The Line

by Martin Limon

  Five minutes later, an armed MP led in the shackled Private First Class Theodore H. Fusterman from a different door and shoved him into the chair opposite us.

  His blond crewcut was so closely cropped that splotches of pink shone from the side of his scalp. His eyes were wide and blinking, throat pulsing as if he were about to start crying. Knotted fists sat in his lap, with metal bracelets welded to an iron chain that looped toward his ankles.

  “Who are you?” he asked suspiciously.

  I showed him my badge and introduced Ernie. Without further preamble, I slid the orchid-shaped note across the counter. He stared at it, helpless with his hands shackled.

  “Do you want me to open it for you?”

  He nodded. I unraveled the note, flattened it with my palm, and slid it to his edge of the counter. He leaned forward and read it.

  “It’s from Marilyn,” he said, seeming to soften upon seeing the name of Corporal Noh Jong-bei’s younger sister.

  “You were seeing her?” I said.

  He lowered his head, as if in shame.

  “Tell us about what happened,” I prodded.

  “At work, up at the JSA, No-Go and I hit it off.” He glanced up at us. “That’s Corporal Noh.” We nodded. “He reminded me of a friend I had in high school. Always smiling and joking around and laughing. At least he was when we were off duty, when we weren’t being stared at by those North Korean guards. He invited me down to his house in Seoul. I went. I met his parents and they served me Korean food. Kimchi and everything, the first time I’d ever had it. You know, sitting on flat cushions around the low table, me fumbling with chopsticks. That’s when I met Marilyn. She showed me how to use chopsticks. She liked practicing her English with me, and her parents approved—at first. But when we started going out alone, without No-Go, they ordered her to stop seeing me.”

  Fusterman glanced around the room. The MP had left, but the shadow of his helmeted head occasionally appeared through the reinforced window in the door.

  “Mostly we stopped,” he continued. “I didn’t want any hassles with No-Go or with his family. But then she called me.”

  “At the JSA?”

  “Yeah. Must’ve taken her an hour to get through from the Korean telephone exchange to the military one. But a call came through to the Orderly Room at Camp Kitty Hawk, and the CQ runner came and found me. I was worried something had happened, but she just said she wanted to see me.” Fusterman shrugged. “I said okay. After that, we saw each other every time I got an overnight.”

  An overnight pass, which had to be approved by both his squad leader and company commander.

  “You signed out on the overnights and took the bus to Seoul?”

  He nodded.

  “Where’d you meet?”

  “At first at a teahouse near her family’s home, but she said that was too dangerous—somebody might recognize her. So we switched to a Korean inn near Mia-ri.”

  “The army bus runs through there.”

  “Right. There’s a stop right by the inn, which was why we chose it.”

  “What then?”

  Fusterman looked down. “No-Go found out. He was really angry, demanded that I stop seeing her. I felt guilty for causing trouble. I loved her, but I didn’t want to cause rifts within the family. Or to hurt our mission here at the JSA.” He paused, realizing his mistake. “I mean up there.”

  “So you stopped seeing her?”

  “Sort of.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I stopped seeing her for almost a month. And then, maybe a week ago, she called again.”

  “And you met again in Mia-ri?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did Corporal Noh find out?”

  “I think he did. He wouldn’t look at me or talk to me.”

  “Did you argue?”

  “No.”

  “Did you kill him?”

  “No!”

  “Then who did?”

  “The freaking North Koreans. Who else?”

  “Did you see anything?”

  “No. I was in the barracks the night he was killed. Asleep.”

  “According to that note,” Ernie said, “Marilyn wants you to meet her tonight at the usual place.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What’s the name of the inn?”

  “I’m not sure, it was written in Korean. But I’d know it if I saw it.”

  “Describe it to us.”

  “At the Mia-ri bus stop, I’d get off and walk about two blocks east. Then I’d take a left, and about fifty yards up on the right side of the road, there was a neon sign with mermaids swimming in water.”

  “A public bathhouse.”

  “Yeah. Above that, there were rooms. That’s where we stayed.”

  “Did you take baths together?” Ernie asked.

  Fusterman flushed red. “Why’s that important?”

  Ernie shrugged.

  “Yes,” Fusterman said. “As a matter of fact, we did. She scrubbed me with one of those rough pads, and black stuff came out.”

  “Ddei,” I said.

  “What?”

  “Dirt and oil emerging from the pores of the skin. In Korean, it’s called ddei.”

  “Yeah, that. Marilyn told me that Americans were never clean, but she’d keep me clean.”

  “That’s nice of her,” Ernie said.

  Fusterman wasn’t sure whether or not to be offended.

  “You told JAG the entrenching tool they found wasn’t yours,” I said. “How do you know?”

  “They showed it to me. I’d scratched my initials on the wooden handle right below the knob that adjusts the blade, but they weren’t there.”

  “What’d they say?”

  “Well, I’m in here, so they didn’t believe me.”

  “So somebody stole your entrenching tool and replaced it? Possibly with one that’s got bloodstains all over it.”

  “That’s what happened.”

  “Who do you think made the switch?” Ernie asked.

  “Hell if I know,” Fusterman replied.

