The Iron Sickle

— 4-

An hour and a half before the midnight curfew, the man with the iron sickle pushed through the rubberized curtain of a pochang macha, swiped rain off his shoulders, and sat heavily on a wooden stool, staring down at the grease-stained plank in front of him.

Pochang macha literally means “multiple product horse carriage.” In ancient times, before modern retailing and petroleum-driven distribution systems, independent businessmen traveled from village to village throughout the Korean Peninsula carrying their goods in a cart pulled by an ox or a horse. In modern times, especially in the city of Seoul, the horses have gone by the wayside. The carts are now on rubber wheels and can be pushed on paved streets from destination to destination. Most of the pochang macha owners cook hot food-like cuttlefish stew or boiled pig’s blood dumplings-and sell a lot of soju, a fiery rice liquor, and the cheaper mokkolli, a rice beer. They are also required to be licensed and inspected, but they have enough freedom to move from one area to another depending on where they can do the most business. When it rains or when it’s cold outside, which is often in Korea, huge rubberized flaps are folded down to envelop the cart, which, given the warmth of the charcoal stove in the center, creates a cozy environment away from the hustle and bustle of the city streets.

This particular pochang macha just happened to be located one block south of the MSR, the Main Supply Route, in front of an alleyway that led into the open-air Itaewon Market. According to Mrs. Lee On-su, the owner of the cart, there were already two customers seated at the splintered wooden serving counter when the man with the deformed lip entered. Both of the men were still in work clothes. Each had ordered a tumbler of soju, the Korean working man’s drink of choice, and a warm bowl of dubu-jigei ladled from a bubbling pot of scallions, fermented cabbage, and sliced bean curd. The kibun of Mrs. Lee’s pochang macha, the good feeling she had so carefully tried to cultivate, was about to be shattered.

Outside, the village patrol sloshed through mud and rain.

Corporal Ricky P. Collingsworth and Senior Private Kwon Hyon-up, a US Army MP and a ROK Army honbyong, had been assigned to patrol the bars, brothels, and nightclubs of Itaewon. “The ville,” as GIs call it, the red-light district set aside for foreigners, sits just off the MSR, about a half mile east of Yongsan Compound, the headquarters of the 8th United States Army. At night, Itaewon is packed with American soldiers and Korean “business girls” and the people who make their living waiting tables or tending bar or playing music, the support jobs in the manic world of sex, money, and good times.

Collingsworth and Kwon wore polished black helmets and Army-issue parkas to protect them from the rain. Still, the lower reaches of their fatigue trousers were damp and their combat boots were soaked through. According to the other MPs who worked the ville patrol, Collingsworth and Kwon were required to walk the same route every night, up to a half dozen times during their six-hour shift. In each barroom they entered, they made sure no brawls were about to erupt and then inspected the bathrooms, both male and female, and most importantly the back storage rooms and dark alleys behind the bars, to make sure no GIs were toking up or otherwise causing mischief. None of the Korean club owners objected; they appreciated the extra level of security. Besides, in a police state, objecting would’ve been futile.

“He ordered a bowl of dubu-jigei,” Mrs. Lee On-su told me, her chubby face perspiring even now on this cold evening. We stood beneath an overhang, out of the rain. “He hardly touched it, just let it sit while he sipped on his soju.”

“Did he drink much?” I asked.

“No. He just ordered the one glass. That’s it. Then he sat there, staring down at his soup, not saying anything, just listening to the two other customers.”

“What were they talking about?”

“Chukgu,” she said. Soccer.

“And all three men were still there when the MPs came?”

“Yes. The Korean soldier peeked in first, holding back the flap and poking his nose in. Then the American.”

“Did anyone pay any attention?”

“No. No one did. I’m used to them coming around every night when I’m in the Itaewon area, five or six times, so I just continued my work. My two customers kept talking about sports.”

“What did the man with the deformed lip do?”

She thought about that for a moment. “I remember I was wondering if he was going to eat his soup before it got cold or if he was going to return it to me and ask that I replace it with a hot bowl. I do that for my customers. No problem at all. I just hate it when they want their money back. More soup is not a problem, but the money is hard to replace.”

She was a husky woman, with calloused hands and a swarthy, sunburned face. Over her floor-length cotton dress she wore a thickly embroidered pullover wool sweater. She kept her thick arms crossed, as if she were suddenly freezing. The KNPs hadn’t interviewed her yet. They’d been too busy cordoning off the area and calling in the ambulance to take the ROK soldier away. Corporal Ricky P. Collingsworth still lay there, covered by a rain-soaked tarp. The medics in the ambulance from the 121 had decided not to move him. They were waiting for the 8th Army Coroner.

