We’d stopped the bleeding, cleared his air passage and did everything the Army First Aid Field Manual told us to do. We’d even treated him for shock by elevating his feet, loosening his belt and wrapping him in a tent-half of canvas-one half of a full pup tent-we found in the bed of the truck. But that had been all we could do, so we left to find help. He probably had internal injuries. Although we couldn’t see much in the dark, he seemed to be turning sheet-white.
As if Ernie had conjured up a guardian angel, headlights appeared in the distance. We both stood in the middle of the road, waving our arms. We were blinded by the high beams but held our ground. When the vehicle stopped, two armed soldiers hopped out. As they approached, I could see that they were ROK Army-their helmets were stenciled with the word honbyong, Military Police.
I told them what had happened. They radioed for an ambulance and told us to climb in. We didn’t fit very well. At the turnoff from the main road we had them stop, and they left one of their MPs at the roadway to guide the ambulance in. The rest of us bounced down the narrow road. When we reached the wreck, the driver was still breathing. For the first time since the accident, I finally had the presence of mind to take a closer look at his face. His nametag confirmed it-Fenton, Specialist Four. The same guy who’d threatened Miss Kim.
– 26-
The ROK MPs helped us back Ernie’s jeep out of the ditch, and after hoisting Fenton into the military ambulance, we drove back to Camp Casey. The steering was off, but Ernie managed to get us there in one piece. We were patched up at the Aide Station. No serious injuries, just bruises and superficial cuts. After a lecture by the on-duty doc about how lucky we were and a scolding on defensive driving, we were sent on our way.
The next morning, as I sat at my desk at the 8th Army CID office, I spoke to Mr. Kill by phone.
“Apparently,” he said, “the customers at the kisaeng house were directed by the staff to leave via another road out.”
“Meaning they were in on it,” I said. “They knew what was going to happen.”
“Yes, although they’re denying it, saying it was just the shortest route for customers returning to Seoul.”
“What about Miss Lee?”
“Nobody seems to have heard of her. She was gone by the time we arrived, as were most of the kisaeng. Management claims they’ve never heard of a Miss Lee Suk-myong.”
“What about Nam?”
“Unfortunately, they hadn’t heard of him either. However, thanks to your description of the sedan and, more importantly, the license plate number, we should locate this fellow, whatever his name is, soon.”
Highest priority had been placed on the all-points-bulletin for that sedan. Mr. Kill was later able to confirm that the owner’s name was indeed Nam, so we knew our mystery man wasn’t using a pseudonym. Still, after two days of waiting, there was no sign of the vehicle. Miss Lee Suk-myong seemed also to have vanished from the face of the Korean Peninsula.
Specialist Fenton’s injuries were serious enough that he was put on an air-evac chopper out of Division and was now recovering at the 121st Evacuation Hospital in Seoul. When we tried to interview him, Captain Blood interceded with the Provost Marshal, and after conferring in private session, Colonel Brace denied us permission to speak with Fenton.
“A sting operation,” Staff Sergeant Riley explained. “The Five Oh Worst has been working on it for months, hoping to round up a North Korean agent, and you two stepped right in the middle and screwed everything up. Congratulations.”
So all our work had come to nothing. Miss Jo was still at large, the clock ticking down to her unjust conviction. Vindication for Hector Arenas was dead in the water. No one at 8th Army wanted to hear about it, not without evidence more concrete than the alleged testimony of Arenas’s former yobo. Captain Blood rode high at 8th Army, and all our requests to examine other aspects of the case, including his inflated budget, were turned down by the Provost Marshal.
“No probable cause,” Riley told us.
The fact that the 501st had tried to kill us was written off as a figment of our overheated imaginations. I believed that Nam had called somebody from the Tower Hotel, who had in turn notified Captain Blood. Nam had led us on a merry goose chase to the isolated kisaeng house while Blood ordered Fenton up north in the three-quarter-ton truck with the express purpose of running us down and making it look like an accident. The only problem was, I couldn’t prove it. Not without interrogating Fenton. And even then, only if he slipped up or admitted what he’d done, which seemed unlikely.
The only good thing we’d accomplished was bringing Miss Kim back to work. Her hand lotion, box of tissue, and Black Dragon tea were all on her desk where they were supposed to be. She quietly went about her business, typing up reports, translating memos into Korean, patiently filing the massive amounts of paperwork that spewed from Sergeant Riley’s desk.
And no one was harassing her. At least, they didn’t appear to be.
– 27-
Using a red cloth, the Korean mechanic wiped grease from his fingers. “Andei,” he said. No good.
We were at the motor pool of the 21st Transportation Company (Car), or 21 T Car. The Head Dispatcher had assigned his ace mechanic to check out Ernie’s jeep, but it was a total loss. The frame had not only been twisted, but cracked. It was beyond repair. According to him, we were lucky that we made it back to Seoul.
I slapped Ernie on the back. “There’re more jeeps in the Yellow Sea,” I told him.
“Yeah, but we’ve been through a lot with this one.”
He was right. It had been almost two years now, and we’d used that jeep on more cases than I could remember.
“All good things come to an end,” I told him.
“For Christ’s sake, Sueno. Stop with the platitudes already. You’re making me feel worse.” He surveyed the vast expanse of the motor pool, inhaled and pulled his belt up. “Let’s get a drink.”
So we did. In the Dispatcher’s Office. The Korean honcho kept a bottle of soju there; the imported scotch was reserved for resale only. But soju was good enough for us. We wiped out a couple of shot glasses with our thumbs and toasted the death of Ernie’s jeep, on its way to the great junkyard in the sky.
When we returned to the CID office, there was more good news.
“They’re slapping you with a Report of Survey,” Staff Sergeant Riley told us.
“For what?” Ernie asked.
“For reckless driving that resulted in the totaling of two military vehicles. Not to mention almost killing Specialist Fenton.”
“Reckless driving?” Ernie said.
Riley shrugged. “You were on the wrong side of the road.”
“So was the other guy.”
“Tell it to the judge,” Riley said.
I poured a cup of coffee from the stainless steel urn and returned to Riley’s desk. “Was this Captain Blood’s idea?”
“Don’t know,” Riley replied, “but I wouldn’t be surprised. He’s not happy that you almost killed his right-hand man.”
“His right-hand man almost killed us,” Ernie corrected him.
“What a loss that would’ve been,” Riley said.
Miss Kim grabbed a tissue and walked quickly out of the office.
Leah Prevault and I sat on a wooden bench in the small garden behind the 121st Recovery Ward.
“Nobody believes you,” she said.
“Nothing we haven’t been through before,” I told her.
She placed her soft hand on mine. “I’ve been thinking about what you said. About your commitment to your son, and how important it is to provide a stable family for him.”
She pulled her hand away and continued.
“I admire that. It’s a wonderful thing. Nobody knows how it will be resolved at this point. We need to give it some time.”