Mortal Allies

CHAPTER 9

As I later pieced it together, Keith had decided to slip out the back gate for a little shopping. That happened sometime around nine o’clock that night. He dodged across a heavily trafficked boulevard and entered the Itaewon shopping district. Maybe they started tracking him right then. If so, he apparently never noticed.

He began dashing in and out of shops, picking up a few things here and a few things there. He got himself a snazzy leather bomber jacket with a fuzzy fur collar, some Nike running shoes, and a spiffy new leather wallet. By eleven o’clock he was halfway through Itaewon. He’d made it to a major intersection with cars whizzing by, and had paused to wait for the pedestrians’ traffic signal to show the little green man with his legs pumping, when a couple of strong hands lifted him off his feet and tossed him into the speeding traffic. He got bounced high up in the air by the first car and came down dead center into the bumper of the next. It took an ambulance twenty minutes to get there. Keith was loaded into the back and rushed to the nearest hospital.

The good news was he’d carried his passport with him, so the hospital got his identity and immediately notified the American embassy that some American had gotten hit by a couple of cars. The lady at the embassy night switch didn’t recognize his name, so she made a note to give to the night duty officer the next time he wandered by. He came by around four in the morning. He didn’t recognize Merritt’s name, either. He followed his standard operating procedures and called and gave the name to the desk sergeant at the Yongsan Garrison MP station. The desk sergeant also didn’t know who Merritt was, but he dutifully listed the news in his log. That’s why we weren’t notified until seven o’clock the next morning.

Now the bad news. Keith was in the ICU, unconscious, and the doctors were wringing their hands and mumbling fretful things. His skull was fractured, one kidney had been punctured by a broken rib, one leg and one arm were shattered into multiple pieces, and the doctors were still trying to trace the source, or sources, of a flood of internal bleeding.

I learned this via a very hysterical call from Katherine. I rushed straight to her room. The door was ajar so I walked in. Allie and Katherine were huddled in a corner, hugging each other and sobbing pitifully. Maria sat at the desk, her face looking like it had twenty-pound weights dragging at the corners of her eyes and lips. I idly wondered if Allie was switch-hitting on Maria. The room had the air of a funeral parlor.

“He might die,” Katherine said, looking up at me.

“Uh-huh.” I gravely nodded.

I sat on the edge of the bed and stayed quiet. I knew what was going through their heads. None of us had any real idea what had happened, but the timing and coincidence were too damned close. You couldn’t escape the thought.

Finally, Katherine said, “Are these bastards that barbaric?”

I said, “Maybe.”

I hadn’t confirmed anything, but I’d equivocated enough to make them realize they’d been underestimating the risks.

I said, “Have your pictures been on Korean television?”

“We did a few interviews before you arrived,” Katherine sulkily responded.

“All of you? Did you all get your faces in front of the camera? Maybe in the local papers, too?”

“That’s right,” said Allie, releasing Katherine and walking over to stand beside Maria. “We were on TV and in the newspapers. So what?”

“Then don’t draw any hasty conclusions.”

“What that’s supposed to mean?”Allie asked in her typically defiant way.

“I mean it could have been somebody working for the South Korean government. They’ve got a couple of supersecret agencies responsible for internal security that have reputations for being pretty thuggish. Or it could’ve been someone else.”

Katherine spun around; her face was bitterly scrunched up. “Who else could it possibly have been? Don’t bullshit me, Drummond. It’s obvious who did it.”

“No, it’s not,” I said. “By parading yourselves in front of the media so much, you painted bull’s-eyes on your chests.”

“Bull’s-eyes for who?”Allie asked.

“One of those anti-American student groups you always see rioting on TV. Or some group of South Korean soldiers who’re pissed off at having one of their brothers in arms murdered and raped. The one thing we’re not short of over here’s enemies.”

“Drummond, you are so full of shit,” Katherine said, with a positively barbaric stare.

“No, I ain’t. Now, I’m going to give you a little lecture. Maybe my timing sucks, but you better listen to me, for once.”

Katherine slunk over from her corner and I finally had all their undivided attention.

