The Line

by Martin Limon

  “Not alive,” he replied.

  On the way back to Yongsan Compound, Ernie honked his horn as we roared through Namsan Tunnel Number Three.

  “Why do you always do that?” I asked.

  “To hear the echo. Let people know I’m here.” Then he said, “What do you think the gampei will do with her next?”

  “I’m not sure. But Inspector Kill is right. They’ll toss her away when she’s not useful anymore. Which may be soon.”

  “That would be a damn shame.”

  “You liked her?” I asked.

  “Yeah. She’s bold.”

  “With any luck, the KNPs will turn something up.”

  “Let’s go find her ourselves.” Ernie said.

  “All right. But where?”

  Ernie thought it over, but he didn’t have an answer. When the MP waved us through Gate Number Seven into Yongsan Compound, I said, “Let’s stop at Data Processing.”

  “Why?”

  “I need to talk to Porter.”

  Ernie shrugged. He turned left, then a right, and pulled up on the gravel incline at the rear of the 8th Army Data Processing Unit.

  “Won’t take long,” I told him.

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of ginseng gum. “Take your time,” he said. “I’m not anxious to get back to the office. All they’ll want to know is why we haven’t found Evelyn Cresthill yet.”

  I strolled off into the DPU, a big open bay jammed with desks. In the back were whirring machines: punch card readers with flywheels swallowing IBM cards, digesting them, and spitting them back out again. As I stood at the front counter, I saw Porter sitting beneath a sign that read ration control liaison. He looked up, a pretty bad shiner puffing his left eye.

  I motioned for him to meet me outside. Looking slightly surprised, he nodded in acknowledgment.

  Once outside, he said, “What now? More LOAs?”

  “No, not this time. It’s about the badminton.”

  “Badminton?”

  “Yeah.” I paused, waiting for him to talk.

  He smiled. “I’m starting to like the game.”

  I pointed to his black eye. “What happened to you?”

  He reached up and touched the bruise. “Oh, this? Nothing. So, is this about Miss Kim?”

  I continued to stare at him, then realized that he had more bruises on his forearm. Defensive wounds.

  “She’s happy that you’re so interested in badminton,” I told him. “But they have two-person teams, one on each side of the net. There’s a rotation.”

  “Yeah,” Porter said, hand still resting on his eye. “They mentioned that.”

  “They switch partners to make it fair. Otherwise, the best players would always stay together and end up on top. It’s an ongoing tournament. They keep track and everything.”

  “What’s the prize?”

  “No material prize.”

  “I like playing with Miss Kim. I’m learning a lot from her.”

  “Yes. But you have to play by the rules. You can’t have her on your side all the time.”

  “To keep it fair,” he said.

  “Right.”

  “That’s what she sent you to tell me?”

  “Yes. She likes you as a partner, but the tournament has its rules.”

  “Okay,” he said, “I won’t insist on being on her side all the time.”

  “Good.” I touched his shoulder. “Now, tell me about the shiner.”

  He paused. “It’s a little embarrassing.”

  “Consider me a father confessor. It’ll stay between you and me.”

  “It’s no big thing, just Colonel Brunmeyer,” he continued. “He’s sort of an emotional guy. When he stopped in a couple days ago, I asked him why they needed so many LOAs up there at the JSA, especially after all the stuff that’s happened with the dead KATUSA and the GI charged with killing him.”

  “And he hit you?” I said.

  “Yeah.”

  “Are you going to press charges?”

  “No. It’s no big thing. He’s under a lot of pressure. I should’ve kept my mouth shut.”

  “If you change your mind—”

  “Yeah,” he replied. “I’ll let you know.”

  “Finished?” Ernie asked.

  “Yeah,” I said, sliding back into the passenger seat.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked, starting the engine.

  “Nothing. Porter just gave me a lot to think about.”

  “Don’t hurt yourself,” Ernie said, starting the engine.

