The provost marshal’s reaction was not good. He’d authorized a search warrant, expecting to recover the remains of a long-dead American G.I. and instead he was told that we’d stumbled onto the freshly slaughtered corpse of an overweight, middle-aged ex-prostitute with the charming name of Two Bellies. He was embarrassed. So was the entire command.
The next morning, as he sat on a short wooden stool outside my cell in the third-level subbasement of the Korean National Police headquarters in downtown Seoul, the first sergeant of the Criminal Investigation Detachment took great delight in telling me all this.
“You’re on the shit list,” he said.
“How’s Ernie?” I asked.
The first sergeant looked up toward a ceiling of jagged rock. “He’s on the second level. Beat up pretty bad. He shouldn’t have resisted.”
“Resisted when?”
“During the interrogation. He punched Lieutenant Pong.”
I sighed. “They had no call to take us in,” I said.
The first sergeant’s eyes widened. “You led them to a basement claiming ancient remains would be found and the night before you were mucking around in the selfsame basement with no legal authorization whatsoever. And then a body is found. And you’d been seen on the street, repeatedly, with the victim. What the hell else were they going to do?”
“Question us, sure,” I replied. “But they didn’t have to handcuff us and take us downtown.”
The first sergeant thought about that one. “Yes, they did. You’re the logical suspects. Besides, the KNPs are being careful. As long as they’re tough with you, they’re more likely to save face no matter how this turns out.”
Reluctantly, I decided that the first sergeant was probably right. If the Seven Dragons were behind the murder of Two Bellies-and I had every reason to believe they were-then they’d be pulling strings at the top levels of the ROK government to make sure the blame was diverted elsewhere. Like towards Ernie and me. Furthermore, whoever murdered Two Bellies had gone to great lengths to abscond, once again, with the remains of Mori Di. Finding those remains now would be impossible, unless I acted quickly.
“I have to get out of here,” I said.
“You and everyone else.”
Down the hallway, men groaned. Curses were shouted. Mostly in Korean. One or two in broken English, as if trying to get our attention.
“What’s JAG say?” I meant the military lawyers at 8th Army’s Judge Advocate General’s Office.
“They’re working on it,” Top replied. “The SOFA committee is holding an emergency meeting this afternoon.”
Under the Status of Forces Agreement between the ROK and U.S. governments, the joint U.S.-ROK steering committee decides who takes jurisdiction over cases involving American servicemen and Korean civilians. And, more important to me at the moment, they decide who-the Americans or the Koreans-should have physical custody of prisoners.
“The good news,” Top said, “is that the ROKs haven’t charged you with murder. Not yet.”
“When will I know?”
“I’ll be back tomorrow morning. First thing.”
He stood and left. I watched him walk down the long corridor and step through a thick wooden door opened by an armed Korean cop. When the door slammed shut, the voices around me howled even louder. I squatted on the stone floor, listening to the words being shouted, trying to decipher them. Pain and agony is all they said, although I doubted that my Korean-English dictionary would explain them quite that way, or even contain them, for that matter.
A half hour after Top left, four Korean cops approached my cell, rattled keys, and popped the door open. They motioned for me to join them in the hallway. I did. Then they grabbed me by the arms and shoved me down the corridor toward the main holding cell. It was an enormous cage made of metal bars; there must’ve been thirty men inside. I hesitated. Americans, according to the SOFA agreement, are supposed to be kept segregated from the general prison population. It seemed these cops hadn’t read the agreement. They pushed me roughly forward, opened the door of the main cell and shoved me inside. I stood staring at over thirty Korean prisoners from teenage hoodlums to old papa-san reprobates and every age of scoundrel in between. I was frightened, of course, but did my best not to show it. Still, I felt as if I were a side of meat flopped down in front of hungry wolves. As if to confirm my fears, some of the prisoners surrounding me, literally, began to howl.
The big holding cell had a cement slab floor and raised above it about two feet was a rickety wooden platform upon which the prisoners lived and slept. A huge metal tub sat near the front door, reeking of filth. No flush toilet here.
All the men stared at me-silent now after the initial howling- studying this strange foreign fish shoved into their midst. Every square inch of the wooden platform was occupied. There was no place for me to sit. I felt awkward, not knowing what to do with my body, so I stood and stared back at the men, trying to keep my face impassive, keep my body still, and fake bravery. Life had taught me that if you can fake bravery-even when you’re scared shitless-you can go a long way toward protecting yourself. Finally, one of the men rose to his feet, stepped into rubber slippers, and hobbled toward me. His face was scarred, square, weather beaten. I loomed over him by a full foot but he seemed not one whit afraid of me.
He squinted up at me and said, “You got cigarette, G.I.?”
I shook my head negatively, not trusting myself to speak.
He frowned and cursed.
“They take from you?” His head gestured toward the cops down the hallway.
I shook my head again. “No. I don’t smoke.”
“No smokey?” He started to laugh. Actually, it sounded more like a rasping cough. Then he turned back to the men behind him and repeated what I’d said in Korean. They laughed again. He turned back to me and said, “You cherry boy?”
I didn’t bother to answer. I just stared at him. The smile left his face.
“You lie to Charley Lee?”
Again, I didn’t answer. I’d been through this kind of interrogation before, on the streets and playgrounds of East L.A. The bully will ask you questions that befuddle you and he’ll keep asking questions until eventually the questions become impossible to answer. The best thing to do, usually, is stare him down and not answer his questions and start the fight as soon as possible. It’s inevitable anyway. Might as well get it over with.
Charley Lee started cursing in Korean. It was a long diatribe and he kept looking me up and down as he spoke. I didn’t understand most of it but I understood enough. He was insulting me, questioning my manhood, talking about how useless and soft Americans were. All the while the men behind him were smiling, enjoying the spectacle. Most of them, anyway. A few looked away, uncomfortable about what was going on but powerless to do anything about it.
I waited for the right moment and then I shouted, “Shikuro!” Shut up!
Charley Lee stared at me, his eyes wide, and behind him all the men held their breath. His face became inflamed with anger. He stepped closer to me, so close that I could feel his hot, fetid breath rising up my chest until, like a clammy hand, it caressed my chin and poked its dirty fingers into my nostrils. Now he was shouting so loud that spittle splashed on my neck. In one quick move, I shoved him backwards.
The crowd exploded in outrage. Like a Siberian tiger, Charley Lee regained his balance and sprang at me. Other men joined him. I landed a solid left to Charley Lee’s skull and as I did so I backed up to the metal bars behind me. As the men came in, I winged punches to my right and left. A few landed but within seconds I was being pummeled from all sides and I found myself kneeling on the floor. Someone was down there with me. I couldn’t be sure but I believe it was Charley Lee. His arm was wrapped around my neck and his mouth pressed against my ear.
“Chil Yong,” he said, “say hello.” Then he punched me in the gut.