The Wandering Ghost

6

Warrant Office One Fred Bufford’s forearms quivered with tension. The barrel of the. 45 bounced up and down and side to side, variously aimed at Ernie and then me. Ernie kept laughing and I wished he’d shut up.

“Hands on your heads,” Bufford shouted.

I put my hands on my head.

Ernie placed his hands on his hips and, finally, stopped laughing.

“Who do you think you’re going to shoot with that thing, Bufford?” Ernie asked. “What’s our crime? Entering the Provost Marshal’s Office without a permit? Studying a map of Tongduchon without proper authorization?” Ernie barked another laugh.

“No,” Bufford shouted. “Assaulting a fellow MP out in the ville, for no apparent reason.”

Ernie groaned in disgust. “I bopped Weatherwax in the nose,” Ernie told him, “for a damn good reason. You ordered him to follow us. To keep tabs on us. To find out what we were doing.” Ernie pointed his finger at Bufford’s nose and took a step closer. “And that’s interfering with an official investigation.”

I dropped my hands from the top of my head and grabbed Ernie’s elbow, keeping him from walking into that loaded. 45.

“You don’t know that,” Bufford said.

“I don’t know that you sent him,” Ernie said, his voice taking on a mocking tone. “And maybe Weatherwax likes to spend his spare time following CID agents around because it makes for interesting entries in his diary. Give me a break, Bufford. You’re so damn transparent. Go ahead. Shoot! Do with our bodies the same thing you did with Private Druwood’s body. Pretend we jumped off the obstacle course tower and killed ourselves.”

By now, a few MPs had gathered in the reception area. They were elbowing one another, pointing, mumbling amongst themselves. Bufford lowered his gun and looked back at them and shouted at them to be at ease.

That’s all Ernie needed.

Before I could tighten my grip, he launched himself across the wood-slat floor at Warrant Officer Fred Bufford. Bufford heard the footsteps pounding, turned, and started to raise the. 45 but Ernie leaped at him. The two men crashed backward into the crowd of MPs.

All hell broke loose. Men were shouting and cursing and a few of them tried to pull Ernie off Bufford but failed. Ernie continued to pound away at him unmercifully. One of the MPs, thankfully, had the presence of mind to grab Bufford’s. 45. Kneeling on Bufford’s skinny forearm, he yanked the weapon out of Bufford’s grip. I ran forward, wrapped my arms around Ernie’s waist, and pulled with all my might. For a moment, Ernie held onto Bufford’s neck but then he let go and we tumbled backward onto our butts. Just as I was rising to my feet, someone shouted “Attention!”

Suddenly, all the MPs stood ramrod straight, their arms held tightly at their sides. Except for Fred Bufford who still lay on the floor, clutching his throat, trying to breathe. Apparently, Ernie’s headbutt had knocked the air out of him. I helped Ernie up. Colonel Stanley X. Alcott, in a civilian coat and open-collared shirt, strode into our midst.

“What the hell? Bufford, are you okay?”

Without being told, two MPs knelt and helped Fred Bufford sit upright. One of them yanked upwards on Bufford’s armpits to give his lungs maximum inhaling capacity. After a few seconds, he started to breath normally. He pointed at Ernie.

“He came at me,” he told Colonel Alcott.

“After your man here,” I said, pointing at Bufford, “pulled his. 45. For nothing more than standing inside the briefing room and reading this map.”

Alcott glanced back at Bufford.

“No, sir. I was arresting him for the assault on Staff Sergeant Weatherwax.”

Alcott glanced back at me. “That wasn’t good.”

“Weatherwax was following us,” I said. “Interfering with an official investigation. He had it coming.”

“That’s not what I heard,“” Alcott said. “I heard you two were drinking beer and chasing women.”

So Weatherwax had, in fact, been reporting his observations up the chain of command.

“It doesn’t matter what we were doing,” I replied. “Weatherwax shouldn’t have been following us. Besides, your man here,” I pointed at the still-seated Bufford, “failed to put in his serious incident report that Corporal Jill Matthewson had been involved in the Chon Un-suk traffic fatality.”

“That has nothing to do with her disappearance!” Bufford shouted.

“How the hell do you know that?” Ernie roared out the question so loudly that everyone, including the armed MPs, took a half a step backwards. “You been cherry-picking information ever since you arrived in Division, Bufford. Whatever, in your opinion, might have a chance of making the Division look bad, you exclude from your reports. Don’t you understand? That’s dangerous! Lives can be lost. For all we know Corporal Matthewson has been kidnapped and is being raped and tortured as we speak. And you want to dick around and tell me that something as big as the Chon Un-suk death has nothing whatever to do with her disappearance? Maybe some enraged Korean decided to take revenge for Chon Un-suk’s death and right now Jill Matthewson is paying the price.”