  Back in the CID Office, Riley demanded another report on the status of the investigation into the second disappearance of Evelyn Cresthill. I told him to keep his khaki shirt on and sat down to type it up. The close-of-business cannon went off before I was done. Miss Kim covered her typewriter, locked her desk, and bowed as she said her goodbyes. Riley scurried out right at five as well, claiming he had a hot date.

  “With anyone under seventy?” Ernie asked.

  “Mind your own beeswax, Bascom.”

  When I finished the report, I slid the original and a carbon copy into Riley’s inbox. The pink carbon copy I kept for my own accordion file.

  “What about tonight?” Ernie asked. “Itaewon?”

  “No. I’m thinking someplace better.”

  “Better than Itaewon? Is that possible?”

  Itaewon was the most notorious nightclub and red-light district in Seoul, and by far the most popular with GIs.

  “Yeah, better,” I replied. “Or fancier, at least.”

  “Where?”

  “The nightclub at the Cosmos Hotel,” I said.

  “Oh,” he said, crossing his arms. “So George Sueño has the hots for Corrine Fitch.”

  “You could say that. But I also want to find out how things went for her up at the Joint Security Area.”

  “And at the stockade in ASCOM.”

  “That, too.”

  We drove to the 8th Army Dining Facility, ate our evening chow, and within a half hour had changed into our running-the-ville outfits again. We were the picture of your typical GIs: showered, shaved, short-cropped hair, and chomping on ginseng gum, ready for anything.

  In the basement of the Cosmos Hotel, we flashed our badges to the doorman and told him we were on police business and wouldn’t be paying the cover charge. He didn’t seem to understand, so we pushed past him. When a bouncer noticed and approached, I said, “Kyongchal!” Police. It was enough to get him to back off, at least for the moment.

  Ernie and I each took a side of the ballroom, scanning for her, but after twenty minutes of getting our eyes dazzled by the reflected lights from the rotating glass ball suspended over the expansive space, we met back at the entrance.

  “No dice,” Ernie shouted above the din of the disco music.

  Young Korean men and women gyrated madly on the dance floor. A few drunken Japanese businessmen, accompanied by bored prostitutes, shook various parts of their bodies in seeming disregard to the pulse of what passed for music these days.

  As we left, the bouncers glared at us. I waved my thanks.

  “Nice fellows,” Ernie said.

  Upstairs in the lobby, we considered our options. “Okay,” I said, “no answer in her room. She’s not in the coffee shop and not in the nightclub. So where the hell is she?”

  “The only time you can find a lawyer,” Ernie told me, “is when they’re trying to hand you their bill. Good thing one of our military benefits is full legal representation from JAG.”

  “If we’re being court-martialed,” I said. “And even then the representation isn’t necessarily a lawyer, just an officer appointed by JAG.”

  Ernie’s head swiveled, and the way he stopped and squinted, I knew he’d spotted something. “Don’t look n
ow,” he said.

  We moved casually behind a bank of leafy plants. On the far side of the lobby, Attorney Corrine Fitch, wearing a professional gray pantsuit, walked with a bag slung over her shoulder. At her elbow marched a man we knew.

  “They’re a couple,” Ernie said, a hint of awe in his voice. “That was quick.”

  They smiled and laughed and looked longingly at each other like newlyweds on a honeymoon. Paying little or no attention to their surroundings, the two lovebirds reached the elevators and stepped in when the first doors parted. As they drew back together, I saw her smile up at him.

  Ernie turned to me. “You okay, pal?”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  He patted me on the shoulder. “Hey, don’t be so glum. Can’t win ’em all. Besides, you were too slow.”

  “Hey, we met her less than forty-eight hours ago.”

  “That’s what I mean. You snooze, you lose. You should never be too busy to get a little. That’s my motto.” Ernie studied me again. Finally, he said, “Hey, let’s find a pochang macha. Split a bottle of soju. It’ll make you feel better.”

  It wasn’t just that Corrine Fitch had found someone, and in record time. It was who it was that bothered me.

  “How can he even afford to come down here?” I asked. “With all the tension up at the JSA?”

