño, himself, has determined that Corporal Noh Jong-bei was murdered by aliens from planet Jupiter. That should satisfy him. Save us a lot of fuss. I’m sure the North Koreans will be happy to hear the news, too. Maybe even call back some of those tank divisions they have rolling toward the DMZ.”

  During her little speech, she’d transformed from facetious to fuming. Hands on her hips, she stared at us like a Doberman searching for a jugular.

  “What’ve you got there?” she asked, pointing at the package.

  No sense trying to hide it now. “Evidence,” I said.

  She held out her open palms. I turned it over to her. She peeked beneath the paper wrapping. “An entrenching tool,” she said.

  When I didn’t respond, she said, “Where’d you get this?”

  “I’ll make a formal report,” I said.

  “You’d better,” she told me. “And you’d better have the report on my desk in less than an hour. Does the Provost Marshal know about this?”

  “I don’t know,” I responded, falling into cover-your-ass mode.

  “Have you informed him?”

  I shook my head. “No.”

  She unwrapped the entrenching tool and examined it. After a few seconds, she spotted the scratched initials: TF.

  “So this is the entrenching tool Fusterman claims was stolen from him.”


  “And then replaced with the one stained with what appears to be blood.”

  “How did this come into your possession?”

  “I’ll put it all in my report.”

  Peggy Mendelson narrowed her eyes at me. “If you think a trick like this is going to get him off, you’re sorely mistaken.”

  “It’s not a trick,” Ernie said.

  She looked back and forth between us. “Whatever happened to you two being ordered off the case?”

  I shrugged. “We’re still investigators,” I said. “Something comes to our attention that might be pertinent, it’s our duty to look into it.”

  “No, it’s not!” she snapped.

  She caught herself, took a deep breath, and seemed to think better of what she’d been about to say. She turned on her heel and began to march back to the JAG office. As she did, she raised her right forefinger into the air and said, “I want that report. One hour.”

  When she disappeared back through the doorway, Ernie waited until the lock clicked tight, then said, “Screw your report.” He glanced at me. “Not our day so far, huh?”

  “Nope. And it’s still early.”

  “Where to now?”

  I thought about it. “The place we’re both dying to visit.”

  “Yeah,” Ernie said. “Yongsan South Post.”

  The Cresthill residence.

  We pounded on the door for nearly ten minutes before someone finally glanced through the curtains of the front window. Seconds later, the inner doorknob turned. A woman’s face—groggy, framed by red hair in disarray—peered out at us. She kept the chain latch secured, the cheap metal crossing her forehead like an extra set of eyebrows.

  “You,” she said. “I saw you last night.”

  “Yes,” I replied.

  She didn’t ask if I was okay.

  “Sorry to wake you, Mrs. Cresthill,” Ernie said, flashing his badge. “May we come in?”

  “For Christ’s sake. What time is it?”

  Ernie told her, taking her civilian status into account by using “nine-thirty” instead of “zero nine thirty hours.”