That was a long speech coming from Ernie and it was a measure of how much Division had pissed him off. I don’t think Ernie really believed that Jill Mathewson had been kidnapped, but it was a possibility and every possibility had to be taken into consideration. A few of the MPs started to mumble. Ernie was right about the danger of excluding information and they knew it.

“And now,” Ernie continued, “you pull a gun on me just because me and my partner are in here doing our jobs.” Ernie took a step closer to Bufford. “Well, I’ll tell you something, Mr. Fred Bufford. Me and my partner are going to do our jobs and I don’t give a shit if you or the provost marshal or the entire goddam Division tries to stop us. Whether you like it or not, Corporal Jill Matthewson was a soldier and an MP and we’re going to find her. We all have to stick together, or we’ll all go down together because there’s a lot of ass-holes out there and if we don’t stop them nobody else will!”

The MPs were mumbling louder now, in total agreement with my partner, Ernie Bascom.

Colonel Alcott must’ve known that he was losing control of the situation so he gestured for silence. As he did so, Bufford piped up.

“They were tired,” Bufford said.

“Who was tired, Bufford?” Ernie asked.

“Privates Elliot and Korman. They were ferrying cargo back from the Western Corridor. They’d been driving in the dark and under poor road conditions. When they approached those girls on the side of the road, they weren’t expecting such a big crowd. The truck slid, one of the girls was killed. It was an accident.”

Most of the MPs murmured in assent.

This was news to me. I’d assumed that at seven thirty in the morning, the truck had been leaving Camp Casey. Instead, they’d been returning to Camp Casey, with cargo no less. What sort of cargo would you pick up in the middle of the night? I needed to confirm what I’d just heard.

“The two drivers,” I said, “Elliot and Korman, left Camp Casey in the middle of the night, drove to the Western Corridor, and then were back in Tongduchon by zero-seven-thirty?”

Alcott shot Bufford a look, but the taller man was too busy talking to notice.

“Yes. They were exhausted. They were good MPs, but exhausted. You can’t blame them.”

And they were also MPs. Why hadn’t that been in the safety report? Or if it had, I’d missed it. Attention to detail, what the army always harps on. I cursed myself for not being more alert. But the more I thought about it, the more certain I was it hadn’t been mentioned anywhere in the safety report. It must’ve been in the court-martial transcripts but I had yet to read those.

Colonel Alcott found his voice. “At ease, goddam it. At ease!”

Everyone shut up.

“Bufford, you apologize to these two men for pulling a gun on them. Bascom, you’re going to see the desk sergeant and fill out a complete report on what happened between you and Weatherwax last night. Whether or not charges will be brought is still an open question. You’ll be informed later. Sueno, you make sure that Bascom here completes the report, answers all follow-up questions, and then and only then will you two be free to go. Is that understood?

“Understood, sir,” I replied.

“That’s it then. Bufford?”

An MP handed Warrant Officer Fred Bufford his. 45, butt first. Bufford grabbed it by the handle and, as he rose to his feet, slipped it into the leather holster hanging off his bony hip.

“Okay,” Bufford said. “I overreacted. But you make that statement,” he told Ernie, “and sign it and answer all our questions. You got that?”

Ernie crossed his arms and shrugged.

Before anyone could object to the deal, Colonel Alcott shouted, “Back to your duties! Everybody. Move it!”

While Ernie was making his statement, Colonel Alcott called me out into the hallway. When we were alone, he came so close I had to retreat a step. He was clean shaven and smelled of cologne and his civilian clothes were neatly pressed. My guess was that he’d encountered us as he’d taken a last turn through the Provost Marshal’s Office before heading off to the Indianhead Officers’ Club. Socializing is a big part of an officer’s life, if he’s ambitious.

In a low voice, Alcott said, “You will not make any further false accusations about the Druwood case. That was a training accident and only a training accident. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.” I understood only too well. These guys were not going to let two low-level 8th Army CID agents rock their cozy little boat.

“If you persist in these accusations,” Alcott continued, “you will be guilty of spreading false rumor concerning the integrity of the chain of command, a crime that is prohibited under the Uniform Code of Military Justice. And, I might add, a crime that is taken extremely seriously up here at Division. Do you understand?”

“I understand, sir.” Colonel Alcott was right about the UCMJ. One of its provisions specifically states that it is a criminal offense to spread rumors that can be shown to have a deleterious effect on the morale of a military unit. But one man’s rumor is another man’s fact.

Two armed MPs marched down the narrow hallway. Colonel Alcott stepped away from me and acknowledged their greeting. After they’d passed, he closed in on me again.

“I suggest, Agent Sueno,” he told me, “that you and your partner wrap up your investigation and wrap it up soon.”

“We haven’t found Corporal Matthewson, sir.”

“Maybe she doesn’t want to be found. Did that ever occur to you?”

“It did, sir.”