  Ernie shrugged. “Nobody’s indispensable.”

  “But he’s ambitious. In line to be promoted to full colonel, and maybe general someday. He can’t afford to be gone when the shit hits the fan. An incident could blow up at any minute.”

  “Some things are worth it,” Ernie said, which didn’t improve my mood.

  “There’s more to it than that,” I said.

  “More to it than getting laid?” Ernie scoffed. “Like what?”

  “I think I know. I think it’s been right in front of us all along.”

  I remembered Lieutenant Colonel Brunmeyer’s grim expression when he’d led us to the corpse of Corporal Noh Jong-bei. And I compared it to his demeanor as he waltzed through the hotel lobby, laughing with Corrine Fitch.

  “Come on, don’t let jealousy get to you,” Ernie said.

  “I won’t.” And I hoped it was true.

  -23-

  The next morning, the Judge Advocate General’s Office conducted the first preliminary hearing, or “Article 32 proceeding,” for the murder of Corporal Noh Jong-bei. Ernie and I were present, since we’d been the first investigators on scene. Major Reginald Pintergast led the hearing, which was also attended by Corrine Fitch, representing the defendant, and Captain Brian Orbanick, appointed by JAG to prosecute on behalf of the 8th United States Army. Lieutenant Peggy Mendelson was still on the prosecution team but acting as Orbanick’s assistant.

  Corrine sipped on a Styrofoam cup of coffee she’d ladled with a packet of artificial sweetener and what I considered too much soluble creamer. She didn’t so much as glance in my direction, studying the paperwork in front of her intently and occasionally scribbling a note in the margins.

  Ernie whispered in my ear.

  “Get over it, Sueño.”

  I was pretty sure he was enjoying himself.

  “I have a girlfriend,” I told him.

  “Thousands of miles away.” He waved his hands, imitating a hula dancer.

  Major Pintergast pounded a gavel and said, “Okay, let’s get started.” He glanced around the small conference room, calling out everyone’s names and asking each of us to spell ours out loud for the benefit of the recorder. When that was done, he turned to the clerk of court and told him to read off the charges. It was a long list that started with premeditated murder and ended with misappropriation of government property, namely the bloodstained entrenching tool.

  When he was done, Corrine Fitch gave her opening statement. She said that there was no evidence offered by the prosecution that indicated her client had been anywhere near the crime scene when the murder had been perpetrated. She went on to argue that the evidence against him amounted to mere speculation regarding motive, which was completely unprovable. In addition, she claimed, the entrenching tool with Corporal Noh’s blood on it could easily have been planted among his possessions, since he lived in an open-bay barracks with many other soldiers who had access to his gear. When she was through, she asked that JAG dismiss all charges. Major Pintergast took only enough time to grab his gavel and bang it on wood. Then, in no uncertain terms, he said, “Denied.”

  Ernie was called up first, then me. We both stuck to the bare facts as we’d noted them at the crime scene. Orbanick made me repeat more than once that I had noted the similarity of the wound in size and shape to the edge of an army-issue entrenching tool. Corrine asked about the black-market operation at Paju-ri and how much I’d paid for the shovel. I told her, and she asked both Ernie and me if the initials had already been scratched into the shovel when we’d first seen it. We both confirmed that they had. Finally, we were through.

  Several other witnesses took the stand, mainly guys who worked at the JSA and knew both Corporal Noh and PFC Fusterman. They testified that Noh and Fusterman had been good friends and had often gone to Seoul together. Then the 8th Army Coroner was called up to confirm that the cause of death had been blunt force trauma, and the head wound Corporal Noh had suffered was consistent with a blow by an army-issue entrenching tool.

  With the exception of the few minutes I was on the stand, Corrine Fitch paid no more attention to me than your average faceless trooper. I told myself to forget it, that this juvenile crush was foolish anyway, but my mind unwillingly drifted back to the image of her and Lieutenant Colonel Brunmeyer smiling at one another after entering the elevator at the Cosmos Hotel.

