Nightmare Range

by Martin Limon

  “Get out,” she said in Korean. “No one wants you here. Get out!”

  Ernie understood that. “Fine,” he said. “We’ll get out. Just make sure you don’t let any other GIs in here tonight.”

  As we left, Mrs. Lee stared at us with the face of an ice goddess. Her husband looked as if he were about to vomit.

  At this time of night, the local police station was a madhouse. The Korean National Police had arrested three prostitutes and two Greek sailors for drunk and disorderly. They also had taken into custody one pickpocket and two fellows who’d tried to break into an old brick warehouse near the port.

  “Busy?” I asked the Korean cop.

  He looked at me as if I were nuts. Ernie and I both flashed our badges. In a few minutes we were talking to the night shift desk officer. We explained that we wanted Clerk Lee Ok-pyong taken into custody immediately, so he wouldn’t be able to talk to his cohort and thereby ruin our case against him. The khaki-clad officer listened patiently and when I was done he lifted his open palms off the top of his desk.

  “Nobody,” he said in English. “No cops.”

  Sure, he was short staffed, but the real reason he didn’t want to help us was that he didn’t want to bust a fellow Korean without orders from on high. Who knew who the man was connected to?

  Ernie argued with the desk officer for a while but finally gave up. When the Korean National Police don’t want to do something, they don’t do it. I pulled him out of there.

  Outside, the night was completely dark, and the rain drifting in off the Yellow Sea was colder than ever.

  The next morning, Ernie and I rose early from the warm ondol floor in the room we’d rented in the Yong Param Yoguan, the Dragon Wind Inn. After we washed and dressed and pushed through the wooden double-doors, Ernie said, “The place even smells like dragon wind.”

  “It was cheap,” I said.

  “So’s pneumonia.”

  Without stopping anywhere for chop, we headed straight to the police station. This time the commander was in, a man who introduced himself as Captain Peik Du-han. We shook hands and he spoke in English.

  “I understand you were in last night requesting an arrest.”

  Briefly, I explained the situation to him. He nodded, his expression calm, but I noticed that his fists were beginning to knot.

  “Kei-sikki,” he said finally. Born of a dog.

  Ernie came alert at that. His Korean vocabulary is limited mostly to cuss words. Captain Peik caught our alarmed expressions and said, “Not you. My duty officer last night. He should’ve listened to you. Or at least called me at home.”

  “Why?”

  Captain Peik sighed heavily. Then he stood up and grabbed his cap off the top of his coat rack. “Come on,” he said. “I’ll show you.”

  General of the Army Douglas MacArthur, floppy hat atop his head, corncob pipe gripped in his teeth, hands on his hips, stared out across an expanse of lawn and over a cliff that fell off into the misty expanse of the churning Yellow Sea.

  “Doug, baby.” Ernie slapped the back of MacArthur’s shin.

  South Korea is one of the few countries in the world, outside of the United States, to have landscapes studded with statues of famous Americans. Up north at Freedom Bridge just south of the DMZ stands a statue of White Horse Harry Truman. In June of 1950, if he hadn’t made the decision to fight to save South Korea, this country wouldn’t exist today. MacArthur’s contribution was the invasion of Inchon: cutting North Korean supply lines so US forces could manage to break out of the Pusan Perimeter, retake Seoul, and push the North Korean Communists all the way north to the Yalu River, their border with China.

  But Captain Peik hadn’t brought us here to this place known as Jayu Gongyuan, Freedom Park, for a history lesson. While MacArthur stared thoughtfully at the Yellow Sea, Peik led us into the heavy brush beneath a line of elm trees.

  “Chosim,” he said.

  I understood and managed to avoid the two mud-covered stone steps that led downward into the brush. Ernie stumbled over the hidden masonry. I caught him before he fell.

  “Chosim means ‘be careful,’ ” I told him. “When are you going to start taking those Korean language classes on post?”

  “When you stop bugging me about it.” Ernie pushed away my hand and straightened his jacket.

  Some of the bushes in front of us had already been cleared and strips of white linen surrounded the area, the Korean indication of a place of death.