“So maybe you’d better cut your losses and head back to Seoul before one of these peripheral issues you’ve been nosing into explodes in your face.” Colonel Alcott paused and stared at me. “Now I’m not going to ask again if you understand me because, let’s cut the shit, I know you understand me. I’m telling you, for the last time, wrap up your report and get the hell out of Tongduchon.”

With that, he swiveled smartly and marched his little body down the hallway.

Ok-hi led the way, the heels of her black leather boots clicking down a flight of stone steps that led toward the East Bean River. About twenty yards below us, lining the muddy banks, were row upon row of wooden shanties. Candles glowed from within, as did an occasional cooking fire; some of the homes were lit by electric bulbs. The river moved sluggishly beneath the weight of moonlight, and the odor from the almost stagnant flow was what you’d expect from any waste dump. Rancid. Laundry fluttered from lines; water sloshed from buckets; old men barked; children shouted.

“The Turkey Farm,” Ok-hi said. “No more bad thing here. KNPs say no can do.”

So the brothels had been replaced by poor families. Families that had probably traveled from all over the Korean countryside, looking for work in Tongduchon, a city that, because of its proximity to Camp Casey, had become an economic boomtown.

A three-quarters moon hovered above the hills on the far side of the valley, its red glow shining on the Confucian shrine, a pagoda-like structure made of stone. The back of the pagoda was to the river but its face frowned out onto a small plaza. The entrance to the shrine was guarded by stone heitei, mythical lionlike creatures that guard all religious sites in Korea.

“There,” Ok-hi said, pointing with her open palm. “Old king die.”

“Sorry to hear that,” Ernie said. “How old was he?”

“No.” Ok-hi shook her head vehemently. “Not old. King young but he die long time ago.”

“How long ago?”

“Long time.” Her cute nose crinkled. “How long? How you say?” She looked at me. “Menggu.”

“Mongols,” I said.

“Yeah. King die when Mongol come.”

Ernie whistled. “That had to be before I got drafted.”

About seven hundred years ago, to be exact.

Surrounding the plaza were shops and teahouses and what looked like chophouses and bars. None of the buildings were very big. The largest, an ancient wooden edifice some three stories tall, stood directly opposite the shrine. The people milling about appeared, from this distance, to be Koreans. I didn’t see any GIs. I did notice, however, that a paved, two-lane road ran north from the shrine. Large enough for a KNP patrol car or an American jeep or even, with a good driver, a two-and-a-half-ton truck.

So here it was. The Turkey Farm that I’d heard so much about. An eyesore that had caused so much embarrassment for both Korean and U.S. authorities that they’d finally mustered the will to clean it up. What stories this village must hold. Of young girls sold into indentured servitude, forced into prostitution. Of GIs during the Korean War, and in the years after, rolling their vehicles down muddy roads, pulling up along the banks of the river, paying for sex with a bar of soap or a pack of cigarettes. The girls from the impoverished countryside being brought in younger and younger, being used, worn out, and tossed aside to make room for more. Whole seas of young women ruined, lost, ravaged by disease. And GIs, their biological lust never sated, experiencing all this, experiencing the unbridled satisfaction of all their desires and then returning home to Dubuque, Iowa or Little Rock, Arkansas, or Pasadena, California, trying to forget what they’d seen. Putting it out of their minds. Getting on with their lives. But never, by no stretch of the imagination, being the same again.

“Sueno!”

It was Ernie’s voice. Angry.

“You just going to stand there all night or are we going to get some work done?”

“Work,” I said. “Right.”

I stepped gingerly down the steep stone steps.

Ok-hi looked at me quizzically, unable to figure me out. Then she shrugged her shoulders, turned, and resumed tip-toeing sideways down the narrow steps. Wading through moonlight.

I’d seen hookers in L.A. Some just high school girls, working to pay for their drug habit. But how did their drug habit start? When they fell in with gang members and pimps. Gang members and pimps who brought the curious young girls along until they were hooked, under their power, and then, and only then, would they put them out on the street.

Even when I was still in junior high school I saw this and marveled at how young girls could fall for it. One of my classmates, Vivian Matatoros, started hanging out with gang members. Everything about her changed. The glasses she wore disappeared, the brown hair pulled back into a pony tail became a frizzed-out mess, and she slid down from the classes that held the top students to the lowest rung of academic hell. So I seldom saw her or had a chance to talk with her or laugh with her. I spotted her only occasionally in the hallways, swaggering with girlfriends who chomped on as much gum and wore as much makeup as their jaw capacity and facial measurements would allow.

One morning, in the passageway behind the girl’s gym, I cornered her. I stood in front of her so she couldn’t ignore me and she couldn’t walk past me. When she realized that she was trapped, she gazed up at me, ready to fight.

“What’s happened to you, Vivian?” I asked.

“Get away from me.”

I wouldn’t let her go. I forced her to talk.

“I was bored,” she told me finally. “No one was paying attention to me.”