  Although we’d finished our testimony, Ernie and I had to stand by in case either side had further questions for us. By late morning, I was thoroughly bored and Ernie was getting fidgety. Finally, Staff Sergeant Riley knocked and peeked through the door. He apologized to Major Pintergast and tiptoed over to hand me a phone message. I pointed at it and motioned to Pintergast that Ernie and I had to go. Exasperated, he waved his hand dismissively and we left.

  “What is it?” I asked once we were outside.

  Riley thrust a phone message at me. “Both of you. They want you over at the MAC. Now.”

  “Bald-headed Colonel Peele again?” Ernie asked.

  “The same.”

  “Tell him to take a flying leap. We’re in the middle of a missing person investigation.”

  “You can call and tell him yourselves,” Riley countered. “I’m sure he’ll be thrilled, since he’s a paragon of patience.”

  Ernie snorted. “Okay,” he said. “Better than being here.”

  “And more important,” I said. “We’re wasting crucial hours on this hearing.”

  “Standard procedure. But this whole Article 32 thing doesn’t matter, anyway,” Riley said. “Just a waste of time—Fusterman’s toast.”

  The phone rang as we walked into the CID office. Miss Kim was down the hall, so I sprinted to pick it up. “CID,” I said. “Sueño.”

  There was a long silence.

  “Yoboseiyo?” I said.

  Finally, a young woman at the other end spoke faintly. “Nei. Yoboseiyo.”

  I recognized the voice. She was frightened, but I responded in Korean to reassure her she could talk to me. Finally, she told me that we had to speak in person instead of on the phone. We set the details, an hour from now in Mia-ri. Then I hung up.

  “Who was that?” Ernie asked.

  “Noh Myong-bei.”

  “Who?”

  “Marilyn. Noh Jong-bei’s sister,” I said. “Fusterman’s girlfriend.”

  Ernie glanced at the note I’d scribbled. “We’ve got a date with her?”

  “Yep.”

  He thought about it. “Should I bring a corsage?”

  “
And a white sport coat.”

  Before leaving the compound, we stopped at the Military Armistice Commission. We were immediately ushered into Colonel Peele’s office.

  “Where the hell have you two been?” he asked, fuming.

  “Trying to find a missing woman,” Ernie said.

  “Well, we have a more pressing situation on our hands.” I doubted this, but remained quiet as Peele continued. “I’ve set up that meeting with Commissar Han. Tonight,” he said in barely more than a whisper, looking over my shoulder at the closed door, “you are to meet me at Observation Point Ouellette. Twenty-three hundred hours.”

  “Ouellette?” Ernie asked.

  “Did I stutter?” Colonel Peele asked, staring directly into Ernie’s eyes.

  “That’s on the DMZ,” Ernie said. And it was—right on the line, just a few hundred yards from the JSA.

  “Correct. This meeting is confidential, and anything that goes wrong will have repercussions of the highest order. If you don’t show up or if you tell anyone about this, you can bet I’ll find a way to court-martial your sorry asses.”

  He stood and bulled his way to the door, showing us back out.

  It was early afternoon when we met her at the same coffee shop in Mia-ri where we’d spoken to her before.

  “Do your parents know you’re here?” I asked in Korean.

  She shook her head and answered in English. “No way.”

  “Where’d you learn how to say that?” I asked. “‘No way.’” I didn’t believe the phrase was in any of her English textbooks.

  She lowered her head. “Teddy taught me.”

  Ernie elbowed me. “Knock off the language lesson, Sueño.”

  I turned back to the young Korean woman who called herself Marilyn. Her eyes were red around the edges.

  “What happened?”

  “I was on my way home from school. I’d just left campus. You know, walking down one of those roads with a bunch of coffee shops and noodle houses and stationery stores for students. A man stepped out of an alley and told me to come with him. I didn’t want to, but a second man appeared and I was frightened, so I followed them down a side alley, where a woman was waiting for me in the backseat of a big car.”