  “Someone who hates you,” Ernie said.

  “Yeah, I already figured that part out.”

  “So who hates you?”

  “Other than Corporal Noh, nobody. And he’s gone now.”

  Without warning, Fusterman began to cry. Ernie reached over and tapped him lightly, almost tenderly, on the cheek. “No time for that,” Ernie said. “JAG’s gonna railroad you if we don’t come up with an alternative theory for the murder.”

  “Not an alternative theory,” Fusterman said, pulling himself away from Ernie. “The truth. I didn’t murder No-Go.”

  “Okay,” Ernie continued. “So tell us who did.”

  “I told you, I don’t know.”

  “You have to give us something, Fusterman,” I said. “You lived up there, you pulled duty with him, you knew what was going on. You must have some idea of what happened.”

  Private First Class Theodore H. Fusterman’s head lolled on his neck. “There is one thing,” he said. He glanced around the barren room. “I don’t know if this has to do with anything, but I mentioned that No-Go was a happy-go-lucky guy. Or at least he was, until he met me. He was a talker. And somehow he started chatting with the officer in charge of the night shift, the one on the North Korean side.”

  “Junior Lieutenant Kwon?” I asked.

  “Yeah, him. I don’t know how it happened. We were out there on a quiet night, nothing much going on, and at first it was taunts, you know, back and forth, and then all of a sudden they were talking about soccer. North Korea had played an international game somewhere and No-Go knew about it. The North Koreans lost because of a bad call, and both No-Go and Lieutenant Kwon agreed that since the referee was a foreigner, he probably had it in for K
oreans.”

  “How’d you know what they were talking about?” Ernie asked. “You don’t speak Korean.”

  “No-Go told me later.”

  “Was that it? The only time?”

  “No. There were others, and word got around that No-Go could talk to the North Koreans. We weren’t supposed to, but there it was.”

  “Do you think No-Go talked to Junior Lieutenant Kwon when he was posted alone?”

  Fusterman shrugged. “How would I know?”

  “But he never said anything about it?”

  “No. When he told me the first time and word got around, I think he was embarrassed.”

  “Or maybe he was afraid he’d get in trouble.”

  “Yeah. Anyway, he kept quiet about it after that. And when Marilyn and I started seeing each other, No-Go and I drifted apart.”

  The MP came in. “Time,” he said.

  “We want five more minutes,” Ernie said.

  “Talk to the Confinement Officer. As of now, this boy goes.”

  He grabbed Teddy Fusterman by the collar, yanked him to his feet, and dragged him from the room. As they exited, Ernie said, “Demand a lawyer! And only talk to him. No one else.”

  After the door slammed shut, I raised an eyebrow at Ernie.

  He stiffened. “Hey,” he said. “Somebody had to tell the poor slob what to do.”

  “We’re supposed to be on Eighth Army’s side,” I said.

  “Since when?” Ernie asked.

  “Since they appointed us as Criminal Investigation agents.”

  Ernie rose from his seat. “I must’ve missed that part.”

  Sometimes, I missed it too.

  We made our way through the cement catacombs, and once outside, both of us breathed in the air of freedom deeply.

  “Riley says we’ll end up in there someday,” Ernie told me, “if we keep going the way we’re going.”

  “He might be right.”

  We climbed in the jeep. Ernie turned to me and said, “What do you think?”

  I lifted the clipboard that held our emergency dispatch and idly thumbed through the four sheets of onionskin. “I think we need to talk to Junior Lieutenant Kwon.”

  “No way. Colonel Peele would have our butts skinned alive if we went back up to the JSA.”

  I slipped the dispatch between the canvas-covered seats. “Kwon’s a material witness,” I said. “He knew Corporal Noh, they used to talk, and he was on duty on the night of the murder.”

  “If we go up there,” Ernie said, “we’re as good as making sure Riley’s prediction comes true. They will throw us in the stockade.”

  “We have to figure out a way,” I said.

  “Like what?”

  “I’m working on that.”

  “Take your time,” Ernie said, starting the jeep. “I’m in no hurry.”

  -8-

  The 8th Army Honor Guard was an infantry unit with two missions. The first was to protect Yongsan Compound and 8th Army headquarters, should they ever come under enemy attack. The second was to represent the US Army in the numerous ceremonies and parades held for the United Nations Command, the Republic of Korea, and of course, the United States Forces Korea. As such, Honor Guard soldiers had to keep their shoes shined, their brass polished, their uniforms perfectly pressed, and their hair cut so short it was barely more than stubble. They had to spend hours a day practicing marching and drilling and twirling their rifles in the air, all in synchronized precision. In other words, it took a lot of hard work and discipline. But to see the Bachelor Officer Quarters of Captain Randy Quincy, the Commanding Officer of the Honor Guard Company, was to see chaos. Clothes were strewn everywhere, along with ashtrays and chewed cigar butts and nearly empty pints and fifths of liquor, from Old Grand-Dad to Gilbey’s Gin with just about everything in between.

  “What the hell do you want?” he asked, tilting on the back legs of a wooden chair, hairy legs propped atop a half-sized refrigerator. He wore beige shorts and an old football jersey from Texas A&M.