“Korea,” I explained, “is technically a nation at war. I’m not saying South Koreans are perfect, but they’re pretty damned good people. There’s an army of some three million men just twenty-five miles from where we’re sitting. There’s North Korean infiltrators and agents running all over this country. Only a few years ago, a North Korean sub got grounded on a sandbar off the eastern shore and out spilled ten commandos. Remember that incident? It was all over the news the entire week it took the South Koreans to chase them down and kill them. The only reason they were detected was because the sub commander screwed up and got his boat beached. Any of you want to hazard a guess at how many other boats and subs have landed agents and commandos that didn’t get caught?”

Maria had a disbelieving grimace, or maybe it was just her natural facial set, but when her lips came apart I cut her off with a quick slice of my arm through the air.

“Don’t talk. Listen,” I rudely ordered. “These people have been living like this since 1953. You got any idea what that’s like? Every year, there’s ambushes and shootouts on that border. This hotel room we’re sitting in is within artillery range of North Korea’s guns. In a split second this whole country could get pulverized. That has an effect on your psyche. This ain’t like America. Stop thinking it is.”

Katherine said, “Nothing justifies this!”

“I’m not justifying any damned thing,” I told her with a stern glare. “Stop being so damned argumentative. Listen. And for God’s sakes, don’t go holding another of your idiotic press conferences and start blaming the South Korean government. Maybe they did it; maybe not. Hell, it might’ve just been some band of pickpockets, and he caught ’em, so they tossed him.”

“You know better!” she said.

“I don’t know any such damned thing. Neither do you. All I do know is that you embarrassed the South Korean people last night, and today one of our co-counsels ends up in the hospital. You can build a case on circumstantial evidence, but you can’t build a case on coincidental evidence.”

I got up and stood over Katherine. She was looking at me like she’d pay anything for a ticket to my funeral.

“This isn’t the United States, Carlson. Remember what that big goon warned you yesterday? Learn to respect the rules around here. It goes better for everybody.”

She started to open her lips and I held up my hand. “Look, I’ll see what I can find out. Just don’t hold another meeting with your press buddies while I’m gone. And skip those sessions with NBC and ABC I heard you planning yesterday. They won’t do any good for our client, not to mention our health.”

I left them in the room to stew. I can’t say I was friends with Keith, since I barely knew him, but on general principles alone I was just as shocked and furious about what happened to him as they were, and I sure as hell hoped he wouldn’t die. The problem was Katherine and her buddies had no idea what they were messing with here. I’d tried to warn them. They hadn’t listened. Thomas Whitehall, guilty or innocent, was a symbol for all kinds of extremist groups with fiery views, and when you’re standing next to a lightning rod, don’t act surprised when a stray thunderbolt lands in your lap.

When I got back to my room, I called Spears’s office and told that colonel with the world’s snappiest salute that I needed to meet with Buzz Mercer. He said okay and hung up.

Twelve minutes later, the phone rang. It was a woman’s voice. She told me to hurry downstairs and wait by the entrance of the hotel. So I did.

When I walked outside, a gray sedan was already idling under the entrance and a Korean woman stepped out. She peered around till she spotted me, then waved for me to come over.

“You’re Drummond, right?” she asked when I got within earshot.

“That’s me,” I admitted.

“Please get in.”

I climbed in, then briefly studied the cut of her jib. She was slender, conservatively dressed, probably in her late twenties or early thirties, and was somewhat attractive, but in a buttoned-down, stern, wintry sort of way. Her hair was cut short and was clearly unstyled. She wore gold wire-rimmed glasses that made her look like an academic who’d somehow gotten lost outside the ivory tower.

“So what’s your name?” I asked, wondering who the hell she was.

“I’m Kim Song Moon. My friends call me Carol.”

“Carol? How does Kim Song Moon get you to Carol?”

“It doesn’t,” she admitted. “I’m American. My real name is Carol Kim. Here in Korea, I use Kim Song Moon.”

“No kidding? And you’re with that same company that employs Buzz Mercer?”

“Buzz is my boss.”

“Let me guess. You were raised in California, went to Stanford, or maybe Berkeley, got recruited there, and you’ve spent the last three years doing skullduggery here?”