“So what did he do when the MP poked his head in?” I asked, keeping her on track, “The man with the deformed lip?”

“He lifted his soup bowl to his mouth. The broth was already cold. I wondered if he liked it that way, but he didn’t drink; he just held it there in front of his mouth, staring at the MP.”

“Did the MP say anything to you or any of the customers?”

“No. He just backed away. And when the flap closed, the man with the deformed lip set his bowl back down.” Mrs. Lee seemed slightly offended. She hugged her arms even tighter around her ample bosom. “He didn’t drink any soup.”

“What did he do then?”

“He reached in his pocket and set one thousand won on the counter. Too much money. He only owed me six hundred.”

“Did he wait for his change?”

“No. He stood up, opened the flap, peeked outside, and walked off without a word.”

“What was he wearing?”

“An overcoat. And beneath that a suit.”

“Mrs. Lee, do you remember if he was carrying anything?”

She puzzled for a moment over the question. “No. No briefcase. A lot of the men who wear suits carry briefcases. Sometimes they drink too much soju and leave the briefcases beneath my cart. Then I have to search it and call them. What a headache.”

“Was he carrying anything else?”

“Yes. Under his overcoat. I thought he might have been holding papers. Something he was trying to keep dry.”

“But you never saw what it was?”

“No. But I remember now. He was still holding it when he left my cart.”

“When did you hear the screams?”

“They weren’t screams exactly. More like grunts. And curses.”

“Was it his voice?”

“I’m not sure. He never talked.”

“How did he order the dubu-jigei and the soju?”

“I offered,” she said, “holding up a bowl with a ladle.” She demonstrated. “He nodded. Then I set a tumbler in front of him, and he didn’t object. He poured the soju himself from the bottle on the counter.”

“But the grunts and the curses,” I said, “how soon did they start after he left your cart?”

“Almost immediately,” she said.

So the man with the deformed lip had stepped outside the rain-soaked flaps of the pochang macha and attacked Collingsworth and Kwon as they walked away. Could they have heard his footsteps approaching? Probably not. Not in this rain.

I stared at the canvas-covered body. The highly polished combat boots lay twisted at an odd angle. Half filled with water, the MP helmet lay tilted in a puddle of mud.

The small van of the 8th Army Coroner pulled up just a few feet away. The coroner climbed out and surveyed the scene, then pulled back the canvas and grimaced. He knelt and made a few checks, then stood, shaking his head.

Ernie helped him load the body into the back of the van.

I asked Mrs. Lee a few more questions, but she didn’t seem to have any other information. I thanked her, handed her my card, and told her to call me if she thought of anything else, though I knew she probably never would, especially since it takes up to twenty minutes to be switched from the Seoul civilian phone lines to the 8th Army Yongsan Compound telephone exchange.

I was about to leave when she grabbed my arm. I turned.

“There is one more thing,” she said. I waited. “When he walked out of my cart, it was the first time I noticed.”

“What?”

“He walked funny.”

“He limped?”

“Not exactly. He didn’t favor one side over the other. Nothing like that. It was strange, unlike anything I’ve ever seen. He walked quickly but carefully, as if every step caused him pain. Like a barefoot man walking on glass.”

I stared at her, waiting for more, but that was it. I thanked her again and walked toward the coroner’s van, examining the ground as I did, noticing most of the blood had already been washed away by the rain.

Ernie turned to me. “Sharp instrument,” he said. “Sliced across the front of the neck, so deep Collingsworth never had a chance.”

“And the Korean?”

Ernie lifted a fiberglass helmet. The entire back section had been caved in. “Blunt trauma to the rear of the head. Knocked down. Stunned. Then as he was falling, our man apparently swung the sickle at Collingsworth and caught him across the throat.”

“Quick work,” I said.

“Expert work,” Ernie added. “This guy’s had a lot of practice.”

I described to Ernie what the pochang macha proprietress had told me, concluding with his funny walk.

“Maybe he’s got an extra sickle up his butt,” Ernie said.

When the coroner’s van drove away, the half dozen or so KNPs ordered the crowd of gawkers to disperse. Mostly they were people who lived in the immediate neighborhood, and they all scurried away quickly in order to avoid being cited for a curfew violation. The lone investigator from the Itaewon Police Station was a sergeant of intermediate rank who had called the ambulance for the injured ROK MP, surveyed the scene, and taken a few notes. Afterward, without bothering to consult with us, he’d returned to the warm confines of the Itaewon Police Station.

