“What’s your name?” Ernie asked.
“Joe.”
“Okay, Joe. Where’s Dexter?”
The elderly man looked around. “He no go. All shoes still here.”
“Except for his shower shoes,” Ernie said.
The Korean man nodded. “Maybe he go byonso. Take shower.”
“Maybe.”
I thanked the man who called himself Joe. Ernie and I walked down the stairs and exited through a side door that led to the big cement block latrine wedged between the two giant Quonset huts. We even checked a couple of the occupied stalls but Staff Sergeant Moe Dexter wasn’t there.
“He couldn’t have gone far,” Ernie said.
“That’s what makes you a great detective,” I said. “Deductive reasoning.”
There were two other buildings associated with the MP barracks. They were both normal sized Quonset huts, only one story tall, and they sat on either end of the complex. One was the arms room. We didn’t go in there. The other was the enlisted day room. I’d been in it before: privately stocked bar, pool tables, a TV, and a couple of vinyl couches. Ernie and I pushed our way through the unlocked door.
Staff Sergeant Morris Dexter sat in a T-shirt, flip flops, and a pair of green gym shorts on a centrally located bar stool. In front of him lay a baseball cap with the name MOE embroidered on it. He clutched a can of Falstaff in one hand and a shot glass of what looked like hard liquor in the other. A Korean bartender washed glasses behind the bar and two other MPs, both men I recognized from our confrontation at the 8th Army Morgue, sat on either side of Dexter.
When we walked in, they swiveled on their stools.
Ernie said, “You blew it this time, Dexter.”
He glared drunkenly, eyes half lidded. Even sitting, he swayed slightly, and he had that mean drunk look that comes when the alcohol makes you hate not only the world but everyone in it.
“Criminal investigation pukes,” Dexter said. The words came out moist and slurred. “Protecting the Koreans instead of stopping them from slicing MP throats.”
“You were on duty last night, Dexter,” I told him, “in charge of the MPs patrolling Itaewon. You decided to take out your frustrations on an inanimate object. Namely, the pochang macha.”
“The what? You mean that pile of shit cart where that old gook woman sells slimy crud? What do you call it, Sweeno? A poontang chacha?”
Dexter’s sidekicks snickered.
“Yes, that one,” I said.
“Never heard of it.”
That was the punch line. Dexter and his comrades slapped one another on the shoulders, howling. The other two men were younger than Dexter, his military subordinates. They were both red-faced but not as sloshed as Dexter. If they decided to fight, in their current state, Ernie and I could take all three of them. Especially with the help of Ernie’s brass knuckles.
Ernie’d had enough of the banter. “Keep your hands on the bar, Dexter,” he said. “Stand up, lean forward, and place your feet shoulder width apart. You know how it works.”
Ernie pulled his handcuffs out from behind his back and stepped forward. All three of the MPs stood up, Dexter more slowly because he had to push himself to an upright position and then straighten his back, trying to keep from losing his balance.
I moved off to the left and prepared to leap at Dexter if he resisted. That’s when I saw it, sliding out from beneath the baseball cap, an Army-issue.45 automatic. Dexter grabbed the pistol grip and started to turn.
I yelled something. I don’t remember what, and ran straight at Dexter.
— 8-
The Provost Marshal wasn’t happy with us. He stood behind his desk, hands on narrow hips, scowling.
“What happened?” he asked.
“When Dexter went for his gun,” I said, “I charged at him. A round went off, scared the crap out of all of us, but by then I’d reached him and knocked him backward over his barstool and then him and me and the two other MPs went down in a heap. I’m not clear on what happened after that other than I kept swinging and when another round went off, we all stopped fighting.”
The Provost Marshal turned his scowl on Ernie. “That’s when you fired into the mirror behind the bar?”
“Yes, sir,” Ernie replied. “I managed to secure Dexter’s weapon and then fired it once, just getting their attention.”
Colonel Walter P. Brace, the Provost Marshal of the 8th United States Army, exhaled long and slow. “So now two MPs are in the hospital, one with a dislocated shoulder and the other with a concussion, and I have a weapons incident, shots fired during an arrest. And what, exactly, are the charges against Staff Sergeant Dexter?”
“Vandalism with malicious intent,” I said.
“Which means?”
“He destroyed a pochang macha.”
The colonel sat down. “A pochang macha?”
“Yes, sir,” I replied.
Colonel Brace stared quietly at the blotter in front of him. He started to thumb through some papers but thought better of it. Finally he looked back at us.
“And how about the murder of Corporal Collingsworth? And the hacking to death of Mr. Barretsford? Any progress on those?”
“We’re still developing leads, sir.”
“Leads.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And the KNPs?”
“Lab reports on the pochang macha crime scene should be back this morning.”
“There’s that word again.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you turn your daily progress report in to Staff Sergeant Riley?”
“Working on that now, sir.”
“Not now,” he said. “Get over to the KNP headquarters and add their lab reports into your daily. Go on now, get out.” He flicked his fingers at us, as if to chase away flies. “Get out.”
We saluted, turned, and marched out of his office.
In the jeep, Ernie said, “Asshole.”
Ernie parked the jeep in front of the Korean National Police headquarters, and we strode through the front door and past the information counter. Mr. Kill’s assistant, Officer Oh, told us he was conducting interrogations and couldn’t be disturbed.
“Do you have the lab reports?” I asked.
Her long face flushed red. “Only he can give those to you.”
Ernie was about to argue with her, but I waved him off. “Where’s the interrogation room?”
She debated whether to respond, but in the end she rose from her chair and said, “I’ll show you.”
We walked down the two flights of stairs we’d just climbed, but when we reached the ground floor we kept going down. After one flight, we hit a door. Officer Oh pressed a buzzer. A metallic voice said, “Yoboseiyo, Kim Kyongjang imnida.”
Officer Oh identified herself and then a buzzer sounded. We pushed through the door. A dimly lit cement hallway stretched into darkness. Doors were imbedded into the walls; holding cells. Officer Oh led us in the opposite direction and opened a door marked Muncho-sil, interrogation room. Straight-backed chairs and a counter faced a one-way window through which a red light glowed in a space not much bigger than a rectangular closet. The interrogation was being conducted.
“Where’s the popcorn?” Ernie asked.
Officer Oh motioned for us to sit and then she switched on the sound. They were speaking Korean, of course, in low but insistent tones. Mr. Kill was doing most of the talking. Next to him sat a young officer taking notes. What surprised me was the person being interrogated. Ernie and I both recognized her. She was the woman who ran the PX snack stand in the building opposite the 8th Army Claims Office.
“What the hell’s she doing here?” Ernie asked.
The woman looked haggard and thin, as if she’d been there for days. Patiently, Mr. Kill asked question after question, and she kept shaking her head, exhausted.
“How long has she been here?” I asked.