“Oh my God, am I that obvious?” she asked with a shocked look.

“I’m throwing out stereotypes. Besides, telepathy is one of my strong suits.”

“Actually,” she said, “I grew up in Boston and went to Middlebury College, which was where I learned to speak Korean, then I spent a few years at Duke getting a law degree. And I wasn’t recruited. After law school, I sought out the Agency and convinced them my language skills and Korean looks might come in handy. I’ve been here less than a month.”

“Ah, so I got most of it right.”

“Which part did you get right?”

“You went to college, right?”

She ignored that. “So you’re a lawyer?” she asked. “You don’t look like a lawyer.”

“No? Well, what do lawyers look like?” I asked, fishing around for a compliment.

“They’re usually very intelligent-looking.”

“Oh.”

“And they’re usually very chubby, or very skinny and undeveloped.”

“Ah,” I said, perking up a bit.

“And the good ones, the really good ones, they usually have chewed-down fingernails and a perpetually nervous look about them.”

“But you don’t get that sense from me?”

She glanced at me again. “No. You seem far too confident, maybe even cocky.” She let that sink in, then followed with: “I should tell you I’m the case officer for your trial. I was brought here to keep an eye on things for the Agency.”

“And what nice eyes they are,” I said, flirt that I am.

She gave me a weary look as she pulled the sedan into a parking place in front of the officers’ club. We got out and she started walking in a way and at a pace that indicated she did a lot of speedwalking in her spare time. I followed her like a panting poodle up some steps and through a set of double doors into a small, comfortable lobby. She led me through a dining room that was completely barren of customers, then through another set of double doors and into a back room.

Buzz Mercer sat there, feet up on a table, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up, talking on a mobile phone that was far too big and clunky to be a commercial model. It had to be a secure phone. The moment I entered, he lowered his voice, murmured a few things, then uttered a swift good-bye and hung up.

He could’ve been ordering a pizza, for all I knew. CIA folks are like that – so secretive, it’s beyond hilarious.

“Have seats,” he said to Carol and me. So we did.

He examined my face a moment, then said, “I’m sorry to hear about Merritt.” He didn’t look real sorry, but then, why should he?

“Yeah, it’s an awful thing. He’s pretty beat-up, from what I hear.”

“He slipped into a coma about twenty minutes ago.”

“That sounds worse.”

His eyebrows did this tiny shrugging thing. “Well, they’ve got the internal bleeding under control. The coma aside, at least he’s not gonna bleed to death.”

“Since you seem so well-informed, you got any idea who did it?”

He bent forward and put his elbows on the table. “Drummond, there’s forty-six million people in the Republic of Korea. Rule out the ones in wheelchairs, the ones in hospital beds, and all the tots who’re too small to have lifted him and thrown him into the road. That gets your number of suspects down to a nice workable number. Say thirty-five million or so. Oh, and don’t forget the twenty-two million folks up in North Korea.”

“Well, Carlson thinks the South Korean government’s behind it.”

He did that eyebrow-shrugging thing again. “Ten years ago, maybe. But frankly, we don’t see much of that kind of shenanigans anymore. Not since they learned how to spell ‘democracy’ down here, anyway. I’m not saying they didn’t; I’m only saying you better be damned careful with your assumptions.”

“How about the guys up north?”

“Carol and I batted that back and forth, but frankly, we can’t see a fit.”

“But you don’t rule it out?”

“Nope. But like I said, we don’t see a good fit either.”

“So that leaves some anti-American South Korean group. Or maybe some pissed-off vigilantes who can’t get their hands on Whitehall, so they settled for one of his defenders.”

“That’s where I’d put my money. There’re probably plenty of both groups around. The problem for you is, are they done?”

“So you think we’re in physical danger?”

He stood up and walked over to the coffeepot. He poured himself a cup, but didn’t ask if I wanted one. That meant one of two things: He was either a rude bastard, or this meeting was on the cusp of being over.

“I don’t know what to tell ya.”

“How about telling me you’re going to protect us?”