“What about the two guys drinking soju?” Ernie asked.

“Disappeared,” I said, “according to Mrs. Lee. She doesn’t know who they are or how to get in touch with them.”

“Do you believe her?”

I shrugged. “Yeah. This was only her second night in this area. It’s unlikely she’s developed any regulars yet.”

We studied the dark shuttered doorways and the narrow alley that led toward the canvas-covered stalls of the Itaewon Market. Everything was locked but in a few hours, before dawn, farmers and vendors would appear, deals would be cut, and eventually the wooden stalls would be loaded with peaks of glimmering Napa cabbage, piles of white-fleshed Korean turnips, and schools of iced mackerel fresh from the Han River Estuary that emptied into the Yellow Sea.

“What?” Ernie asked.

“I was just thinking. Why here?”

Ernie shrugged. “It’s Itaewon. Close to the ville. Plenty of American victims to choose from.”

“Why Americans?”

“To spread terror. To show us that he can strike anywhere, on or off compound. Even against an armed MP who’s trained to be alert.”

“And he was careful not to cut the Korean MP.”

“Just like at the Claims Office. Americans only. No Koreans killed, which is why that KNP investigator got out of here so quickly.”

“Which way did he go?” I asked.

“The KNP?”

“No, not him, the man with the iron sickle. After knocking out the Korean MP and almost slicing the head off of the American, which way did he go?”

Ernie turned slowly in a three hundred and sixty degree arc, studying the surroundings of the now-dark pochang macha. “Down that alley,” he said, pointing into the long narrow darkness that led toward the center of the Itaewon Market.

“Yeah,” I said. “That’s where I would go. Did you bring your flashlight?”

“Of course.” Ernie patted the side of his field jacket.

“Let’s go then.”

“After you, professor,” he said.

Ernie was always needling me about the long hours I spent studying the Korean language. But it paid off. Tonight I’d been able to interview the proprietress of the pochang macha without having to wait for the English translation of the KNP report, a report that would have been self-serving and possibly full of flat-out lies. I pulled my flashlight out of my pocket, checked to see it was working, and led the way into long shadows.

Somehow the man with the iron sickle had bluffed his way onto Yongsan Compound, maybe with a fake ID, maybe with a stolen ID; we hadn’t figured that part out yet. But out here, at a pochang macha on the edge of Itaewon, he wouldn’t need to go to any such trouble. He’d known about the ville patrol, and he’d known that at least one of the MPs would be an American. Had he followed them earlier? Stalked them? Picked out his victim? Almost certainly. He couldn’t have made such a clean, precise attack if he hadn’t. So that meant someone in the area might’ve noticed him. But even if we found a witness, would it do us any good? We still wouldn’t know who he was or where he came from or even what his motive was. We’d still be groping in the dark.

Ernie cursed.

“What?” I whispered.

“Stubbed my toe. Who leaves all this stuff lying around anyway?”

Ropes and stanchions anchored the canvas lean-tos that covered the wooden produce stands of the Itaewon Market. The rain had stopped and floating clouds revealed a half moon, which provided just enough silvery light for us to follow the long stalls that led ever deeper into the market.

“Why would he come back here?” Ernie asked.

“Just to get away without being seen,” I said. “On the far side of the market is the main drag. From there he could blend into the crowd. Make his way to a bus stop or wave down a taxi.”

“Maybe he’s from around here.”

“Maybe.”

I switched on my flashlight and searched the area. Something wild and furry scurried into a gutter with a squeal, a reptilian tail scattering a pile of wilted turnip greens.

“Rat,” Ernie said. “Hate those damn things.”

“Wait a minute. What’s that?” I pointed. The beam of Ernie’s flashlight followed mine.

“Hell if I know,” Ernie said.

There was a jumble of wooden crates, most of them flattened, thin slats held together by thick wire. One of the crates was standing upright, the slats of wood forming a teepee-like shape. Atop that, strands of wire had been woven into a flat, rectangular grill. The entire edifice stood about three feet tall.

“Christ,” Ernie said.

Hanging from the construction was a dead rat, eviscerated and dangling from its back paws, thick blood seeping from red guts.

Ernie knelt, peering at the dead rodent. “Who would do a thing like this?”

Whoever had built the edifice had spent some time on it. Wires had been twisted, cut, and retied together, and the object itself had been placed against the wall where, in the daylight, it easily would be seen by anyone passing by. In the dark, however, it would be invisible without a flashlight.

I knelt and studied it more closely. The immediate area had been cleared of debris and blood from the rat had dripped into a sticky puddle.

