But it had also occurred to me that this could all be disinformation. Commander Ku might be trying to throw a monkey wrench into the smooth functioning of 8th Army headquarters by casting suspicion on our highest-ranking intel officer. That’s why I’d asked Mr. Kill to help us prove Jameson’s involvement in the murder one way or the other.
Ernie still held Colonel Jameson pressed up against the wall.
“What you did,” Ernie told him, “is eliminate a rival. You’ve been after Schultz’s wife for years, and when you heard about the complaint he filed against Miss Jo, you figured this was your chance. You could eliminate him and make it look like she was the one who did it.”
“You’re crazy,” Colonel Jameson sputtered.
“Not crazy,” Ernie said. “The beauty of your plan was that you knew whoever looked into the murder would be suspicious of the Five Oh First after Schultz’s inspection threw heat on them. And they’d see how volatile Captain Blood was. So you had two red herrings to throw us off.”
“I’ll hire a lawyer,” he said, “and have you brought up on charges for defamation of a superior officer. I’ll ruin your careers.”
“Go ahead,” Ernie told him. “There’s not much to ruin. We also have a forensic report on your vehicle. And testimony from your driver, Mr. Shin, that you kept the keys that evening, and even though he drives you to all your official functions, you told him to take the night off. You picked up Major Schultz to go to the Eighth Army Officers Club together. But you never got there. Instead, you argued about his wife. He knew what was happening between you two, which is why he resorted to paying for a night with an Itaewon business girl. You had a hatchet under the driver’s seat. Mr. Shin had it for protection, but also to get rid of ice in the middle of the winter. You used it on Major Schultz. You also used the ceremonial bayonet you keep behind your desk. Both of them were checked out by the KNPs and have traces of his blood type. And Mr. Shin says that the next day, when he realized that the sedan had been soiled and cleaned by someone, he was too afraid to mention it.”
Colonel Jameson was silently bawling now. Ernie shoved him forward, but halfway out of the terminal, he dropped to his knees and started screaming, rolling his eyes and gnashing his teeth. “I didn’t want to do it,” he said. “He made me. Fred made me do it. He wouldn’t leave her alone, even when he knew we loved each other. He wouldn’t leave her alone.”
“His wife, you mean?” I asked.
Jameson stared at me with wide eyes. “Yes. She’s the one who caused all this.”
I didn’t see it that way, but this was no place to argue. The crowd inside the terminal had backed away from the three of us as if we had the plague.
Ernie and I grabbed Colonel Jameson under the armpits and hoisted him to his feet. Outside the terminal, we threw him in the back of Ernie’s new jeep. He tried to climb out, so we were forced to shackle the steering wheel chain to his handcuffs. All the way back to Seoul he leaned forward, rattling the chain, arms outstretched, like a penitent praying for forgiveness.
– 38-
We still didn’t know the whereabouts of Miss Jo. Nor did we know the identity of the two men who had helped her escape from us in Itaewon. This remained a mystery for just over a week after the arrest of Colonel Jameson. The prosecution was going smoothly. As promised, he’d hired a Stateside lawyer, and so far he hadn’t said anything, which was smart of him. If more evidence couldn’t be gathered, it was possible he’d get off with a lesser charge, like manslaughter, but that wasn’t up to me and Ernie. We’d done what we could.
We’d also started the ball rolling on the possible exoneration of Staff Sergeant Hector Arenas and the other GIs who’d been railroaded by the 501st MI. All of the 501st-inspired prosecutions in the last few years were being quietly reviewed by the 8th Army JAG office. In addition, Sergeant Leon Jerrod, the 501st agent in Uijongbu, and some of the other operatives were under investigation. From what I’d heard, they were all sweating bullets.
I moped around the office after duty hours, trying to work up the courage to call Leah Prevault. But what would I say to her? My situation hadn’t changed. I was still in doubt as to what to do. And then the phone rang.
It was a female voice, one that I recognized: Miss Jo Kyong-ja, no longer on the KNP’s most wanted list. “Ten p.m.,” was all she said. “The Double Oh Seven Club. Come alone.”
Then she hung up.
I felt a chill go through me. For a moment I considered not going, or at least having Ernie follow and watch my back, but in the end, I really didn’t have much choice. If I ever wanted to figure out who had rescued Miss Jo and why, I had to be there. We’d exonerated her, so the danger in my going alone was somewhat limited.
When I arrived at the Double Oh Seven Club, I ordered a beer. I sat alone at a table for about twenty minutes, nursing it. GIs and business girls gyrated on the dance floor, a Korean rock band clanging behind them. Finally one of the business girls approached me.
“You want dance?”
“No, thank you,” I said, trying to smile. “I don’t dance.”
“Then go to OB Beer hall. Drink one beer. When finish, go outside.”
In a whiff of perfume, she left.
The OB Beer Hall was a stand-up bar just off a large bus stop, with counters and small round tables at elbow height. Waitresses in white bandanas brought mugs of OB draft to tired Korean businessmen who were reading newspapers and waiting for their municipal buses to pull up. I stood alone at a table and quaffed down a frosty mug of OB. I saw why they’d told me to come here. The entire front was wide open, the room well-lit, and from across the street, anyone standing in the darkness could see who was inside. When I finished my beer, I zipped up my jacket and walked out into the cool night air. A cab pulled up. In the back sat Miss Jo Kyong-ja, staring straight ahead. I opened the front passenger door and climbed in. The cabby zoomed off.
Neither one of us talked. Finally, the driver came to a stop in the Mapo area of Seoul, in front of a pool hall sitting atop a noodle shop. Miss Jo spoke.
“You pay,” she said, and climbed out of the cab. After handing the fare and a small tip to the driver, I looked around. I didn’t see her. I walked a few paces from the noodle shop and looked back into a narrow alley between buildings. She stood about ten yards in, huddled in her long coat. When I followed her into the darkness, she turned and started walking. Fast. We wound through alleyways and narrow pedestrian lanes for what seemed like twenty minutes. Finally, she stopped and pointed. “There,” she said. “Go upstairs and wait.”
“How long?” I asked.
But she didn’t answer, instead just turning and hurrying off. I scanned the dark passageways. There didn’t appear to be any danger yet, so I walked in the direction Miss Jo had pointed and climbed a rickety flight of wooden stairs. At the top was a door. I opened it and walked in without bothering to knock. A dim yellow light glowed into some sort of storage room beyond, reeking of mold and rust. I crossed the room and stared out of a dirty window. More buildings, more filthy apartments, more of the squalid life of Seoul.