“I don’t like it,” Ernie said. “Maybe Eighth Army put the word out to be on the lookout for us. Let’s get out of here.”
I agreed.
Without incident, we reached the jeep in the parking lot and rolled into the busy streets of Seoul.
Ernie swerved past a careening kimchi cab. “Should we go see Major Rhee?” he asked.
“I don’t think so. For all we know Eighth Army’s charged us with the crime of absconding with classified documents.”
“The Bogus Claims File isn’t classified.”
“No, not officially. But they might be pissed off enough not to worry about legal niceties.”
“So what’s our next move?”
I thought about the totem we’d found at the Inn of the Crying Rose. KNP forensic technicians had removed the head of Mr. Ming and taken samples of the blood and other shreds of flesh that had fallen to the floor. The totem itself was made not of wood from produce crates, as I’d originally assumed, but of sturdier stuff. Unlike when we’d first seen it at the Itaewon Market, I had a chance, finally, to study it closely. The wood seemed old and brittle and it was stenciled with faded black lettering, in English: 4038 SIG BN (MOB), which meant, in military bureaucratese, the 4038th Signal Battalion (Mobile).
“Let’s make a few phone calls,” I said.
“Where?” Ernie asked.
In downtown Seoul there weren’t many places to park. And if we did find a public phone I’d need ten won pieces to pay for the call; the wait to be transferred to the 8th Army telephone exchange could be as long as twenty minutes.
“Let’s go to the RTO,” I said.
There, at the 8th Army Rail Transportation Office at the Seoul Train Station, we’d not only have access to phones that were already hooked up to the 8th Army telephone exchange, we’d also have access to Western-style toilets and a small PX snack stand where we could grab a cup of hot coffee.
Ernie nodded.
Five minutes later we rolled up to the brick facade of the 8th Army RTO just to the right of the huge dome of the Seoul train station. No one paid any attention to us as Ernie made a break for the latrine and I grabbed the receiver of the government phone on the ticketing counter. Next to it, chained to a metal pole, was the 8th Army phonebook. I didn’t need to look up a number. I dialed Riley.
“Where the hell are you?” he said.
“Who wants to know?”
“Whadda you mean ‘who wants to know?’ You know who wants to know. The freaking Provost Marshal.”
“We’re working on the Barretsford case.”
“You’ve got leads?”
“A few.”
“So what were you doing in the SOFA Secretariat’s Office last night?”
“Was that us?”
“According to Major Woolword it was.”
“That old drunk?”
“Hey, it’s in his log, and Sergeant Ervin and a couple of MPs are backing him up.”
“So why’s everybody so worried about us being in the Secretariat’s Office?”
“You weren’t authorized to be there.”
“Who gives a rat’s butt about that? You want this guy with the iron sickle caught, don’t you?”
“Yeah, but the Provost Marshal don’t like you two snooping around in places you’re not supposed to be.”
“So he sicced Moe Dexter on us.”
“He didn’t sic nobody on you. He put out the word that he wanted to talk to you.”
“So there’s no warrant for our arrest?”
“Not yet.”
“Doesn’t it seem odd to you they’re making such a big deal out of this when we have a killer on the loose?”
Riley was silent for a while. “I suppose it does,” he said, his voice subdued, sounding almost reasonable for a moment.
“I need you to look something up for me. The Forty Thirty-eighth Signal Battalion Mobile. Who are they? Where are they stationed? Anything you can find out about them.”
“Why?”
After he promised to keep it under his hat, I told him.
“A totem?” he said.
“That’s what I’m calling it.”
“Left at the site where Collingsworth was murdered and also this Chinese guy.”
“I told you to keep it under your hat.”
“Oh, I can do that. For now.”
I hung up on him. Ernie was back, rummaging around the PX snack stand, asking the cashier if they had any ginseng gum. They didn’t. I reached in my wallet and pulled out a slip of paper with Captain Prevault’s office number on it. It rang and rang.
I set the phone down, walked over to the snack stand and ordered a cup of coffee. Before I could pay for it, the big swinging doors burst open. Two ROK Army soldiers in combat fatigues entered, M-16 rifles leveled, both of them crouched, narrow-eyed, swiveling the barrels of the rifles from side to side.
The American NCO behind the ticketing counter burst out of his office.
“Hey!” he shouted. “No ROK personnel allowed in here. This is Eighth Army. You arra? Eighth Army. You bali bali karra chogi!” Leave quickly.
A half dozen more ROK soldiers burst through the door. Two of them hopped over the ticketing counter and shoved the irate American NCO back into his office. I heard scuffling, and then somebody went down.
Ernie and I were both armed but neither of us reached for the.45s in our shoulder holsters. Instead, we stood with our hands out to our sides. More ROK soldiers searched the latrine, the small waiting area, and the other offices of the RTO. Once the area was secure, the word was passed back and then two soldiers held the doors open. I think I had been half expecting it to be Major Rhee Mi-sook who strode into the room.
As usual, she looked smashing in her tailored fatigues and her highly polished combat boots. She surveyed the scene, grinned, and barked an order. Two straight-backed chairs were brought from the office behind the ticketing counter and set down in the center of the small waiting room. Major Rhee pointed a polished nail at them.
“Sit!”
A half dozen M-16 rifles were pointed at us, so we sat. Ernie crossed his arms and slouched. I maintained an attentive posture.
“You boys have been busy,” Major Rhee said.
“Idleness is the Devil’s handmaiden,” I said.
“What?”
“It’s good to be busy,” I replied.
“Yes, it’s good. What have you found out so far about the man with the iron sickle?”
“He’s a very bad boy,” Ernie said.
“I didn’t ask you,” Major Rhee replied.
Ernie shrugged and turned his head away. She looked back at me.
“We believe he killed a Chinese man named Ming,” I told Major Rhee. “Apparently a woman who owned a bar in Mia-ri called The Inn of the Crying Rose was an associate of the man with the iron sickle. She’s gone now. Disappeared.”
“What makes you think it was him?”
“The MO,” I replied. When she stared at me blankly, I said, “The method of operation. In the previous murders he cut the throats of his victims. This time, he sliced the head off completely.”
I didn’t tell her about the totem, nor about the Bogus Claims File. What I was telling her is what she could’ve found out from the KNPs on her own.
“What’s your next move?” she asked.
“Our next move,” Ernie said, “is to have a cup of coffee.”
She smiled at this, a radiant smile. “May I join you?”
“Naw. I like cream and sugar with my coffee. Not five fifty-six millimeter ammo.”
“Oh, sorry about that.”
Major Rhee barked an order. The combat soldiers arrayed around the RTO assembled in front of the swinging doors and then, as a unit, marched smartly outside.
“A beautiful woman,” Ernie said, “should always make an impressive entrance.”
Major Rhee ignored him. The three of us took seats at one of the two Formica-topped tables in front of the snack stand. The cashier, a middle-aged Korean man, scurried out from behind the counter, bowed in front of Major Rhee, and said, “Muol duhshi-gessoyo?” What can I get for you?