“It’s like a fetish,” I said.

“A what?”

“A symbol. A totem.”

That’s when I saw it, through the wooden slats, on the ground in the center of the teepee.

“There’s something in there,” I said.

“Where?”

I pointed. Ernie saw it, too. “What is it?”

“Only one way to find out.”

I warned Ernie to watch our backs. It was possible the whole point of the display was to mesmerize us, allowing for an attack from the rear. As he scanned the alley, I gingerly tilted the base of the teepee-like structure up, slipped my hand underneath, and grabbed the round object that lay flat on the ground. It felt like smooth wood. I pulled it out and allowed the teepee to fall back into position, wires rattling.

The round object fit neatly in the palm of my hand. I stood and held it out to Ernie, and he shone his flashlight on it. It was finely grained, as if it were made from walnut or cherry wood, and sanded so smoothly it almost shone. A serrated raised circle had been carved in the center, and around the edges there were tiny white marks, every fifth one slightly longer.

“A tuning knob,” Ernie said, “like from a radio.”

“Not a regular civilian radio,” I said.

“No, a field radio. Like we used in Nam. Like every combat unit in the country uses.”

“Maybe not a field radio,” I said, “but some sort of electronic device.”

“Right,” Ernie agreed. “I can’t be sure exactly what type of equipment it comes from but something like that.”

I studied the object more closely. There didn’t seem to be any marks or dents on it. But these things were usually made of plastic or sometimes metal, and they were stamped out by machinery. As I studied this one more closely I realized not every part of it was perfectly symmetrical. In some spots the lines had gone astray, as if the carver had needed to make allowances for the hardness of the wood.

“Why would anyone go to all the trouble to carve something like this?” I asked. “And then set this contraption up just to make sure we found it?”

“Moolah the hell out of me,” Ernie said, “but we found it.”

I slid the smooth knob into my pocket. “Maybe it has nothing to do with the attack on Collingsworth.”

“Not likely,” Ernie said. “Whoever did Collingsworth knew we’d walk up here and see his little arts and crafts project.”

Yeah, not likely, I thought.

We left the wire and wood slat totem behind and kept walking. At the end of the long rows of stalls was another narrow alley lined with dirty brick walls. This one led to the main drag of Itaewon. Now, an hour past curfew, there was no glimmering neon; all was dark and quiet.

“Maybe he’s waiting for us,” Ernie said.

I scanned the alley with the beam of my flashlight. “No place for him to hide.”

“Maybe down there,” Ernie said.

“One way to find out,” I said. “Let’s go.”

I switched off the flashlight and let the moonlight guide us into the alley. Step by step, we peered into the darkness around us. No monster popped out. At the end of the passageway, we paused, listening. When we heard nothing, we emerged onto the central street of Itaewon. All the red lights were off now, and everyone had gone to bed. Up above us on the steep hill loomed the unlit signs of the 007 Club and beyond that, the King Club. Below, at the intersection with the MSR, the UN Club sat silent and somber. Except for a few stray ramyon wrappers blown by the wind, nothing moved.

“So what now?” Ernie asked.

“This guy’s jerking us around. He leaves an elaborate clue and then disappears. Probably thinks he’s smart as hell.”

“He is. Smart enough to get away with two murders.”

“He hasn’t gotten away with them yet.”

We searched Itaewon for another half hour, to no avail. The streets were silent and empty. Finally, Ernie said, “So maybe I’ll go visit Miss Ju.”

“Isn’t it sort of late, Ernie,” I said, “to be barging in on her?”

Ernie glanced at me, puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“I mean is she expecting you?”

“What’s that got to do with it?”

Miss Ju was a tall and gorgeous cocktail waitress with an elaborate hairdo and an affinity for exotic makeup. A couple of months ago when she’d first started working at the 007 Club she’d attracted so much attention that the owner had taken her off serving drinks and switched her to hostess for whichever table was spending the most money. For some perverse reason, she’d been attracted to Ernie. I’m not sure what it was. He didn’t have much charm as far as I could see-in fact he was often downright rude to women, but for some reason they liked him. Maybe it was his pointed nose and his green eyes behind round-lensed glasses, or the way he was fascinated by whatever odd thing was plopped down in front of him. Or maybe it was the way he looked at life; as if there was nothing, ever, in any way more important than what was happening right now.

“We’re supposed to be on guard duty,” I told him.

“When the call came in, we were the only investigators available. So now we’re investigating. Screw guard duty.”

