Should he fail to find any indication of Hwang's involvement, what would that do to his case, he wondered? More pointedly, just how much case did he really have? Wasn't it all pure speculation, an effort to force a random set of murders, disappearances, accidents to fit an imagined theme? He had built a reputation for using creative insights to leap across the barriers that sometimes blocked solutions to important cases. But along the way there had been a few resounding blunders as well.
He still hadn't lived down the celebrated murder of a prominent Baptist minister in the sanctuary. The corpse was found sprawled across the altar, a knife protruding from his back. It had the bizarre look of a satanist ritual, Yun confidently told the press. When the husband of the church's choir director confessed in a fit of remorse, having mistakenly accused the preacher of an affair with his wife, Yun and the police bureau had wound up with egg rolls on their faces. That had ended his flirtation with the press.
Still, there was no denying the fact that all of these people were known to have had close connections with Americans. They strongly supported continued close cooperation with the United States, economically and militarily, and had not been the least bit shy in expressing their views. All he lacked was a few likely conspirators, he thought. As he pondered his next move, Yun found his interest slowly aroused by what was taking place in front of another expensive house up the street. This one was a box-like brick structure with three tall chimneys and angular bay windows.
As Yun watched, a taxicab stopped in front of a wooden gate in the brick wall that surrounded the compound. It was a beige call-taxi. The driver came around to the curbside and opened the door, then assisted an elderly gentleman dressed in the traditional Korean garb more normal to rural areas than to this wealthy urban setting. He escorted the old man to the gate and waited patiently for someone to open it.
Yun was struck by the driver's attitude. Seoul cabbies were mostly harried, scurrying creatures like their counterparts the world over. No doubt they smiled a lot more than their brothers in places like New York, but they seldom exhibited a great deal more patience. It was rush to the destination, grab the fare, and hurry off in search of another passenger. This driver appeared to be unusually solicitous. Might it be an indication that he was a regular to this area?
Yun quickly started the car and drove up the street, pulling in front of the taxi. The driver had just come back from the gate. He stopped with a wary look as the detective approached.
"I am Captain Yun Yu-sop of the Namdaemun Police Station," he said with a slight bow, presenting his ID for the man's inspection. He noticed the driver was an older man, which might account in part for his greater deference to the aging passenger. "Do you have calls from this area very often?"
A short man with a thin mustache and high forehead, the driver wore a brown jacket that hung loosely about his spare shoulders. As he eyed the Captain, Yun thought his questioning gaze might reflect uncertainty over whether he had been targeted for some minor transgression.
"Several people around here ask for me by name," the driver said.
"Would you have been covering this area back in March?"
That brought a look of forbearance. "Captain, I've driven about this area for ten years, probably longer."
"Excellent." Yun took out the drawings of the suspect he believed to be Hwang Sang-sol and spread them out on the hood of the cab. "Take a look at these. Carefully. Might you have seen anyone looking like any of these around here last March? More specifically, around March twenty-sixth?"
The driver frowned as he looked down at the drawings. Then he glanced back at Yun. "Was that the day Mr. Yang got himself killed?"
Yun nodded. "At his home just down the street."
"It snowed that day. I remember I had two runs over this way. One was to Mr. No's house here." He stuck his thumb out toward the box-shaped house behind the fence.
When he turned back to the drawings, Yun prompted him. "What about the other trip?"
"Was late morning, I believe. Over on the next street, behind Mr. Yang's. Hmmm… this one looks a little familiar." He pointed to the view with short hair, no mustache.
"Where did you see him?"
"I'm not certain it's him," the driver said. "Whoever he was, he walked up just after I let out my fare. Over on the next street. He asked if I would take him downtown."
"Did you?"
"I took him to a building across from the Capital Plaza Hotel."
The Capital Plaza was Yang's hotel. "When he paid his fare," Yun said, "did you notice which hand he might have used?"
"Which hand?"
"Yes. You know, indicating if he might have been right-handed or left-handed?"
He shrugged. "I didn't notice anything like that. But I'll tell you something I do remember. He had a long scar across the palm of his hand. I saw it when I gave him his change. It stayed with me because my brother has one like that, got his hand cut by a bayonet in the Civil War."
Yun felt his pulse kick up a notch. "Was the scar across the width of his hand?" The question was calculated to throw the man off if he were not really positive about what he saw.
"It ran diagonally," the driver replied without hesitation, indicating the line with his finger.
It had to be Hwang! "And he looked like this drawing?" He pointed to the one with short hair.
"Something like that, best I recall."
Captain Yun jotted down the driver's name and address and sent him on his way. His next move was obvious.
It was nearly dark by the time he reached Mr. Chon's fruit stand in the twisting back-alley of the Namdaemun Market. Yun had changed into less formal attire, and he pulled the zipper of his insulated jacket tighter against the nippy breeze. A string of small light bulbs illuminated the displays of fruit. He found the old merchant occupying his familiar corner in the back. The glowing coals of a charcoal brazier heated a pot of insam cha, or ginseng tea, and a small electric heater chased the chill around Chon's wrinkled countenance.
"Ah, my young friend," said Chon with a crooked smile, "come share the warmth of my humble nest."
"Nest is it?" Yun squatted down at his side. "And what kind of bird would you be, Mr. Chon?"
There was a twinkle in his eyes. "The owl, perhaps? I am said to have sharp eyes and attentive ears."
"I'll agree to that.'
"May I offer you a cup of insam cha? With the day almost ended, your yang energy surely needs restoration. Too much yum dulls the concentration. You wish to be at your sharpest, no doubt. You did not likely come here just to pass the time of day."
It would be impolite to refuse Chon's hospitality. And though Yun was convinced of the substantial value of modern Western medicine, he maintained a healthy regard for the balance and harmony central to the traditional Eastern variety. It was necessary to balance the cosmic forces of male yang, active, hot, light, dry, and female yum, passive, cold, dark, moist. Ginseng tea possessed potent restorative powers.