He kept his back turned to me. He was done pouring his cup of coffee, so I wondered what was so damned interesting about the blank wall he was facing.

“That’s not our job,” he finally said. “But if it helps any, we’re watching you.”

“You’re watching us?” I stupidly asked. I mean, he’d just told me we were being watched. But why, if they didn’t intend to protect us?

“How else did you think Carol got to your hotel so fast? She was already in the parking lot.”

“If you were watching us, how come you didn’t see Merritt get tossed?”

He finally turned around and faced me. If I were to choose a metaphor to describe his facial cast, it was like a tiger studying some strange animal he’d never seen before and wondering if it was worth eating.

“Well, it’s only a skeleton crew, so it’s more haphazard than I’d like. He slipped away and we missed it. It would be much simpler if I could put someone in your office. Somehow, though, I don’t think you’ll let me do that.”

He was right. I couldn’t let him do that. Maybe he’d play it straight up and whoever he put inside our office would never whisper a word about how we were managing Whitehall’s defense. Then again, maybe not.

Then Carol explained, “I’ve got three people keeping an eye on you. But that’s all we can spare.”

And I said, “But there’s all us co-counsels, and there’s the legal aides, and then there’s twenty-four hours in a day, and your people have to sleep.”

“I can count, Major. Look at the bright side. My job just got a little easier. Yesterday there were five co-counsels. Today there’s only four.”

I angrily said, “Merritt’s not dead yet.”

“Okay.” She smiled. “Make it four and a half.”

I found that smile really unnerving. She might have nice eyes, but I’d just come to the unwelcome realization she was as coldhearted as a lizard. Maybe tomorrow somebody would toss me off the sixteenth floor of a high-rise, and she and Mercer would be trading high fives and talking about how much easier I’d just made their jobs.

I got all puffed up and said, “So that’s it? All you’re going to do is watch?”

“That’s all we’re gonna do,” Mercer blandly admitted. “Our hands are damn full watching the bad guys up north, not to mention trying to keep an eye on our South Korean friends down here. I don’t mean to sound cavalier, Drummond, but this Whitehall thing, it’s way outside our bailiwick.”

And here’s what bothered me about that. If we were way outside his bailiwick, why’d he already have a team of four people watching us?

And that’s the moment when I saw through all the odd glances and double-talk. No wonder Mercer had snuck up to my room in the dead of night. And no wonder Carol Kim and her goons were keeping an eye on us. As far as the CIA was concerned, Carlson and the rest of us were nothing more than expendable pawns in their big game.

It didn’t make a damn whether we lived or died. No, actually, that’s not right: It did make a damn. If somebody did bump off a couple of us, and North Korea did have a hand in it, and the CIA was there to watch it happen and be able to prove it – well, that would just be helpful as all get out. To them, anyway.

A few minutes later, Carol dropped me off under the overhang at the hotel entrance. She gave me that chilling smile and said, “Warn the others not to take any unnecessary risks. And stay together as much as you can.”

I very bitterly said, “Do I take it this represents an official warning?”

“That’s right,” she said. “This is your official warning.”

“You know what bothers me?”

“What bothers you?”

“I just can’t figure what a lawyer like you’s doing in the CIA.”

She looked me straight in the eye. “After three years of law school, I decided I didn’t want to practice law. I discovered I didn’t like lawyers.”

“Aha,” I said.

“Aha,” she frostily replied, then drove away.

I went back to my room, tugged another box out of the closet, then sat down to read what Captain Thomas Whitehall said to Chief Warrant Officer Michael Bales on the morning of May 3.

It began with the obligatory reading of rights, then the equally obligatory questions about name, assignment, etcetera. Whitehall waived his rights. He insisted that since he was innocent, he had nothing to hide. Dumb move there, I figured. An innocent man doesn’t protest he’s innocent until somebody accuses him. An innocent man naturally assumes everybody knows he’s guiltless.

Like a skilled interrogator, Bales then spent a few minutes loosening up Whitehall with the standard warm-up questions: where did he live, what was his job, how long had he been in Korea, blah, blah, blah. The real purpose was to get the suspect comfortable giving answers.