I knew the feeling. I told her I often felt the same way. I offered to talk to her, to meet her after school. She looked at me with contempt.

“Where were you when I needed you?” she asked.

I had no answer.

She shoved past me roughly and marched away. Soon she dropped out of school. Weeks later some of the guys told me that she was working a corner off Whittier Boulevard. They wanted me to go look-and laugh and shout names at her-but I couldn’t do it. I remembered the Vivian who used to help me with my algebra. The girl who’d shared a sandwich with me when I had no lunch. That Vivian was the only Vivian I wanted to remember. The only Vivian I could bear to remember.

A huge slab of polished marble stood at the front of the shrine, flanked by the snarling stone heitei. By flickering candlelight I read as much as I could. Some of the hangul script and the Chinese characters were too complicated for me but I managed to understand the gist of the story.

His name was Yu Byol-seing and he wasn’t a king, as Ok-hi had assumed, but merely a general. As a young man he started his career as a common soldier but by his intelligence and daring rose through the ranks rapidly. The Koreans were desperately trying to hold off the invading Mongol hordes and the carnage was such that there were plenty of promotion opportunities. Kublai Khan, the grandson of Genghis Khan had already conquered most of northern China. He expected that conquering Korea would be like pulling ripe fruit off a plum tree. Instead, much to the Mongols’ surprise, they met fierce resistance.

By the time the Mongols had crossed the Yalu River into Korea and conquered the north, there was only one small army left, led by General Yu. This battered force was all that stood between them and Kaesong, the ancient capital city. The Mongol cavalry, of course, was the best in the world. After all the defeats the Koreans had suffered, General Yu had no cavalry left, only foot soldiers. For foot soldiers to face Mongol horsemen on flat land was suicide. Yet making a stand in rocky mountain retreats might slow them down but would do no good in the long run. The Mongols had shown that they were perfectly willing to ride past Korean soldiers holed up on rocky ridges, and continue south to rape and pillage. General Yu had no choice. He had to face the Mongol army.

He chose the environs of East Bean River for his stand. Many small streams intersected in this open valley. None of the rivers were broad enough to totally stop a cavalry advance, horses could wade across them and climb the muddy banks, but the damp geography slowed them down. And the narrow rivers ran in jagged patterns, slicing the valley like a complex jigsaw puzzle. General Yu took advantage of this terrain. First, he arrayed his army in full view of the advancing Mongols. When their cavalry flanked him and charged, he let loose with his archers and pulled his foot soldiers back, retreating across a muddy stream. On the far bank the men turned and made their stand, emplacing iron pikes and holding their ground as the mounted Mongols struggled up and out of the mud. Before the horsemen could find any room to maneuver, the Koreans attacked. The battle was fierce and General Yu moved his soldiers around the chessboard of the East Bean valley with consummate skill, befuddling the Mongol cavalry at every turn. The Mongol losses grew and the Koreans became bolder but Kublai Kahn and his generals hadn’t conquered the world by being timid. With lightning speed, a horseman raced to the rear requesting reinforcements. By the next morning, they arrived. Over ten thousand strong, according to the stone slab, all of them arrayed on the hills surrounding Tongduchon. Wounded but still willing to fight, the Koreans were defiant. By now, the Mongols had a better idea of how to maneuver in the tricky terrain of East Bean River. They placed various units of cavalry in different sectors so they wouldn’t have to cross rivers so often. By the end of the second day, General Yu and his entire force were destroyed. According to the stone tablet, not one soldier surrendered.

The Korean king in Seoul retreated to Kanghua Island and sued the Mongols for peace. They gave it to him, but in return for maintaining his life and his throne, he turned Chosun, the Land of the Morning Calm, over to Kublai Khan.

When I was finished reading, I glanced around at the little village that surrounded the shrine. From glory to degradation and some day, I hoped, back to glory.

Ernie trudged up the steps of the shrine, Ok-hi by his side.

“While you been reading, Ok-hi and I were out asking questions. Everybody in that chophouse over there saw it.” He pointed at a noodle shop with a wooden sign that said, TONGDU NEING-MYON. East Bean Cold Noodles.

“They all saw it? What do you mean?”

“I mean they all heard the thud and when they ran outside they found a dead body. A GI with his skull crushed in.”

“Where?”

“Right there.”

Ernie pointed to the heitei nearest the three-story building. I walked over, shining my small flashlight on the snarling beast. His left ear was shattered. I touched the wound. Tiny bits of gravel broke off on my finger, the same type of gravel I’d plucked from Private Druwood’s skull.

Across from the shrine, the woodwork of a three-story building creaked in the gentle breeze. It was an old and venerable construction, almost like a Victorian mansion except there was no intricate gingerbread trim. A lone electric bulb burned inside a window on the third floor. The sign on the lower level said TONGDU SSAL-GUANG. East Bean Rice Storage.

