“Anyway, let’s check out the Repo Depot,” I said. “Give us some more notes for our report. Then we can spend the night here in ASCOM City. Go back to work late tomorrow.”
Ernie shrugged. “The ville looks pretty good, but I don’t know.”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “It looks even better at night.”
What was commonly called the Repo Depot was more properly known as the Army Support Command Replacement Detachment. After a GI lands at Kimpo Army Airfield, he is hustled through a maze of inoculations and customs procedures and then bused to the Repo Depot here at ASCOM. A day or two later, the unit he will be assigned to is decided upon.
This is a crucial moment in a GI’s life. He could be assigned to the sunny beaches of Pusan in the south of the country, or he could be banished to freezing night patrols along the Demilitarized Zone between North and South Korea.
When we strode into the Replacement Detachment area, Ernie grunted.
“They kept me here for four days. Couldn’t decide what to do with me.”
“It’s those lousy efficiency ratings you got,” I said.
“Yeah. Sure. That’s why they sent me to Eighth Army headquarters.”
“To keep an eye on you.”
He shrugged. “Fuck up and move up.”
A wall-sized map of Korea greeted us as we walked through the entranceway. The US Army compounds scattered throughout the peninsula were marked in red, and a chubby hand pointed to Pupyong over the stenciled message YOU ARE HERE. The map had been there during my first tour in Korea, and it had probably been there for years before that. A geographical anchor for disoriented troops.
There was some traffic in and out of the Replacement Detachment. Unusual for a sleepy compound on a Sunday afternoon, but not so unusual if they just got a flight in full of replacements. We sought out the Charge of Quarters.
The nameplate said Buck Sergeant Freddy R. Waitz. He had just sent some men away from his desk and was rummaging through a stack of paperwork, checking off blocks with a pencil. He looked up when we approached.
“Spec Four VonEric used to work for you?”
Waitz was not a tall man, about five seven or five eight, with a husky build and a flat, hooked-nose face that would have looked Indian if he hadn’t been fair-skinned, blond, and blue-eyed. He spoke with an Alabama drawl. On a small compound like this, he didn’t have to ask if we were CID. He knew.
“That’s right.”
“Where’s his desk?’
“There.” He pointed past some filing cabinets and a stencil machine on the other side of the room. “I was gonna have it cleaned out today, but we got a flight in.”
The desk was standard army issue. Gray. Metal. Boxlike. There was an in and out box on top of it and a few manuals but no pictures of relatives. I riffled through the paperwork and then checked the drawers. Ernie wandered over to the water cooler and became interested in the pure spring refreshment from Mount Sorak.
It was the bottom right drawer where I found them. Stacks of neatly folded newspapers. The last few weeks’ worth of the sports page of the Pacific Stars amp; Stripes. On each page penciled figures surrounded the pro football betting line.
Waitz looked over at me as I rummaged through them.
“He bet football?” I asked.
Waitz shrugged. “I don’t know.”
I stoop up and stepped closer to him. “Come on, Waitz. Betting football is a petty offense. Not nearly as serious as getting yourself dead out in the ville. Now, who did he bet with?”
Waitz turned his face. The profile would have looked at home on the flip side of a buffalo head nickel.
“He bet with Phil Austin. I don’t know much about it, but it was just innocent stuff. You know, to have a little money down on the games so he could look forward to the Tuesday issue of Stripes, so he could see who won.”
“Who was his favorite team?”
“Huh?”
“Didn’t he have a favorite team?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Where was he from?”
“Somewhere up north. Indianapolis, I think.”
“They don’t even have a pro team there.”
“We don’t have one in Birmingham, either.”
Waitz reached in his pocket and pulled out a cigarette. He lit it with a match from a brightly colored box.
“Do you know the girl VonEric was staying with?”
“No. I’ve seen her around, but I never paid much attention. He’s been moping around because they broke up a few weeks ago.”
“Broke up? Did you see them together last night?”
“Not out in the ville. At the EM Club. I stopped there to get something to eat and I saw him all smiles, leaving with her.”
“What time was that?”
“About ten.”
“You eat late.”
“Flight in yesterday.”
Waitz fiddled with the matchbox in his hand. It bore the logo of the Olympos Hotel and Casino in Inchon.
“Do you go to the ville often?”
“I stay away from that dump. I have a section to run here. I don’t want my men to see me out there.”
“What do you do for recreation?”
“Work.”
His blue eyes squinted at the smoke curling up from his nostrils.
“Where can I find this Phil Austin?”
“I don’t know where he is today. He works at the printing plant.”
I searched through the remaining drawers of the desk and found nothing except army issue office supplies and a few notes concerning the assignments of GIs to various bases throughout the country.
A group of sergeants entered for processing, and Waitz got busy handing out forms and explaining how to fill them out. When he wasn’t looking, I slipped a couple of things into my pocket and then we left, without saying goodbye.
“Zilch,” Ernie said. “It’s time to hat up.”
“Why are you in such a hurry to get back? Is the nurse waiting for you?”
“Yeah. You know how she is. Freaks when I stay out overnight on a case.”
“With good reason.”
Ernie snorted.
“But you’ve never run the ville of ASCOM City,” I said. “You don’t want to miss your chance. And tomorrow we can sleep in late before we catch the bus back to Seoul. Before we do, we’ll check in with this guy Austin at the printing plant, just to wrap things up.”
“How many clubs you figure they have out there?”
“More than we can hit in one night.”
Ernie’s pale green eyes focused on some distant vision.
We stopped at the ASCOM NCO Club, had the pork cutlet special with a big bottle of chilled red wine, and then ID’d our way through the heavily fortified gate. After trotting across the traffic of the Main Supply Route, we strolled into the neon night of ASCOM City.
The Pupyong Police Station, Western Area, was a small cement block building painted yellow with a winged flower over the entranceway. We showed our identification to the sergeant on duty and told him we were here to investigate the death of Rodney VonEric.
He immediately knew which case we were talking about-GIs don’t die every day in ASCOM City-but his English was poor and he was relieved to find out that I could speak Korean.
“Have you found the girl yet?”
“No.” He thumbed through a notebook in front of him. “The police in her hometown have been contacted. They talked to her mother, but she claims that they have not seen or heard from her for many months now.”
“Where is her hometown?”
“Pankyo. A country village north of Taejon.”
“Was she registered here as an entertainer?”
“Yes.”
He took us over to a large booklet with the names of nightclubs stenciled neatly on top and dozens of small photographs pasted beneath. Blank female stares winked at us as he thumbed through the book.
“Here she is,” he said. “She worked at the Blue Dragon Club and her name is Yu Kyong-hui.”
I thanked him, and we walked out of the police station. He didn’t have an extra copy of the photograph, but even considering the poor quality of the black and white snapshot, I wasn’t likely to forget that face.