  I showed him my badge.

  “You going to read me my rights?” he asked.

  “Are you guilty of something?”

  “You name it,” he said, puffing a lit cigar, “I’m guilty of it.”

  “Evelyn Cresthill,” I said.

  He blew smoke and started coughing. “Her again.” He slid his feet off the refrigerator and the chair plunked down as he turned to face us. “Did her old man send you?”

  “She’s missing,” Ernie said.

  Quincy studied Ernie, holding his cigar between two fingers a foot from his ear. The smooth flesh of his forehead wrinkled. “Missing?” he asked.

  “No one’s heard from her for three days.”

  Quincy turned away and sighed. “Not good,” he said.

  “No,” Ernie agreed.

  Quincy regained his composure and asked, “You guys track down dependents, too?”

  “Sometimes,” I said. “How did you meet her?”

  “She was sitting at a cocktail table at the O’Club. Alone. She looked unhappy. I don’t like that. I like to see women happy. So I sat down.”

  “Did you succeed in making her happy?”

  “You better believe I did.”

  “Did you bring her back here?”

  “Wait a minute.” Quincy flicked ash from his cigar into an old tin can. “You guys seriously expect me to admit to the crime of adultery? With a fellow officer’s wife? Are you nuts?”

  According to the Uniform Code of Military Justice, adultery is a court-martial offense.

  “I didn’t say anything about adultery,” I said. “All I asked was, did she come in here?” I indicated the small room that surrounded us.

  “Would a gentleman bring a lady into a dump like this?”

  “I don’t know. Would you?”

  “If I were going to do such a thing—and that’s if, mind you—I’d be more inclined to take her off post somewhere. Like maybe the Tower Hotel. Or if I was flush with cash right after payday, maybe the Cosmos Hotel downtown.”

  “So?” Ernie asked.

  “So what?”

  “Did you take Evelyn Cresthill to the Tower Hotel or to the Cosmos Hotel?”

  He spread the fingertips of his left hand across the center of his chest. “What? Do I look like an adulterer?”

  “What does an adulterer look like?”

  “You got me.”

  Quincy re-lit his cigar. Once he had it going, he lowered his voice, suddenly serious. “The last time I saw her was three days ago. At the Officers Club. I didn’t speak to her. She was busy talking to that Korean broad who’s been showing up in the last few weeks.”

  “What Korean broad?”

  “I don’t know her. Not my type.” He paused for a moment and said, “Not bad-looking, though.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Don’t know that either. But the Korean staff treats her like a little sister. She has a nice smile and makes them laugh, and the younger waitresses seem fascinated by her fancy hair and makeup.”

  “Like a fashion model?” Ernie asked.

  “Yeah. Sort of like that.”

  “What’s she up to?”

  Quincy puffed on his cigar. “Well, the usual routine is to get somebody to escort you on base, and then sign you in at the O’Club and from there you catch the attention of a horny officer and either spend the night with him in his quarters or off base in a hotel. You know, make an honest buck. But actually, I didn’t see her doing that. She was sort of innocent-like. Like she was just there because of the excitement of being in a nice place.”

  “How’d she become friends with Evelyn Cresthill?” I asked.

  “I don’t know exactly, but they were two unescorted women. There are a few of those in the O’Club, but wo
men mostly arrive in groups. Like the nurses.”

  “I hear you’re popular at the One-Two-One.”

  “My picture’s hanging in the employees’ lounge.”

  “That’s nice. So, these two unescorted women somehow got to know one another?”

  “Yeah. Before you knew it, they were friends. Chatting away like they’d known each another their whole lives.”

  “Chatting about what?”

  “Beats me. I’m interested in only one thing, and it ain’t talk.”

  “But you need talk to get what you want.”

  Quincy blew out a puff of cigar smoke. “Ain’t that the way of the world.”

  “What do you think was bothering Evelyn Cresthill?”

  “Bored,” he said.

  “With what?”

  “With Korea. With being stuck here on base. It’s not like in the States. When an American woman ventures off post alone, all the locals stare at her, wondering what in the hell she’s doing. So she ended up staying on compound like some shut-in. And she hated being a military dependent. Especially an officer’s wife, with everyone always watching and judging her in this incestuous little environment of ours. You probably know she didn’t work, either. She was going stir-crazy. To her, Yongsan Compound was some sort of glass cage.”

  “What was she going to do about it?”

  “She wanted to break free.”

  “How?”

  “One way was at the Tower Hotel.”

  “And the Cosmos?”

  “Yep. Not that I’m admitting to anything.”

  “And this was until she met the Korean woman.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’re a man of the world, Captain Quincy. What do you think those two were up to?”

  “I think the lady made her a proposition.”

  “Having to do with sex?”

  “Maybe. But not between the two of them or anything like that. What I mean is sex in the Emerald City.”

  “Downtown Seoul?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You think Evelyn found a way to make money?”

  “I think so. That was a big deal to her. She didn’t want to have to rely on her husband.”

  “What about her daughter, Jenny? Did she talk about her?”

  Quincy’s mouth dropped open, and his cigar butt slipped from his fingers to the floor. “She has a daughter?”