At the top of the roof, moonbeams glinted off a ledge. From there it would be an easy leap to the stone heitei. Skulls would meet. Bone would crunch. Blood would flow, but only for a moment. Then the man’s heart would stop and the flowing blood would cease and people would rush out of East Bean Cold Noodles and the KNPs would be called and the 2nd Division Military Police would be notified and someone would come out with a jeep or an ambulance and transport the dead GI back to Camp Casey.

But no one would dump the body at the obstacle course, if normal procedure was being followed.

I turned to Ok-hi. “Did you ask about black-market honchos?”

“Yes,” she replied. “Everybody say there, in ssal changgo.” She pointed to the rice warehouse. “Old mama-san work there, do black market all the time. Everybody say she called Chilmyon-jok Ajjima.” The Turkey Lady.

Actually, nobody knows for sure why GIs christened this old brothel area the Turkey Farm. Some say because it was full of young chicks. Whatever the reason, the name had caught on not only with the GIs but also with the Koreans. To call the black-market honcho, Chilmyon-jok Ajjima, the Turkey Lady, implied that she’d been here a long time.

Ernie turned to Ok-hi. “You wait here.”

“No way,” she answered. “I go, too.”

Ernie shrugged. It was a free country. Sort of.

The front door of the warehouse was locked from the outside. We walked around back and found a wooden loading platform. The metal shuttered entranceway from the platform was padlocked, also from the outside. A side door, however, was open. We walked in.

I shone my flashlight around a large space. The first floor was about a third full of what you’d expect a granary to be full of. Large hemp sacks on wooden pallets. They were slashed with Chinese characters and apparently contained rice, barley, and millet, whatever in the hell millet was used for. Feeding livestock, I supposed. The floor of this main warehouse wasn’t completely flat. Elevated platforms raised some pallets above others. And then I realized why. There had been a stage against the far wall and a bar to our right. The ground level, before it had been turned into a grain warehouse, had served as a nightclub.

How long ago? During the Korean War, once the frontlines stabilized? Maybe. How many GIs just in from the field, wearing muddy boots and reeking of two weeks worth of stink, had traipsed in here? How many frightened young girls just in from the countryside had been dragged through these doors by procurers? Girls who’d never seen a building this big nor heard a live band nor even gazed eye-to-eye with a Westerner.

Ernie elbowed me, bringing me back to the present. Sometimes he became exasperated by my moods. At a time like this, in the middle of an investigation, I couldn’t blame him. I was sometimes impatient with myself for wallowing in the past or, worse, in a future that existed only in my imagination.

A cement-walled stairwell led upward. Even from the bottom we could see the glow of the bulb shining above. I heard clicking. Someone using a typewriter? But the clicks were too soft, wood on wood, and much too rapid for a typewriter. Then I realized what the sounds were. Ok-hi realized it at the same time.

“Jupan,” she whispered.

Someone, an expert, manipulating an abacus.

I led, holding the flashlight. Ernie followed, holding his. 45. And Ok-hi came last, stepping lightly so her high-heeled leather boots wouldn’t make too much noise on the stairs.

The second floor seemed to be deserted. Still, I took a few steps along the corridor to investigate. Small rooms, open, no doors. I shone the flashlight beam into one. Jam-packed with black-market merchandise, cardboard cases of canned fruit cocktail imported from Hawaii. In the next room, cases of crystallized orange drink were piled almost to the ceiling. The next held boxes of bottled maraschino cherries and about a jillion packets of nondairy creamer. Each room was like that, filled with merchandise taken from the American PX. But these items hadn’t been purchased one by one by a lone GI doing weekend shopping. These items had been bought in bulk, probably straight off the truck that had transported them from the Port of Inchon. That implied someone in procurement was involved in the scam, making the sale and also covering it up in the inventory chain. Both Koreans, who did the actual clerical work, and Americans, who supervised them, had to be involved. Using my flashlight, I checked the dates stamped onto some of the cases. Months ago. By the pristine condition of the boxes and the volume of the product, there was no doubt that this black-market operation was sophisticated, widespread, and had at least the tacit approval of someone high up. A lot of money was involved. Did this have anything to do with the death of Private Marvin Z. Druwood? Or with the disappearance of Corporal Jill Matthewson?

Maybe.

One thing that struck me as odd was the size of the rooms. Obviously, this building had never been designed to be a warehouse. These rooms were tiny and there were dozens of them spread down the hallway. Just enough room for a small bed. Just enough room for a young girl to lie down and for a young GI to slip off his boots and pull down his trousers.

Ernie and Ok-hi waited for me at the stairwell. Ernie pointed upstairs. I nodded. The three of us started to climb.

At the top of the steps I allowed my eyes to adjust to the ambient light from the single bulb that illuminated the long corridor. More rooms, like the ones on the second floor, were jam-packed with made-in-the-USA black-market items. This time mostly electronics: tape recorders, stereo equipment, cheap cameras. One doorway stood open, light flooding out into the hallway. We walked forward and as we did so whoever was working inside stopped clicking disks on the abacus. I strolled to the door, Ernie right behind me, and by the time we arrived I’d shoved my flashlight deep into my jacket pocket.