Then Bales asked, “Did you know the victim?”

“Yes.”

“How did you know him?”

“We met through a mutual friend. He was a Katusa, and we went shopping together a few times.”

“Were you friends?” Bales asked, and I guessed it was a perfectly innocuous question. At that stage Bales had no way of knowing the circumstances of the death, or about Whitehall’s sexual peccadillos.

“Not friends, no. Acquaintances, really. I didn’t know him well. It was nice having someone who knew Seoul, who could speak the language. He showed me some good places to shop and eat, and helped me bargain on prices with shopkeepers, that kind of thing.”

“What was he doing at your apartment?”

“I invited him.”

“For what purpose?”

“I was having a small party. I thought he might enjoy meeting other Americans.”

“What about Moran and Jackson? Were they your friends?”

“Moran’s a friend. He brought Jackson along.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t really ask. I guess he thought Lee and Jackson might hit it off.”

“You’ll excuse me, Captain, but that sounds a little odd. You’re an officer and they’re all enlisted.”

“Not odd at all,” Whitehall insisted. “It’s hardly unusual for officers and senior NCOs to have relationships outside of work. And Lee’s a Korean and had done me some favors. I saw nothing wrong with helping him make more American friends.”

“I guess,” Bales said, and I imagined that his tone was somewhat dubious. “There were a lot of empty bottles in your apartment. Was there drinking?”

“I served refreshments.”

“Alcohol?”

“Yes, sure. Why not? They’re all grown-ups.”

“Drugs?”

“I don’t like the nature of that question.”

“Captain, a man was murdered in your apartment. You’re going to get lots of difficult questions. Now please answer. Were there drugs?”

“No, no drugs,” Whitehall finally replied.

“Why did the others spend the night in your apartment?”

“The party went late. Everybody was having fun. Before we knew it, it was nearly two in the morning.”

“Were the others drunk?”

“In my opinion, they’d had a few too many, yes. I didn’t think it was a good idea to let them walk the two miles back to base in their condition, so I invited them to stay.”

“Uh-huh,” Bales said. “When was the last time you saw Lee No Tae alive?”

“I don’t remember exactly. Around two, I guess. He went into the bedroom and I made sure the apartment door was locked and went to sleep.”

“The apartment door was locked?”

“That’s right.”

“There were only three bedrooms, weren’t there?”

“Yes. I gave them the bedrooms and slept on the couch in the living room.”

“Did you hear any sounds that night?”

“What kind of sounds?”

“Maybe someone entering your apartment? Maybe a struggle? Maybe an argument?”

“No. I’m usually a very light sleeper, but frankly, I’m afraid I had a few too many drinks also. I didn’t hear anything.”

“Are you the only one with keys to your apartment?”

“I suppose the management company that runs the place has other keys. Other than that, yes.”

“So you have no idea what happened to Private Lee?”

“None. I was shocked when we discovered him dead. I have no idea how it happened.”

Bales then said, “That’s all I have at this stage of the investigation. Is there anything you want to add to this statement?”

“No, nothing. But, uh, well, uh… have his parents been notified yet?”

“His father was notified about two hours ago.”

“Perhaps I can stop by and offer my condolences. He was a very fine young man. I’d like to tell his parents that. Would you happen to have their address? Do they live here in Seoul?”

“Are you serious?” Bales asked.

“I think it’s the only proper thing to do. He was murdered in my apartment.”

“You mean, you don’t know who his father is?”

“No. Why should I?”

“Private Lee’s father is South Korea’s defense minister.”

“Oh shit.”

With that expletive, the initial interrogation ended. And things being what they were, it was a pretty fitting summary of what Whitehall had stepped into.

I tried to picture what was going through Whitehall’s mind when he was being interrogated. I mean, that final discussion was a doozy. He had to know about Lee’s father. That meant he was lying, and misleading, and blustering. He must’ve been scared as hell. Still, give me a break.

Had he really thought he’d get away with it? How could he? The body was found in his apartment, in his own bedroom, right beside him, for Chrissakes. There were two other witnesses in the apartment. Had they used the time before the Korean cops arrived to coordinate alibis? Wasn’t Whitehall smart enough to know his semen would be found inside Lee’s corpse?

