He informed us we were going to apprehend the man with the iron sickle.
“The Korean National Police think this is their baby,” Colonel Brace said, “but they’ve got another thing coming. I’ve just been in conference with the Chief of Staff, and he says this happened on our compound, to one of our own. A Department of Defense civilian, but still someone who those of us here are sworn to protect.”
He glared around the quiet theater, as if daring anyone to contradict him. No one did. All fifty thousand GIs stationed in Korea, their dependents, and the DOD civilians fell under our jurisdiction.
“The KNPs will be involved. We might need their help off compound, but it’s us who are going to catch this guy. Is that understood?”
A murmur of assent rose from the crowd. Then the Colonel started to give us our assignments. Most of the MP investigators were to start combing through the archives of the Claims Office, searching particularly for disgruntled applicants who’d had their claims denied and might still hold a grudge against Barretsford or against the 8th Army Claims Office in general. Some of the CID agents were to look into past cases of lost or stolen Korean employee identification cards. Others were assigned to track down forgery operations that might’ve provided the killer with a phony ID. Although they weren’t at this meeting, Colonel Brace told us a half dozen counter-intelligence agents would be joining the effort, shaking down their informants, trying to gather information on whether or not the man with the sickle had been sent by the North Korean regime.
An MP investigator raised his hand and asked what exactly the KNPs would be up to.
“The Korean National Police,” Colonel Brace replied, “are giving this case the highest priority. They’ve already started interrogating Korean employees and bus and cab drivers in the Yongsan area to see if they can discover how he reached the gate.”
Ernie and I had yet to be given an assignment, and as it became more apparent the meeting was closing down, Ernie began to fidget. When the Colonel asked if we had any final questions, Ernie shot to his feet.
“What about us?” Ernie said. “Me and my partner here, Sueno?”
“Oh, yes,” the Colonel replied. “See Staff Sergeant Riley after the meeting.”
Some wise guy in the second row said, sotto voce, “The black market detail.”
Everyone cracked up. Ernie flipped the guy the bird. The Colonel shouted, “Dismissed! Get out of here and get to work.”
As everyone stood and started to file out, Riley shouted, as best he was able through his whiskey-ravaged throat, “I want a progress report every day before close of business.”
Grumbles greeted the announcement. Colonel Brace marched out of the theater, and Ernie and I sat as the other investigators filed past. A few made snide remarks. To each one, Ernie raised his middle digit and replied, “Sit on it and rotate.”
Finally, after everyone left, Riley walked over to us.
“You two are staying on the black market detail,” he told us. “The Colonel doesn’t want the commissary and PX overrun with yobos while we’re chasing down the Barretsford case.”
Yobo means girlfriend, a term used to refer, impolitely, to the Korean dependent wives of American servicemen.
“Why don’t they want us on the case?” Ernie demanded.
“Colonel’s orders,” Riley said, jotting something down on his clipboard.
“I’ll tell you why,” Ernie said. “They don’t want the truth. If they wanted the truth, they’d have us taking the lead. Sueno here is the only American investigator in the country who speaks Korean. I’m the only investigator who’s not a brownnoser with a corncob stuck up his butt. What Eighth Army wants is to have the honchos manage every detail of this investigation from start to finish because they’re afraid of where it might lead.”
“The Provost Marshal is committed to getting to the bottom of this murder.”
“As long as nobody’s embarrassed,” Ernie said.
Riley finished making notations on his clipboard and stuck his pencil behind his ear. “How long have you been in the army, Bascom?”
“Almost ten years.”
“Two tours in Vietnam?”
“That’s right.”
“Then you know you go along to get along.”
“Or better yet,” Ernie said, “you fuck up and move up.”
Riley ignored the insult. “Be at the commissary when it opens,” he told us. “Make your presence known. And Sueno …” He turned toward me. “Try to convince your partner here to keep his mouth shut for once.”
“I’ll think about it,” I said.
“Think quick,” Riley told me. “You, too,” he said, pointing at Ernie. He started to walk away.
“Who’s been assigned to look into Barretsford’s past?” I asked.
Riley stopped in his tracks. Slowly, he turned around and pointed his finger at me. “You’d better be quiet about that,” he said. “It’s already been decided that this had nothing to do with Barretsford’s personal life. This was an outside attack.”
“Decided by who?” I asked.
Riley shook his head. “Don’t you two get it? You ask too many questions. That’s why you’re off the case.”
He tucked his clipboard beneath his scrawny arm and stalked out of the theater.
Ernie and I sat in his jeep in the back row of the parking lot, sipping PX coffee we’d bought at the snack stand in front of the Yongsan Commissary. It was hot and tasted about as acidic as battery fluid. We watched customers, mostly Korean women, flow out of the commissary, trotting behind male baggers who pushed huge carts laden with freeze-dried coffee, soluble creamer, mayonnaise, concentrated orange drink, bottled maraschino cherries, and just about anything else that was imported and therefore highly prized on the black market.
Even twenty years after the devastation of the Korean War, Korean industry was still flat on its back. The government was working hard to rectify that situation, but for now they were concentrating on big ticket items like oil tankers, M-16 rifles, and the new Hyundai sedans that were zooming all over the city. Ladies’ nylons, stereo equipment, and washing machines were luxury items their industrial plant could not yet produce.
After the groceries were loaded into the trunk of one of the black Ford Granada PX taxis, the female shoppers tipped the baggers and climbed into the backseats.
“Which one should we bust?” I asked.
“Let’s finish our coffee first.”
“Okay by me.”
Earlier this morning, after leaving the 8th Army movie theater, we’d had no choice but to pass Gate Five. Without talking about it, we decided to loiter nearby beneath an old elm tree to watch the American MPs and Korean gate guards check people and vehicles as they came through. Manpower had more than doubled since yesterday: four MPs and five gate guards. Each piece of identification had to be taken out of its holder, handed to the gate guard, examined, and then, in turn, handed to the MP. If any anomaly was noted, an entry was made in a ledger with the time, date, name, and serial number of the ID card. Apparently, much of the Korean workforce had decided not to show up today. If they had, there would’ve been a line a half mile long. As it was, only about a dozen workers waited patiently to enter.
Again without talking about it, Ernie and I sauntered casually across the street, strolling behind the brick headquarters and down the line of cement block buildings until we reached the Claims Office. It was still roped off with yellow crime tape, and the front door had been barred.
“Yesterday it was raining,” I said. “If a guy arrived a little early and had to wait for the office to open, he wouldn’t want to stand here on the sidewalk.”
“No,” Ernie replied, “he’d wait in there.”
Behind us loomed the back entrance to one of the two-story brick buildings, this one belonging to the Logistics Command. Ernie and I stepped up on the porch and pushed through the door. Inside, a stairwell wound up to the second floor, and just past the foot of the stairs, a small snack stand had been set up. Most of the headquarters buildings had similar operations, sponsored by the PX.