Inside, an elderly Korean woman wearing the traditional chima-chogori dress with a white blouse and jade-colored skirt stood in front of a cheap wooden desk, staring back at us. Her sandals were made of white rubber and shaped with the toes upturned into a sharp points. Traditional Korean shoes, so made because during the Yi Dyansty the upturned toe was a sign of beauty. Her hands were on her hips. Gray hair stuck out from a round face in blazing disarray. Her nose was flat, her lips were clamped tight, and her black eyes burned fiercely. Defiant. More than just defiant. Her entire posture radiated indignation and outrage at being interrupted in her work.

“Anyonghaseiyo,” I said. Are you in peace?

Behind the woman, a window overlooked the shrine to General Yu Byol-seing.

Her outrage built but, finally, she found her voice. “Weikurei noh-nun?” What’s the matter with you?

The voice was gruff, gravelly, deep. Like the history of this building itself. And apparently she had no fear of us.

Ernie stepped past me, reached inside his jacket, and whipped out his CID badge. “We’re from Eighth Army,” he said, “and you’re under arrest.”

The woman’s face registered surprise, the liver spots on her face expanded like an exploding universe, and then she began to laugh. Uproariously. Bending over, holding her stomach. Tears came to her eyes.

Despite myself, I had to smile. So did Ok-hi.

Ernie became more angry. “You think this is funny?” He put away his CID badge and pulled out his. 45.

I grabbed his arm. “Wait, Ernie. Let’s talk to her before we blow her away.”

Ernie balked, his face still red, but slowly he slipped his. 45 back into its holster.

The old woman continued to laugh.

Ok-hi started laughing, too, holding her right hand modestly in front of her mouth. Then I smiled and even Ernie smiled and within a few seconds we were all laughing along with the old woman. Suddenly, she stopped. Gradually, we stopped, too.

“You Eighth Army,” she said. “CID. You come here arrest Chilmyon-jok Ajjima.” She pointed her forefinger at her nose. “Maybe you arrest me you gotta arrest everybody in TDC. All KNP and, how you say, sichang?”

“The mayor,” I said.

“Yeah. Mayor. And you arrest all honchos on Camp Casey. After that, then you arrest Chilmyon-jok Ajjima.”

She began to laugh again.

We laughed along with her but she’d just confirmed what I’d been thinking ever since we walked into this building. The black-market activities in Tongduchon were not only widespread but sanctioned by the powers that be, both Korean and American. Would this old woman’s testimony stand up in a U.S. Army court-martial? Not a chance. No military prosecutor in the world would have the temerity to put her on the stand. Military courts-martial are decorous affairs. A bunch of American officers, lined up, wearing dress green uniforms, each judge trying to look more severe than the other. The honchos don’t like riffraff appearing in front of them. Certainly not someone known as the Turkey Lady.

Ernie sobered up first and asked the old woman the question that we’d really come to ask.

“Where was Druwood when he fell?”

The Turkey Lady stared at Ernie blankly for a moment and I was prepared for the usual criminal response that always added up to something like “I know nothing.” I was already planning my counter move. But, as it turned out, I didn’t need to threaten her.

“Come on,” the Turkey Lady responded. “I show you.”

We left the little office with its couch and its coffee table and walked back into the hallway. We were halfway down the corridor when I stopped dead in my tracks.

“What the hell is this?”

The Turkey Lady stopped, as did Ernie and Ok-hi.

I shone my flashlight into a room less than half the size of all the others.

“That new girl room,” the Turkey Lady said.

“New girl room?”

“Long time ago, when new cherry girl come Turkey Farm, maybe she don’t like sleep with smelly GI. She don’t like have boom-boom.” Sex. “So house mama-san make her sleep in this room.”

“It’s too small to sleep in,” Ernie said. “You can’t even sit down.”

“Yeah. Pretty soon she tired, pretty soon she tell mama-san she want sleep in her own room. Then GI come, no sweat.”

“And if she gutted it out?” I asked. “If she didn’t ask for a larger room?”

“Then mama-san knuckle-sandwich with her. Maybe papa-san, too.”

The Turkey Lady told us all this in a matter-of-fact tone, the years, and maybe the repetition, having leached away any emotion the story might’ve once held for her. Had she once been a “cherry girl” banished to this narrow closet? I wanted to know but there were too many things I wanted to know and we had work to do. Besides, the reason I’d stopped everyone here was not because of the small size of the room but because of what it contained. I shined my flashlight on an open, crate-like framework with a matting of straw at the bottom. Inside the cheap packaging stood a vase. Greenish blue. Celadon, the type manufactured most perfectly during the Koryo Dynasty, more than seven centuries ago. Intricately painted white cranes floated skyward on a blue green background. Wispy clouds, like knotted strings of fluff, glided heavenward. The glow of the flashlight made the delicate porcelain seem not like a solid object but like a dreamscape of jade shading off into infinity. For a moment, I thought I heard the wings of the white cranes flapping but actually it was only Ok-hi, and even Ernie, gasping for breath.