And was he really so clueless that he thought they’d buy the assertion that he didn’t know about Lee’s father? He was obviously trying to get as much distance from the murdered man as he possibly could. A mere acquaintance, a shopping companion; someone he only barely knew and had invited over to his apartment so he could introduce him to some friendly enlisted troops. He had tipped his own hand.

As alibis went, it sucked.

I opened Moran’s interrogation packet. Carl G. Moran was his full name. There was a photograph taken at the MP station clipped to the inside jacket.

It was a black-and-white that showed a large, powerful-looking man – actually, burly might be a better word. Maybe forty years old, with salt-and-pepper hair, a broad face, and a nose that looked like it had been introduced to a few fists in its day. But it was the eyes that really got your attention. Unnaturally large, they made an odd contrast to the rest of his face. They were like doe’s eyes, with long, luxurious lashes, on a face that looked otherwise like a prizefighter’s mug. That Marlon Brando look, at least before Brando ate so much and his face got so bloated you could barely tell he had eyes.

Moran’s expression was maybe confused, maybe irritated, maybe both.

Again, Bales went through the routine of reading him his rights. The strange thing here was that Moran interrupted him to ask if Whitehall had asked for an attorney. Bales said no, so Moran waived his rights as well.

I put down the packet. Why was that important to Moran? Was that some kind of litmus test? So what if Whitehall had declined an attorney? Something was odd about this; like maybe Moran was testing to see if he could trust Whitehall. Anyway, I made a mental note to think more about it later.

“What was your relationship to the victim?” Bales got around to asking after he’d exhausted his repertoire of warm-up questions.

Moran said, “He was a buddy of Captain Whitehall’s. I didn’t know him from shit, but the captain invited him over.”

“Why?”

“Huh?”

“Why did Captain Whitehall invite him over?”

“Got me,” Moran said. “Maybe they were buddies. Maybe he thought we’d like him.”

“Had you ever met the victim before?”

“Nope. I might of seen him about base, but all these friggin’ gooks look alike to me.”

Gooks? I could just imagine the expression that must’ve popped onto Inspector Choi’s face at that moment.

Bales said, “Was there any drinking at the party?”

“Yeah, of course. What do you think, we’re a bunch of choirboys?”

“Any drugs?”

“Come on, Chief. You got a captain and you got a first sergeant there. Think anyone’d be stupid enough to use that shit in front of us?”

“Does that mean no?”

“Friggin’A, it means no.”

“What time did the party end?”

“I don’t know. Wasn’t like I was checking my watch. Late, though.”

“Had you or any of the others had too much to drink?”

“Hell, yeah. I could barely stand up, so the captain told us we could all crash there.”

“And where did everybody sleep?”

“I… uh… shit, I was too drunk to notice.”

“You discovered the corpse, though. How did that happen?”

“I got up at five. I was kind of fuzzy, you know. I mean, I’d put down easily a whole fifth of Jack Walker. I went and pissed. Then I went to the captain’s room to check on ’em. Nobody answered when I knocked, so I opened the door. That gook kid was just laying there, real still. I went over and shook him. Nothing. So I rolled him over and seen this belt around his neck. He looked deader than shit, so I went and called the MPs.”

“The belt was around his neck when you woke him?”

“That’s what I said, wasn’t it?”

“What kind of belt?”

“It… uh, it was a standard Army belt. Could’ve been anybody’s, though. I mean, even the gook, ’cause he was a Katusa, he wore an American Army uniform, right? Might of been his own, you know. I mean, maybe the kid hung himself from the ceiling and he fell off.”

“Did you remove the belt?”

“Never touched the damned thing.”

“Do you know who did?”

“Nah. Never saw anyone else take it off, neither.”

“So you don’t know who did remove it?”

Bales was asking all the right questions. Absent autopsy results, he had to assume the belt was the murder weapon. And if he could find out whose belt it was, he might have his killer.

“Ain’t got a clue,” Moran announced.

“Did you wake the others up?”

“Yeah.”