  The body of Clerk Lee Ok-pyong lay in a muddy ditch.

  “Shit,” Ernie said.

  Lee had changed out of his T-shirt and pajama bottoms. Now he wore slacks and an open collared white shirt that had been spattered with dirt. His head had been bashed in with something long and heavy. All I could think of was an MP’s night stick.

  Blue-smocked technicians milled around the body. Ernie and I tried to think of something to say, but there was nothing to be said. We’d screwed up royally this time. If only we’d collared Dubrovnik last night when we’d had our chance.

  A KNP sedan pulled up to the edge of the park. Two officers climbed out and one of them held the back door open. A woman dressed in black emerged. Holding both her elbows, the two officers escorted the woman across the damp lawn. She kept her head bowed and a veil of black lace covered her face.

  As they approached, she glanced up at me and even through the flimsy shroud I recognized the beautiful face of the wife of Clerk Lee. The look she gave me would’ve cooled Hell by about twenty degrees.

  Keeping her eyes on me, she navigated the stone steps with ease and then paused in front of the body and turned her attention to what lay before her. The escorting officers backed up and Captain Peik approached. He stood silently next to her for a few moments and then began to whisper soft words. When he finished, she nodded slowly. Captain Peik thanked her and the two officers escorted her back to the waiting sedan.

  When she was gone, Captain Peik turned to us. “That’s her husband all right. She says he left the house shortly after midnight. Had to meet someone, she doesn’t know who. Now, you fellows want to tell me what you know about this?”

  We nodded and walked back to General MacArthur. As Ernie explained about Sergeant Dubrovnik and our screw-up last night, I studied the granite statue and noticed that it even had shoelaces. Doug seemed to be listening to Ernie and Captain Peik. I strode across the expanse of lawn to the cliff and gazed down at foamy breakers crashing against rocks a hundred feet below. From here, I guessed I could throw something about a quarter mile out into the Yellow Sea.

  When I turned around, General MacArthur was staring at me, reading my thoughts.

  Ernie and I caught hell back at 8th Army.

  The Foreign Organization Employees’ Union had lodged a formal protest about our conduct. Harassing one of their employees at his home and later not protecting him when he went to his rendezvous with death. Of course, everyone assumed that Sergeant Dubrovnik was the man who had summoned Clerk Lee to the park overlooking the Yellow Sea and there proceeded to bludgeon him to death. Why had he done it? Maybe because Sergeant Two wanted to keep Clerk Lee quiet about the nefarious activities they had engaged in together. Maybe. More likely they had an argument. Maybe Clerk Lee threatened to rat Dubrovnik out. Right now we could only speculate. What we needed to do was catch Sergeant Dubrovnik. Ernie and I checked with his MP company. Of course, the man hadn’t shown up for morning formation and, according to the Commanding Officer, no one in the unit knew where he had disappeared to.

  Ernie and I were about to start searching for Dubrovnik when the CID First Sergeant pulled us aside.

  “You’re off the case,” he told us. When Ernie started to protest the First Sergeant held up his palm. “Your first suspect escapes, right from under your noses. And then your second suspect, a Korean National who you shouldn’t even have been messing with, turns up dead.”

  Ernie’s face flushed red and he started to sputter.

  “Keep your trap shu
t, Bascom,” the First Sergeant barked. “The Provost Marshall is still deciding whether or not to bring you two up on charges. A Status of Forces violation. Harassing a Korean civilian and misuse of your military police powers. Not to mention gross incompetence.”

  With that, we were assigned to the black market detail.

  Two weeks passed by. Two weeks of watching Korean dependent housewives to make sure they didn’t sell duty-free liquor or cigarettes down in the ville. Clerk Lee was buried, Sergeant Dubrovnik was still at large, and the Provost Marshall was still holding the threat of charges over our heads. Then we got the call.

  Stiff found in the village of Songtan-up.