Ernie was right. Once the honchos of 8th Army heard an MP had been murdered, that’s all they’d be concerned with, not the sergeant-of-the-guard patrol. Still, I felt uncomfortable with him staying out here. It was possible the Provost Marshal had already been informed of the incident and he’d be waiting back at the compound for our report. Ernie read my mind.

“Tell the Colonel that I stayed out here to continue searching for the guy.”

“He’s not going to buy that.”

“Who cares? He won’t have any proof I didn’t.”

I was weakening. “What about your jeep?”

“It’s parked in a safe place. And locked.”

Actually, Ernie had rank on me. He was a Staff Sergeant, and I was only a buck sergeant, E-5. Still, I often played the role of the adult. Ernie liked that. It gave him someone to irritate.

“Okay,” I said finally, “but you better be in early tomorrow. A whole lot of waste is going to hit the fan.”

“Don’t sweat the small stuff, Sueno. See you manana.”

As he started to walk away, I said, “What happens if Miss Ju is otherwise occupied?”

Ernie swung a left hook into the air. “I’ll kick the guy out. Then I’ll go find a different girl.”

He probably would, too. Ernie cared less for the opinions of other people than anyone I’d ever known. It was his two tours in Vietnam that did it to him. Death is waiting. Why worry about anything else? In a few seconds, he was swallowed up by the jumble of passageways that led back into the tightly packed hooches that surrounded the main drag of Itaewon.

I stared up at the darkness. The half moon hovered overhead, surveying the silence. I turned and headed downhill. When I reached the MSR, I looked both ways, but there was no need. At this hour, because of the midnight-to-four curfew, all traffic had ceased. The walk back to the compound was slightly less than a mile. I put one combat boot in front of the other.

The facade of the Hamilton Hotel leered in front of me. I passed it and glanced down the narrow lanes leading off the MSR. No signs of life. In this area even the street lamps seemed to have died. I heard the scratch-like scurrying of vermin getting out of my way but they were too fast for me; I didn’t see them. I half expected one of the military jeeps of the Korean National Police curfew patrol to loom out of the darkness but they didn’t. It was an eerie feeling, like being the last person on earth, but I knew I wasn’t. This area of town, like the rest of Seoul, would be crammed with people during the day; people buying and selling and driving and walking and shouting. The people were still here but they were indoors. Quiet. As if hiding from some great beast of the night. And then I heard it.

A cough, down one of the alleys. I stopped, stood silently for a moment, listening. When the cough wasn’t repeated, I stepped forward and peered up the incline. Two-story cement block buildings lined the road. Farther uphill, brick walls surrounded homes with tiled roofs turned up at the edges like blackbirds ready for flight. Just beyond the overhang of a small store, a thick telephone pole rose from the cobbled street. Behind it, I saw movement. Someone was standing there, purposely hidden. Why would anyone be out at this hour? And why hide?

I checked to make sure my flashlight was in my pocket. When we’d left the compound earlier this evening, neither Ernie nor I had time to stop at the arms room and check out a weapon. But I probably wouldn’t need one. Chances were this was just some husband who came home too late and was locked outside of his home by his wife. Or maybe it was a drunk who was afraid of being caught by the curfew police.

Or it could be the man with the iron sickle.

I stepped into the alley. Off to the side, I noticed a wooden crate of empty beer bottles of the Oriental Brewery. Thick, heavy things, a liter each. I grabbed one and held it in my right hand. Then I started uphill, holding my flashlight in my left, ready to click it on.

Whoever was standing behind the pole hadn’t moved. Maybe they didn’t realize I’d spotted them. I continued uphill, thinking about Mr. C. Winston Barretsford, the man who’d been brutally murdered right in his office, and Corporal Rickey Collingsworth, a young soldier barely out of his teens who’d had his life cut short.

I wished Ernie were there to back me up.

Suddenly, whoever had been lurking behind the telephone pole stepped out into the roadway, someone dressed all in black.

He was twenty yards above me, uphill at a steep incline, still too far away for me to charge. Too far away for me to reach him before he had a chance to whip out whatever he was holding beneath his overcoat. He stood perfectly still, staring at me, but in the dark shadow I couldn’t make out his eyes or any facial features. I was thinking of what I would do if he came at me, maybe throw the beer bottle at him. Then, unexpectedly, he took an awkward, tilting step forward.

I held the bottle loosely in my hand, ready to wing it at him as soon as he came within range. I also pulled out the flashlight, ready to use that, too. I stepped toward him, angling for position in the narrow road and hoping for enough space to maneuver and to avoid the slashing iron of his curved blade.