“And where were they sleeping?”

“I don’t remember.”

“You don’t remember?” Bales asked, and I could only imagine the incredulous expression on his face. Of course, he still had no notion at that point exactly how critically important this question would later prove to be.

“That’s what I told you. Like I said, I was still woozy, and the sight of that gook’s corpse left me not thinking too straight.”

I guess because Bales was not yet aware of the nature of the relationships among the four men, he took this response in stride and did not press further.

“So did you hear any sounds that night? Maybe a struggle? Maybe an argument?”

“Nope. A quart of Jack’s better than a sleeping pill. Shit, somebody could’ve shot the kid, instead of strangled him. I wouldn’t of heard it. I ain’t gotta clue what happened to that gook kid. I swear.”

“I, uh, I have only one other question,” Bales said. “Did you invite Private Jackson to the party?”

“Yeah.”

“Why? Isn’t it unusual for a first sergeant to invite a private to a party at an officer’s quarters? Especially when there’s going to be drinking?”

“Hey, Jackson’s my company clerk. A good kid, too. He don’t have many friends, though, and I thought I’d give him a chance to get out of the barracks. I felt kind of sorry for him. It was probably bad judgment, but hey, ain’t no crime in it, is there?”

“No, I suppose not,” Bales replied, underscoring exactly how naive he was at that stage of the game.

I put the transcript back in the folder and thought about it. At this stage, Moran was obviously trying to cover Whitehall’s ass. He knew whose belt was around Lee’s neck, he probably knew who removed it, and he damn well knew who was sleeping in whose beds. He lied, though.

Like Whitehall, he had to know the semen inside Lee’s body would eventually be discovered. So why had he lied to Bales? And what made him stop lying later and turn evidence against Whitehall?

This was all the more perplexing because Whitehall and Moran had stupidly put themselves inside a tightly restricted box. There were no signs of a break-in at the apartment. Whitehall had foolishly admitted he’d made sure the door was locked before they went off to sleep. He’d also admitted that only he and the management company that ran the complex had keys. Not very bright, if you think about it. Why hadn’t Whitehall claimed he’d left the door unlocked? And Moran could’ve reinforced that by saying, yeah, sure he remembered hearing the sounds of a door opening and closing in the middle of the night, but thought it was only Jackson or Whitehall or Lee going to the bathroom. At least that would’ve opened up the possibility that an uninvited guest had slipped in and strangled Lee.

Katherine was going to have a bitch of a time trying to prove Whitehall was framed. The annoying fool had narrowed the spotlight to only himself and two other men, both of whom had already turned state’s evidence. That was yet another flaw in the frame defense. Court-martial boards turn skeptical when an accused man claims he was framed by the very witnesses who are testifying against him.

I reached into the box again and pulled out a slip of paper. This was a photocopy of a transferal document for Lee No Tae’s corpse from the Itaewon Hospital to the Eighteenth Military Evacuation Hospital in Yongsan Garrison. I checked the name of the American officer who signed the receipt. I called the Evacuation Hospital.

“Captain Wilson Bridges please,” I said to the cheery receptionist who answered.

“Just a moment, please.”

An even cheerier voice finally said, “Doc Bridges here.”

“Captain Bridges, this is Major Sean Drummond. I’m on the defense team for Captain Whitehall.”

“What can I do for you?”

“You still got Lee No Tae’s corpse in your facility?”

“We do indeed,” he happily replied. “On ice in the basement.”

“Would it be convenient for me to come over and view the corpse? Like right away?”

“For me, sure. I guess he won’t have any problem with it, either.”

He chuckled; I didn’t. As morgue humor goes, that was one of the oldest and rottenest jokes there is.

“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. And could you please ask your experts on autopsies to be on hand?”

“You just did.”

“You a pathologist?” I asked hopefully.

“A surgeon, actually. But we’re only a small evac outfit, so everybody’s got to carry a few extra loads.”

“You must’ve done well in pathology at med school?”

“Nah. Nearly flunked it, but I never had a corpse complain.”

That was the second badly overused morgue joke in only seconds. Originality did not seem to be the man’s strong suit.