Breathtaking. That was the word. I don’t think I’d ever seen such an exquisite work of art this close up. Sure, when I was a kid in L.A. we’d gone on field trips to the L.A. County Museum but everything had been trapped behind plastic or glass, safe from our grasping little hands. This vase was alive. It was right here. It was as if the ancient artist stood in the room with us. Smiling. Taking a bow.

“Chon hak byong,” Ok-hi said, in reverential tones. The Thousand Crane Vase.

The Turkey Lady beamed.

“Who’s this for?” Ernie asked.

The Turkey Lady waved her hand. “Some honcho. Come on. I show you roof.”

At the far end of the corridor a rickety wooden ladder led up to a trapdoor in the ceiling. The Turkey Lady climbed up the ladder quickly, her jade skirt billowing. Then she reached up and pushed open the trapdoor and, as she climbed through, Ok-hi, Ernie, and I were treated to a full view of her undergarments, white cotton pantaloons. Then Ernie climbed up followed by Ok-hi and me.

We stood on the flat roof, then strolled around, staring over a three-foot-high cement wall. The entire world of Tongduchon spread before us: The blazing lights of the nightclub district; meandering moonglow reflecting off the East Bean River; the empty darkness of the rice fields to the west. And to the east, the sporadic blinking of the scattered bulbs of Camp Casey. I turned and inhaled the fresh winter air. The cold breeze floated in from the north, off snowcapped mountain ranges. Having blown, I imagined, across Manchuria, all the way from the mysterious heart of Siberia.

A lean-to had been set up, with sturdy wooden poles and a canvas top secured by ropes, probably part of an old bivouac tent used in field maneuvers. Beneath, on a wooden platform, comfortable tatami mats were spread, topped by flat silk cushions, the kind of cushions Koreans use when they sit cross-legged on a warm ondol floor. Huatu, Korean flower cards, lay scattered about, interspersed with a few Bicycle brand U.S. playing cards. A small refrigerator near the elevated platform was plugged into a transformer and humming. I opened it and, using my flashlight, examined the contents within: bottles of soda water, orange juice, about a dozen cans of beer.

Ernie leaned past me and helped himself to one of the cold beers. After popping the top and taking a slug, he handed the half-empty can to Ok-hi. She sipped daintily.

“Nice set up they have here,” Ernie said.

I turned to the Turkey Lady. She’d slipped off her plastic sandals, stepped up on the tatami-covered platform, and seated herself, legs crossed, on one of the flat cushions. Reaching into the folds of her skirt, she pulled out a pack of Kent cigarettes and then a Bic lighter and toked up. Exhaling gratefully, she surveyed her little domain, a beatific smile spread across her lips.

“Who comes up here, Ajjima?” I asked. “GIs?”

She shook her head vehemently. “Not all GI. Only MP come here. They can’t go village.” She pointed to the nightclub district to the south. “So MP come here.”

Every MP unit in the U.S. Army counsels its soldiers not to spend their off-duty time in the same hangouts as other soldiers. Too often when a GI becomes drunk and remembers being busted by an MP, trouble starts. To set up their own little getaway, their own little club, is not unusual. And it seems that the 2nd Division MPs had a nice one here on top of this dilapidated former brothel in the heart of the Turkey Farm.

I surveyed the patio. During the day, when the sun shone, it would be a nice place to party. I spotted something against the far wall and shined the flashlight on it.

“Hibachi,” Ernie said. “They barbecued up here, too.”

“Which MPs came up here?” I asked the Turkey Lady.

“Any MP. Any Camp Casey MP. All the time they bring yobo.” Their Korean girlfriends. “They bring music, they bring beer, they play poker, they have fun. Sometimes laugh, sometimes argue, sometimes fight.”

She frowned and blew smoke out of her nose.

“How about Druwood?” I asked. “Where was he standing when he fell?”

“Right there.” She pointed to the spot where Ernie and Ok-hi stood, near the edge. “But he no fell.”

I walked over and followed Ernie’s gaze. Below, straight across the walkway stood the heitei. I shined the flashlight at it. Even from here I could see that the heitei’s ear had been shattered. Maybe it was a trick of the light but his fangs and cruel lips seemed to be twisted up toward me and his eyes stared into mine.

I switched off the beam of light and turned back to the Turkey Lady. “Druwood didn’t fall? Are you saying someone pushed him?”

I no see.”

“Then why do you say he didn’t fall?”

“Because I hear.” She pointed to her left ear. “They taaksan argue. Argue a lot. Everybody mad at Druwood. Say he better go back stateside. He no can handle be Division GI.”

