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."