by Martin Limon
She pointed to her chest. “Just me?”
“You can handle it. In any given situation, just do what Ernie would’ve done.”
“What’s that?”
“Whatever is most likely to piss off Eighth Army,” I told her.
-9-
After shaving in the barracks and changing into my jacket and tie, I jumped into Ernie’s jeep and he drove us to the KNP headquarters in downtown Seoul. Traffic swirled around us, honking loudly, until we reached the inner city, where it went silent because there was a serious fine for using your horn there. We parked next to the same pindaedok vendor Ernie had used before. She was happy to see us. Her round face shone as Ernie slipped her a thousand-won note, about two bucks. After jostling our way through a heavy flow of pedestrians, we entered the KNP headquarters.
“Another ass-chewing?” Ernie asked.
“I don’t think Kill works that way.”
“How does he work?”
“I haven’t figured that out yet.”
Despite the hiss of warm air in the temperature-controlled building, every foyer and hallway was permeated with the pungent smells of cigarette smoke and kimchi. We climbed two flights of stairs and followed the signs written in hangul down a long hallway. At the end, Officer Oh was waiting for us. With an open palm, she ushered us into the office of Chief Homicide Inspector Gil Kwon-up.
He sat on the edge of his desk, arms crossed, staring at a map of Korea. We walked up next to him. Without turning around, he said, “I understand you experienced a small mishap yesterday.”
“They jumped us from a roof,” I told him. “And the guy we chased was an expert at evasion and escape.”
Kill glanced at the KNP report. “He slid down the fire escape?”
“‘Rappelled’ would be the more exact term.”
“Who was he?” Ernie asked.
Mr. Kill shook his head. “We’re not sure. Not yet.”
“Unlikely to be relatives,” I said.
“Yes, very unlikely.”
Once a woman became a “business girl” in Itaewon, she was most often shunned by her family. It was unfair, because almost all the girls who worked there were forced into prostitution by poverty. There was no social safety net in Korea—no food stamps, no welfare, no unemployment insurance—and jobs were tough to come by, especially for young women who’d only completed Kukmin Hakkyo: People’s School, the minimum six years of elementary education. There were factories opening up that employed legions of young women in very controlled conditions, reminiscent of the military, but even those jobs were highly sought-after and typically required at least a middle school or even high school education.
Farm families could seldom afford to feed an unmarried daughter. Or if they could, they required her to perform grueling work in the fields. Rice was still the main crop in South Korea. Wading in knee-deep water all day in the blistering sun, bending over to carefully transplant tender rice shoots in vast acres of mud was back-breaking work. Under such pressure, many girls ran away. From there, they too often ended up in the brothels and nightclubs of downtown Seoul, catering to Korean salarymen, or in the red light district of Itaewon, servicing American GIs.
“So who else would help her?” Ernie asked.
“Someone who didn’t want her answering questions about Major Schultz,” Kill replied.
“Are you saying there might’ve been a motive for Schultz’s murder other than revenge for Miss Jo?”
Mr. Kill shrugged. “We don’t know. What we do know is that we have to find her and ask her that question, amongst others.” He turned to give us the full benefit of his piercing stare. “And this time, we have to make sure that once she’s taken into custody, she stays in custody.”
“All right,” Ernie said, flopping down in an unused chair. “Now that the ass-chewing is over, how do we find her?”
“She might have stayed in Seoul,” Mr. Kill said. “In a city of eight million people, she could be difficult to track down. But we have an all-points bulletin out on her. We’ll find her eventually.”
“But you don’t think she stayed in Seoul,” I said.
“Why go to all that trouble just to change neighborhoods? I think she might’ve gone south,” he said.
“But if you have an APB out on her,” I said, “it will be dangerous for her anywhere in the country.”
He shook his head. “Not so much. Seoul generates more alerts for fugitives than any other part of the country, by far. Local police don’t have time to follow up. They just file the alerts and forget them, unless the miscreant happens to fall into their lap.”
Kill was always doing that. Using vocabulary like “miscreant” or idioms like “falls into their lap.” Most Americans took his expertise in English for granted. After all, wasn’t everybody supposed to speak English? But I knew how much hard work went into being able to use certain words and idiomatic constructions with ease, and I marveled at his skill. I only wished that someday I would be able to speak Korean half as well as he spoke English.
Kill stood and turned away from the map. He was wearing a charcoal-grey suit, different from the one he’d worn yesterday. His white collared shirt was cut to his exact proportions and sported French cuffs. He cleared his throat. “Officer Oh has been looking into her background.” At his nod, she stepped forward in her neatly pressed blue uniform, bowed slightly, and, arms at her side, she began to recite the information like a schoolgirl in front of a classroom.
“Miss Jo Kyong-ja was born in the city of Mokpo in South Cholla Province. After middle school she lived with her family but leave them, not sure when. Her father die now and mother live with younger brother who study at high school.”
This was common. The older sister’s future had been sacrificed in order to provide an education for the younger brother. But at least she’d been put through middle school.
