“Do we know how long she worked there?” I asked.
Officer Oh shook her head. “One year later, she register health card again at the Yongsan District Health Center in Itaewon. Say job is UN Club but we ask owner. He say she no work there, just come in all the time. Meet Americans.” Officer Oh didn’t have nearly the same grasp on English as Mr. Kill, but her pronunciation was impressive.
Mr. Kill turned back to the map.
“The hometown of Miss Jo is down here.” He pointed to Mokpo on the southwest corner of the Korean peninsula. “Her first job, or at least the first job we know about, was up here in Anjong-ri.” That was about two hundred miles north. “Far enough that she was unlikely to see anyone she knew.”
“She started a new life,” Ernie said.
“Yes,” Mr. Kill agreed, “from small-town girl to courtesan. A story too common in my country, I believe.”
“Then she left Anjong-ri and came to Seoul,” I added, “where it appears she worked independently.”
Another common story. Once they learned enough English and the rudiments of the sex trade, they threw off the shackles of anyone they owed money to and struck off on their own. At least, the strong-minded ones did.
“But if she worked alone,” Mr. Kill said, “who were these men who attacked you in the night?”
My head throbbed at the thought. I stared at the map, fondling a tender bruise on the back of my head. The bright colors and curved lines started to waver and blur, like a moving collage, until they blended together. I closed my eyes and pinched the bridge of my nose.
In Korean, Mr. Kill barked an order to Officer Oh. Within seconds she returned with a paper cup filled with cold water and two pills.
“Aspirin,” she said.
I plucked them out of her palm, popped them in my mouth, and washed them down with the water.
“You need rest,” Mr. Kill said.
“No,” I said. “We lost her, we have to find her.”
He didn’t respond.
I leaned back in my chair and studied the map. This time, the contours of the ancient Korean Peninsula held steady.
“She hadn’t been in Seoul long,” Mr. Kill continued. “She only registered at the County Health Clinic three months ago.”
“So those men who helped her,” Ernie said, “they could be from Anjong-ri, where she had her first job.”
“Yes. The criminal syndicate down there is slippery.”
“And the KNPs don’t clamp down on them, why?” Ernie asked.
Mr. Kill looked away. Officer Oh shuffled her feet nervously. We all knew the answer. Corruption was endemic in Korea. The KNPs took money from not only people who ran successful businesses, but also from organized crime. The average cop was underpaid and life was expensive, especially tuition if you ever planned to send your children to university. Still, there were lines that even organized crime wouldn’t cross. They never used firearms, they never sold hard drugs, and they never, by any means, posed any threat to the stability of the Pak Chung-hee military dictatorship. As long as society ran smoothly and no one was embarrassed, the system worked well; except for now. With Major Schultz dead, the rules had been broken. Slaughtering an American military officer was outside of the range of acceptable behavior and would not be tolerated. Mr. Kill’s bosses were nervous. That was why they’d assigned him to the case. To fix it.
“What about Mokpo?” Ernie asked. “Maybe she’s gone there.”
“So far no sign of her,” Kill answered. “The local KNPs are handling that part. They have her mother’s house staked out and they’ll conduct interviews with people who might’ve known her; very low-key, so as not to frighten her away if she is nearby.”
There were no US military installations anywhere near Mokpo. Two American GIs like Ernie and me would stick out like the proverbial sore digit.
“So what about us?” Ernie asked.
Mr. Kill pointed to the village of Anjong-ri. “As you said, Anjong-ri borders Camp Humphries. There are at least a dozen bars only a few yards from the main gate, including the Yobo Club. If she is there and the KNPs start asking questions, they’ll frighten her away. You two can blend in with the other GIs like you did here in Itaewon.”
I rubbed the back of my neck. “Not so successfully.”
Mr. Kill shrugged. “Things happen. No police operation is perfect.”
“What about the autopsy and the forensic evidence? Anything new there?”
“Not completed yet. But so far, nothing new. It looks like Major Schultz was taken by surprise. Hit in the back of the head with a hatchet and then chopped repeatedly with both the original weapon and with a long-bladed knife.”
“The same guys who jumped us?” Ernie asked.
“Maybe.”
“But if they took out Major Schultz for her,” I asked, “why not leave Itaewon then? Why would she bother getting a new job here?”
Mr. Kill shrugged again. “When you find her, we’ll ask her those questions.”
Officer Oh stepped forward and handed Ernie an envelope. He opened it and riffled through a stack of Korean bills.
“Your expenses,” Mr. Kill said, “for-what do you call it?-running the ville.”
“The army provides us an expense account of fifty dollars a month,” I replied.
“You’ll need more than that,” he said. “We don’t want to lose her.”
Ernie signed a chit that Officer Oh had prepared for him, kept a copy, and slipped the envelope into his inner jacket pocket.
As we were leaving, Mr. Kill put up his hand to stop us. “Some of the people who run the rackets down there in Anjong-ri are not nice people. If you get into trouble, see Officer Kwon. He’s a good man. I trust him.”
He handed each of us one of Officer Kwon’s business cards. English was printed on one side, and hangul on the other.
“Don’t take weapons with you,” Mr. Kill continued. “Too much of a giveaway. Make sure that everyone believes you’re just two GIs from out of town, down there to have fun.”
“Don’t worry,” Ernie said, “we won’t have to fake that.”
As he backed the jeep into the narrow road, Ernie waved to the pindaedok dealer. Ernie turned around, honked his horn and made his way into the swirling Seoul traffic. Soon we’d reached the expressway that led to the Namsan Tunnel. In the darkness, Ernie turned to me.
“You’re quiet.”
“Yes.”
“What’s wrong?”
I waited, unsure if I should even mention it. Trust between law enforcement units, especially when they’re working a dangerous case together, is absolutely vital, even between the US Army and the Korean National Police. And that trust should never be questioned, unless there’s no choice. Doubt can poison an investigation. After working with him for months, I had come to trust Mr. Kill, but something was wrong here.
“Go ahead and talk,” Ernie said. “I can handle it, whatever it is.”
“I know you can.”
“Then spill.”
Finally, I asked, “What did you think about that crime scene?”
“Schultz’s?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve been waiting for you to say something.”
“And I’ve been waiting for you to.”
“I didn’t say anything,” Ernie told me, “because I didn’t want to influence your thinking.”
“Don’t worry,” I said, “you never do.”
“Never?”
“Well, maybe sometimes. But you first, what did you think?”
“As phony as a new friend on payday. Somebody dumped the body there, then broke a few empty soju bottles and spread the blood around. Schultz was probably dead before he got there. The Good Major was a prime jerk, but if he’d fought for his life, there would’ve been a lot more splintered crates and smashed glass. And most of those wounds didn’t bleed much.”
“Which means they happened after he was dead.”
“I’m not a doctor, but it didn’t look right to me.”
“And so far, the KNPs haven’t released the body to Eighth Army.”