  The corpse belonged to Sergeant Ivan Dubrovnik. He’d been shot once through the heart at close range, apparently with his own Military Police issued .45, which was found beside him. He lay in a cobbled alleyway lined with nightclubs and beer halls and cheap room-rent-by-the-hour yoguans. Songtan-up served the 5,000 or so US airmen stationed at Osan Air Force Base. The sun was just rising above the rooftops of the two- and three-story buildings that surrounded us. The Korean cop who’d found the corpse at two in the morning told us that no one in the neighborhood had heard or seen anything. Five hours more of canvassing the neighborhood didn’t change that story.

  The Security Police at Osan classified Dubrovnik’s death as a suicide. The only other person who’d been involved in the plot was the driver, who’d been long since locked up. He couldn’t have been the killer.

  And that also closed the case neatly. Now that justice had been done, the Foreign Organization Employee’s Union dropped their formal protest against Ernie and me. Everyone had suffered enough, they figured. The Provost Marshall put us back on regular duty status and signed off on the finding that no charges would be brought against us. Still, he kept us on the black market detail.

  Dubrovnik’s body was shipped back to the States. It was over. All killings had been accounted for. Nothing left but to burn incense at their graves.

  The blue silk of her dress hugged the curves of her body like wet paper clinging to a baby’s cheek. Her face was a smooth oval with shining black eyes and full lips. I recognized her immediately. The wife of the late clerk, Lee Ok-pyong.

  We stood at Gate 4 on the edge of 8th Army’s Yongsan Compound near the district of Seoul known as Samgak-ji. She had asked the security guards at the gate to phone me at the CID headquarters and when I received the mysterious call I hurried out.

  Holding a black patent leather handbag in front of her waist, she nodded to me, sort of a half bow. Then she spoke in Korean, telling me that she wanted to talk. Signing her on compound would be a hassle; she’d have to give up her Korean National Identification Card, and it would be a long walk back to the CID office. Instead, I gestured toward Samgak-ji. She nodded again and we strode about a half block down the road until we found a tea shop that was open. Once we were seated, she ordered boli cha, tea made from barley, and I ordered the more expensive ginseng version. The pig-tailed teenage waitress brought us our drinks. When she left, I sipped on mine and waited for Mrs. Lee to begin.

  She kept her head bowed for what seemed a long time. I spent the time admiring her. She was a good looking woman, a widow now, no children. Her perfume smelled of orchids. Probably she’d be remarried in no time. But why had she come to visit me? Finally she spoke, using measured and simple Korean that I could follow.

  “I am sorry for having been angry with you. At the time, I blamed you and your friend for my husband’s death. For having destroyed our tranquility. Now I realize that the fault was with this man Sergeant Two.”

  “Sergeant Dubrovnik,” I said.

  She nodded. “Yes. And also my husband was much to blame. He hoped to make enough money so we could go into business for ourselves. Maybe buy a little teashop like this one.” She looked around at the sturdy wooden furnishings and then turned her moist eyes back to mine. “But he wasn’t a criminal. This was the first time he’d ever done anything like that.”

  I nodded, waiting for her to tell me why she had come. Was it just to apologize for being rude to a cop? If I wasn’t used to that, I’d have to get out of the business.

  She lowered her head once again, thinking over what she would say next. “I have a job, on the American compound where my husband used to work. In the same office.”

  The Port of Inchon Transportation Office. That wasn’t unusual. The Foreign Organization Employees’ Union is the most powerful union in the country. When one of their members dies an untimely death, they take steps to provide as best they can for the surviving family members. There’s no welfare in Korea. No food stamps or social security. The only thing the union can do is use its influence to land a job for an able bodied member of the surviving family. In this case, Mrs. Lee herself.

  A handkerchief emerged from her handbag and Mrs. Lee dabbed her eyes.

  I knew it was coming now, the reason she’d gone to all the trouble to find me. I was prepared for a surprise but this one took me completely off guard.

  “I want you to meet with me,” she said. “I want you to tell me everything about the case, about what happened to my husband.”

  “We can talk about that right here,” I said.

  “No. You have to get back to work and there are too many people around.”

  I studied the layout of the teahouse again, to make sure I hadn’t missed something. There were about a half-dozen customers, two waitresses, and one young man behind the serving counter, none of them within earshot of our conversation.

  She looked boldly into my eyes. “I want to meet you,” she said. “So you and I can be alone.”