“Her first District Health Card was issued by Pyongtaek-gun,” Officer Oh continued. The county of Pyongtaek. “Nightclub she work at was Yobo Club in Anjong-ri.”
Ernie whistled. “Right outside the main gate of Camp Humphries,” he said.
We’d both been there. Camp Humphries was the largest Army base in the country, not in population, but in square mileage. Mainly because the compound’s mission was the training of attack helicopter crews and plenty of space was required.
“Do we know how long she worked there?” I asked.
Officer Oh shook her head. “One year later, she register health card again at the Yongsan District Health Center in Itaewon. Say job is UN Club but we ask owner. He say she no work there, just come in all the time. Meet Americans.” Officer Oh didn’t have nearly the same grasp on English as Mr. Kill, but her pronunciation was impressive.
Mr. Kill turned back to the map.
“The hometown of Miss Jo is down here.” He pointed to Mokpo on the southwest corner of the Korean peninsula. “Her first job, or at least the first job we know about, was up here in Anjong-ri.” That was about two hundred miles north. “Far enough that she was unlikely to see anyone she knew.”
“She started a new life,” Ernie said.
“Yes,” Mr. Kill agreed, “from small-town girl to courtesan. A story too common in my country, I believe.”
“Then she left Anjong-ri and came to Seoul,” I added, “where it appears she worked independently.”
Another common story. Once they learned enough English and the rudiments of the sex trade, they threw off the shackles of anyone they owed money to and struck off on their own. At least, the strong-minded ones did.
“But if she worked alone,” Mr. Kill said, “who were these men who attacked you in the night?”
My head throbbed at the thought. I stared at the map, fondling a tender bruise on the back of my head. The bright colors and curved lines started to waver and blur, like a moving collage, until they blende
d together. I closed my eyes and pinched the bridge of my nose.
In Korean, Mr. Kill barked an order to Officer Oh. Within seconds she returned with a paper cup filled with cold water and two pills.
“Aspirin,” she said.
I plucked them out of her palm, popped them in my mouth, and washed them down with the water.
“You need rest,” Mr. Kill said.
“No,” I said. “We lost her, we have to find her.”
He didn’t respond.
I leaned back in my chair and studied the map. This time, the contours of the ancient Korean Peninsula held steady.
“She hadn’t been in Seoul long,” Mr. Kill continued. “She only registered at the County Health Clinic three months ago.”
“So those men who helped her,” Ernie said, “they could be from Anjong-ri, where she had her first job.”
“Yes. The criminal syndicate down there is slippery.”
“And the KNPs don’t clamp down on them, why?” Ernie asked.
Mr. Kill looked away. Officer Oh shuffled her feet nervously. We all knew the answer. Corruption was endemic in Korea. The KNPs took money from not only people who ran successful businesses, but also from organized crime. The average cop was underpaid and life was expensive, especially tuition if you ever planned to send your children to university. Still, there were lines that even organized crime wouldn’t cross. They never used firearms, they never sold hard drugs, and they never, by any means, posed any threat to the stability of the Pak Chung-hee military dictatorship. As long as society ran smoothly and no one was embarrassed, the system worked well; except for now. With Major Schultz dead, the rules had been broken. Slaughtering an American military officer was outside of the range of acceptable behavior and would not be tolerated. Mr. Kill’s bosses were nervous. That was why they’d assigned him to the case. To fix it.
“What about Mokpo?” Ernie asked. “Maybe she’s gone there.”
“So far no sign of her,” Kill answered. “The local KNPs are handling that part. They have her mother’s house staked out and they’ll conduct interviews with people who might’ve known her; very low-key, so as not to frighten her away if she is nearby.”
There were no US military installations anywhere near Mokpo. Two American GIs like Ernie and me would stick out like the proverbial sore digit.
“So what about us?” Ernie asked.
Mr. Kill pointed to the village of Anjong-ri. “As you said, Anjong-ri borders Camp Humphries. There are at least a dozen bars only a few yards from the main gate, including the Yobo Club. If she is there and the KNPs start asking questions, they’ll frighten her away. You two can blend in with the other GIs like you did here in Itaewon.”
I rubbed the back of my neck. “Not so successfully.”
Mr. Kill shrugged. “Things happen. No police operation is perfect.”
“What about the autopsy and the forensic evidence? Anything new there?”
“Not completed yet. But so far, nothing new. It looks like Major Schultz was taken by surprise. Hit in the back of the head with a hatchet and then chopped repeatedly with both the original weapon and with a long-bladed knife.”
“The same guys who jumped us?” Ernie asked.
“Maybe.”
“But if they took out Major Schultz for her,” I asked, “why not leave Itaewon then? Why would she bother getting a new job here?”
Mr. Kill shrugged again. “When you find her, we’ll ask her those questions.”
Officer Oh stepped forward and handed Ernie an envelope. He opened it and riffled through a stack of Korean bills.
“Your expenses,” Mr. Kill said, “for—what do you call it?—running the ville.”
“The army provides us an expense account of fifty dollars a month,” I replied.
“You’ll need more than that,” he said. “We don’t want to lose her.”