“What did they mean by that? Why couldn’t he handle it?”

“Because MP in Camp Casey, they got special job. Kind job other MP no have.”

“What kind of job is that?”

She knew she had our attention now. Slowly, the Turkey Lady drew deeply on her American-made cigarette, held it, then blew out the smoke.

“Division MP, they gotta take care of honcho. Korean honcho. GI honcho. All kinda honcho. But they don’t mind. They get many things. They makey extra money black market, they get plenty kind of special girlfriend. They get free beer, free food, all the time good time. Everybody happy.”

“Sounds nice,” Ernie said. “But who pays for all this free food and free booze and free women?”

The Turkey Lady waved her right arm in a circle. “Black market pay all. Everybody happy. Nobody sad.”

“Except for Druwood,” I said.

“Yeah. He sad. That’s why all MP mad at him.”

“What did they say to him?”

“I don’t know. I don’t listen. You ask them.”

“Ask who?”

“Ask, what name? Tall skinny MP.”

“White GI?”

She nodded.

“Bufford?”

“Yeah. That him.”

“He was here that day?”

“Yes.”

“Was he the one who pushed Druwood off the roof?”

“Nobody push Druwood.”

“Then how’d he fall?”

“He no fall. He jump.”

“Why’d he jump?”

The Turkey Lady shrugged. “Everybody say he sad. Sad because his yobo karra chogi.” His yobo ran away.

“Who was his yobo?” I asked.

“Not Korean,” the Turkey Lady told us. “His yobo MP woman.”

Ernie and I looked at one another. Even Ok-hi paused in sipping her beer.

“How do you know this?” Ernie asked.

“Every MP all the time say,” the Turkey Lady replied. “Everybody laugh at him. Say his yobo no want him no more.”

GIs are relentless when they find a weak spot. They’ll peck at it until it bleeds and then festers, until poison starts to flow in the blood. Was it because Druwood couldn’t stand the ridicule that he’d jumped? Or had he fought back and in a tussle lost his balance? Or had someone deliberately decided to eliminate him? I asked a few more questions of the Turkey Lady but she didn’t know the answers. Which MPs had been on the roof when Druwood went over? She couldn’t provide any names nor any descriptions. “MP all same-same,” she told us. The only one she remembered specifically was Warrant Officer One Fred Bufford. Why him? Because as the ranking man-the honcho-the other MPs deferred to him.

A Confucian trait. Always be aware of who’s the boss, for purposes of survival. Nunchi, the Koreans call it. The ability to read your superiors, be aware of which way the wind blows, and react appropriately.

“Check this out,” Ernie said.

On the southern wall, behind a line of large earthenware kim-chee jars, Ernie pointed at splintered wood. I shined the flashlight on it. Using a handkerchief, Ernie bent down and picked up a piece. The leg of a wooden stool. Broken. We knelt and examined some more of the pieces. Brown stains on the jagged edges.

“Blood,” Ernie said.

“Maybe.”

Evidence of a fight? We left the broken shards the way we’d found them.

Ernie and I stared at one another, unsure of what to do. In Seoul, we’d notify the CID Detachment, which would notify the Korean National Police Liaison Office and in minutes a team of KNP forensic technicians would be up here trying to determine if a crime had been committed. Trying to determine if Druwood had been murdered. But this was Tongduchon. This was Division. To notify the provost marshal and the local KNPs would be to notify the same people who’d not only hauled Druwood’s body off to the obstacle course and dumped it there but also the same people who tolerated this huge black-market operation.

“We have to report all this to Eighth Army,” I said.

Ernie frowned. “They’ll just notify Division of what we suspect, Division will take pains to eliminate evidence, and we’ll be back where we started.”

Ernie was probably right. Our reputation at 8th Army was that of two troublemakers. And if there’s one thing high-ranking military officers hate, it’s troublemakers. Although they’d never admit it, they’d much prefer to have all this evidence we’d gathered pulverized by explosives. Besides, Ernie and I had not yet accomplished what we’d come up here for. We had not yet found Corporal Jill Matthewson. And tonight, after curfew, we were going to make our most daring stab yet at finding a lead as to her whereabouts.

Ok-hi hissed for our attention. Her shapely butt was propped on the back ledge of the wall surrounding the roof. Ernie and I trotted over to look. Below, a bunch of guys were entering the back of the warehouse. Not MPs. They weren’t big enough. Koreans. There were about a half dozen of them, all thin young men about the same size, moving stealthily. Like cats

“Kampei,” Ernie said.

Gangsters.

The Turkey Lady stood up, flicked her cigarette away, and said, “Ganmani issoba.” Wait here. Then she ran back toward the ladder and climbed down quickly.

I stared at the moon, at the evidence surrounding me, and then down at the stone heitei snarling upwards, glaring into my eyes. Daring me to act.