  I’m dumb but not that dumb. As coolly as I could, I agreed.

  For the next two weeks, all my off-duty time was spent with the Widow Lee. She had to work in Inchon and I had to work about thirty miles away in Seoul. Some nights we met in between, at a Korean-style inn with a warm ondol floor in the city of Kimpo right near the big airport that services the capital city. We’d lie together and hear the big jets fly over us and listen to Korean music and, when we found time, eat Korean food. It was a lovely time for me and she seemed so desperately in need of someone to be near her.

  She told me about her job. She filled out the bills of lading for the imported American goods that were transported from the Port of Inchon to the Main PX in Seoul. The same thing her husband had done. Gradually, she started to tell me of the mistakes her husband had made. Before she could go on, I changed the subject. The next time we met, she brought it up again.

  Ernie clicked his fingernail against my coffee cup.

  “Wake up,” he told me. “We have to go to work here in a minute and you’re still sleeping.”

  We sat in the 8th Army snack bar on Yongsan Compound, wearing clean white shirts and ties and jackets, having one last cup of java before heading up the hill to the CID office to begin our regular workday.

  “And you’re developing bags under your eyes,” Ernie continued. “The Widow Lee is putting you through one serious workout.”

  “Can it, Ernie.”

  “Oh. That much in love, are we?”

  I pushed my coffee aside, placed both my hands on the small formica-covered table, and stared him straight in the eye. “So what if I am?”

  Ernie’s eyes widened and he leaned back. “Easy, pal. I didn’t know you were taking this so seriously.”

  “Yeah. I’ve been taking it seriously. I’ve been taking her seriously. The last couple of weeks have been about the best couple of weeks of my life.”

  “Okay. Fine. So what’s bothering you?”

  “What’s bothering me is that I don’t know what to do.”

  “Hey, relax and enjoy it. Just don’t get married.”

  “That’s not what I’m talking about.”

  Ernie’s eyes crinkled in puzzlement, something that doesn’t happen to him much. He has the world figured out. Or at least he thinks he does.

  “Then what are you talking ab
out?” he asked.

  “I’m meeting her tonight at the same yoguan in Kimpo. Drive me out there in the jeep. Hang around. You’ll see what I’m talking about.”

  Before he could ask more questions, I rose from the table, strode out of the big fogged-glass double doors of the snack bar, and marched up the hill to the CID office.

  That night the Widow Lee and I went to the best restaurant in Kimpo. I ordered kalbi, marinated short ribs braised over an open charcoal fire. When we were finished, we walked arm in arm back to the yoguan. After we hung up our coats and relaxed, she pulled a wad of paperwork out of her purse. She sat next to me on the warm floor and held my hand and spoke earnestly to me for what must’ve been almost an hour. Most of what she said, I didn’t listen to. The bills of lading she handed to me, those I did pay attention to. Duplicates. With differing amounts of product listed on each.

  I guess I knew from the day out at Freedom Park overlooking the Yellow Sea. Maybe General MacArthur had made me aware of it. Or maybe it had been the hidden stone steps that Ernie and I had stumbled on, and almost every Korean cop who approached the scene; she had breezed past as if they were an item of furniture in her front room.

  She’d been there before, and recently, to the murder site of her husband.

  Sergeant Dubrovnik, an experienced MP and a man on the run for his life, had either shot himself in the ribs with his own .45 or he’d allowed someone he trusted to stand very close to him. Who else but a woman? And a woman he knew well?

  And the job she’d received on compound. Sure, the union would work very hard to make sure that, as a widow of one of their deceased members, she found employment, but starting as a billing clerk? That was a relatively high paying job that required extensive experience. The union gets people jobs but usually the job is at the lowest entry level and the person who lands it is happy to get it. The work is steady, the benefits better than most jobs in Korea, and advancement will depend on how hard they work.

  The Widow Lee had started near the top. Somebody, probably a man, had cleared the way for her.

  And now me. I was next on her list. She’d learned from her husband’s mistakes; Sergeant Dubrovnik, an MP, was no longer in the picture. A CID agent was her next step up.