Ernie signed a chit that Officer Oh had prepared for him, kept a copy, and slipped the envelope into his inner jacket pocket.
As we were leaving, Mr. Kill put up his hand to stop us. “Some of the people who run the rackets down there in Anjong-ri are not nice people. If you get into trouble, see Officer Kwon. He’s a good man. I trust him.”
He handed each of us one of Officer Kwon’s business cards. English was printed on one side, and hangul on the other.
“Don’t take weapons with you,” Mr. Kill continued. “Too much of a giveaway. Make sure that everyone believes you’re just two GIs from out of town, down there to have fun.”
“Don’t worry,” Ernie said, “we won’t have to fake that.”
As he backed the jeep into the narrow road, Ernie waved to the pindaedok dealer. Ernie turned around, honked his horn and made his way into the swirling Seoul traffic. Soon we’d reached the expressway that led to the Namsan Tunnel. In the darkness, Ernie turned to me.
“You’re quiet.”
“Yes.”
“What’s wrong?”
I waited, unsure if I should even mention it. Trust between law enforcement units, especially when they’re working a dangerous case together, is absolutely vital, even between the US Army and the Korean National Police. And that trust should never be questioned, unless there’s no choice. Doubt can poison an investigation. After working with him for months, I had come to trust Mr. Kill, but something was wrong here.
“Go ahead and talk,” Ernie said. “I can handle it, whatever it is.”
“I know you can.”
“Then spill.”
Finally, I asked, “What did you think about that crime scene?”
“Schultz’s?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve been waiting for you to say something.”
“And I’ve been waiting for you to.”
“I didn’t say anything,” Ernie told me, “because I didn’t want to influence your thinking.”
“Don’t worry,” I said, “you never do.”
“Never?”
“Well, maybe sometimes. But you first, what did you think?”
“As phony as a new friend on payday. Somebody dumped the body there, then broke a few empty soju bottles and spread the blood around. Schultz was probably dead before he got there. The Good Major was a prime jerk, but if he’d fought for his life, there would’ve been a lot more splintered crates and smashed glass. And most of those wounds didn’t bleed much.”
“Which means they happened after he was dead.”
“I’m not a doctor, but it didn’t look right to me.”
“And so far, the KNPs haven’t released the body to Eighth Army.”
“You mean, Kill hasn’t released the body.”
“You think he’s covering something up?”
“Sure. That’s why they put him in charge.”
“And they want us to collar Miss Jo Kyong-ja—to make it look like the arrest is Eighth Army’s doing, not the KNP’s.”
Ernie dodged a kimchi cab that swerved into his lane. “So the KNPs will look more objective once they put her on trial in a Korean court.”
“And the court will do whatever the ROK government wants them to do.”
Ernie honked at the cab driver and flipped him the bird. In response, the man smiled and waved, thinking it a friendly gesture. “And what the government wants to do,” Ernie said, “is find Miss Jo guilty and close the file on the murder of Major Schultz.”
“Exactly.”
“So maybe we shouldn’t go find her?”
“They’d court-martial our butts,” I said. “Besides, we need to talk to her. But we should talk to someone else first.”
“Who?”
“Our favorite pervert.”
“Strange?”
I nodded.
Ernie groaned. “You know what he’ll want.”
“I do.”
What Strange always wanted was a story from one of Ernie’s recent sexual escapades; long, vivid, and with not the slightest detail left out. In return, he provided us with excellent intel. As the NCO-in-charge of the Classified Documents Distribution Center, he was privy to everything that happened in the hallowed halls of the 8th United States Army headquarters, including the contents of Top Secret communications.
A pervert in charge of military secrets. Who else?
-10-
All the tables in the 8th United States Army Snack Bar were either occupied or covered with dirty plates left by recently departed diners. The lunch hour was almost over. Busy GIs grabbed their caps, civilian workers slipped on their coats, and the few American women who worked on post—mostly the wives of officers and senior NCOs—grabbed their purses. Ernie and I stood just inside the main door and scanned the cafeteria. Ernie elbowed me in the ribs.
“There he is.”
We walked toward a table against a side wall of the huge Quonset hut, pulled over two chairs, and sat down opposite a man wearing the long-sleeved khaki uniform of a Sergeant First Class.
“Strange,” Ernie said, plopping his elbows on the table. “How’s it hanging?”
“The name is Harvey.”
He wore dark glasses. His sparse hair was well-oiled and slicked back, and an empty cigarette holder dangled from thin lips.
“Long time no see,” I said, adding “Harvey” only after a pause.
Even though his glasses were entirely opaque, Strange’s facial expression broadcast grievance at a world that didn’t understand him.
“What do you want?” he asked.
“Nothing,” Ernie replied, “just the usual.”
“Information?”
In response, Ernie stared at him, a half-smile on his face.
Strange glanced around the rapidly emptying snack bar, making sure that no one was listening. Then he leaned forward and asked Ernie, “Had any strange lately?”
“Does a general fart through silk? Of course I have.”
Strange waited, twisting his head slightly so his right ear was placed at a more advantageous angle.