with crablike fingers.
My mother didn’t look like herself. No flushed complexion, no smile ready to break out beneath laughing eyes, no movement in her arms or legs. She lay still on the bed and for a moment I thought she was a stranger, a stranger made of wax.
The priest pointed and nodded his head. I leaned across the damp sheets of the bed and kissed my mother’s face. The flesh was cold. I pulled away quickly. Her eyes remained tightly shut but her lips fluttered, like the wings of a dying butterfly.
“jorge,” she said. “jorge mio.”
They took me out of the room.
A few hours later the priest woke me and told me my mother was dead.
I cried for three days. The First Sergeant and I sat in uncomfortable silence. He puttered with paperwork and occasionally walked up and down the hallway to see if the secretary was in yet. I remained immobile on the hard wooden chair. His little coffeemaker gurgled in the corner and I was tempted to walk over and pour myself a cup, but I wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction.
We were waiting for Ernie.
The First Sergeant didn’t want to waste his breath on just one maggot, he wanted to have us both here for the ass chewing. I knew his game. Keep me here, callousing my butt, so I’d get the message: You can’t be trusted to be let out of my sight or you’ll wander off and get lost again.
It was a game a lot of sergeants and officers play. Somehow it makes them feel good. Maybe their parents played it on them, I don’t know. And feeling good is more important to them than productivity. I was dying to get on with the investigation; time could be everything. The people I needed to talk to could disappear in a few hours like the morning mist. But I wasn’t going to beg.
Besides, it wouldn’t do any good. He was looking forward to this-in fact he had to wipe his mouth occasionally with the back of his hand because saliva was dripping out- and a First Sergeant with a case of the ass cannot be denied. Not in the army I know.
It was about one minute to eight when Ernie popped through the door.
“About time you got here,” the First Sergeant said.
Ernie ignored him, walked over to the coffeemaker, and poured himself a cup. He hunched over the little counter while he twisted open the sugar jar, scraped some granules off the bottom, and shook a smattering of flakes into his cup. He peered into the jar, trying to loosen the remaining crust.
“Why don’t you invest in some more sugar, Top, and a little cream? You can’t keep drinking this stuff straight. Too toxic. Rot your gut.”
The First Sergeant stood behind his desk, his fingertips resting lightly on the immaculately white blotter, glaring at Ernie. He wasn’t a tall man but he was husky and if it wasn’t for a potbelly that was just beginning to grow, he would’ve appeared muscular. Closely cropped streaks of white hair bookended the sides of his gray crew cut.
Blood rose through his thick neck and settled in slack jowls.
“Bascom,” he said, “are you through dicking around with that coffee?”
“Just about.”
Ernie clinked his spoon inside the metal cup, slurped on the hot java, and topped it off with just a dash more coffee. Like a potentate about to attend a ceremony, he paraded over to his chair, set his cup down on the cigarette-scarred table, and took his seat.
The First Sergeant leaned over his desk and looked at us both. His voice came out low and menacing.
“Where were you two last night when you were supposed to be on call?”
Ernie sipped on his coffee. I usually let him handle the First Sergeant. He had a knack for it.
“Eating chow,” he said.
“At eleven-thirty at night?”
“Sort of a Continental thing with us. We like to eat late.”
The First Sergeant looked at me. I didn’t move.
“You were out boozing it up,” he said, “and running the ville. And when I tried to get in touch with you, you were nowhere to be found.”
“We left a number,” Ernie said.
The crisp blotter crinkled under the First Sergeant’s fingers. “A number where nobody speaks English!”
“Mama-san was out,” Ernie said. “Her daughter’s a sharp cookie, though.”
“But she doesn’t speak English!”
Ernie’s eyes widened. “Of course not, Top. She’s Korean.”
“I know that, goddamn it, but when I have to make a call to get ahold of you guys and when I finally get through, I expect to be able to speak something other than that kimchi-eating gibberish.”
“When in Rome,” Ernie said, “and all that shit.”
The First Sergeant took a deep breath. He seemed to be mulling over something, some course of action. He leaned forward.
“All right, you two. From here on out, whenever you’re on call I expect you to be in the barracks. Not out in the ville, not in some soju house drinking rice wine, but in the barracks. And you’ll check in with the Charge of Quarters every hour unless you’re actually in your goddamned room asleep. You got that?”
Ernie sipped on his coffee, looked at the First Sergeant, and nodded.
“No sweat, Top.”
The First Sergeant looked at me. I nodded.
He’d forget about this latest decree in a month or two and besides, we were only on call every sixth day and we could pay the CQ to call us at the Nurse’s hooch if we had to. Not a problem.
“All right,” the First Sergeant said. “Now that we have that out of the way. What’d you find out on this Whit- comb case?”
Ernie didn’t move, but something in his manner made it obvious that he was through talking. The technical side of things was my responsibility. Ernie was strictly a people person.
“What we found out was in my report,” I said.
The First Sergeant stared, waiting. I continued.
“This guy, Lance Corporal Cecil Whitcomb, a member of the British contingent of the United Nations Honor Guard, was stabbed to death in the Namdaemun district of Seoul at some time between ten and eleven o’clock last night.”
“How did they fix the time of death?”
“The testimony of local residents. There was quite a bit of traffic prior to ten but nobody saw anything. The body was discovered just after eleven.”
“How can a GI be knifed to death in downtown Seoul and nobody see it?”
“It’s on the outskirts of downtown, in a residential area, in one of those little catacomblike alleys leading up a hill toward a run-down yoguan.”
“A what?”
“An inn. A Korean inn.”
It was hard to believe how little Korean the First Sergeant had learned in the almost two years he’d been here. But he was like most GI’s. He didn’t want to learn.
“Late at night,” I said, “a place like that can be pretty isolated. The windows in the buildings around it are mostly boarded up, not used much. Some are warehouses. Others are kept shut during the winter to keep out the cold and to keep out burglars.”
The First Sergeant shuffled some papers.
“The Namdaemun Precinct has jurisdiction?”
“Yeah. A Lieutenant Pak will be conducting their side of the investigation. We met him last night.”
“What’d he ask you to do?”
“Get information from Whitcomb’s unit. Interview his friends. Things like that.”
The First Sergeant nodded. “I want those reports sent to him right away. Don’t get on your high horse and try to do the translation on your own, Sueno. Have the KNP Liaison Officer take care of it.”
“Lieutenant Pak’s English is pretty good.”
