by Martin Limon
I pulled off my wet overshoes, set them under the bench, and tromped in my combat boots toward the back counter to pull myself a cup of coffee before realizing the metal urn had been removed by the 8th Army chow hall. The sense of urgency surrounding the Barretsford case was dissipating, and as best I could tell from the MP rumor mill, little if any progress had been made on the investigation. No suspects, no clear motive, not even a murder weapon. Even if the 8th Army was dropping the ball, the KNPs would come up with something. Korea is a highly controlled society: everything’s recorded, and the KNPs have plenty of manpower. By now, every bus driver and cabbie who’d entered the southern part of Seoul on that fateful morning had probably been interviewed. Somebody would’ve seen something. At least that’s what I believed.
The information that had somehow leaked and that everyone was gossiping about concerned C. Winston Barretsford’s personal life. Apparently, he’d been less than faithful to his good wife, Evelyn. Already, one of the massage parlor girls at the steam and cream behind the 8th Army Officers Club had admitted he’d been one of her regulars. Also, the Claims Office civilian driver revealed that Barretsford had made an inordinate number of so-called “inspection trips” up North to a suspect establishment in the red-light district of Yongju-gol.
All of this wasn’t unusual. Civilians, officers, and GIs all took advantage of the sex trade in Korea. During the Korean War the country had been completely devastated. Most of the populace had been malnourished and many had literally starved to death. In the twenty years since, much progress had been made: a four-lane highway was built from the Port of Pusan in the extreme south of the country all the way to Seoul, high rise buildings were being constructed in urban centers, and state-of-the-art manufacturing plants were cropping up all over the countryside. Still, much of this wealth had yet to trickle down to the poor working classes in the cities or farmers in the agrarian countryside. Young men were required by law to perform military service from the ages of twenty to twenty-three. Young women, after finishing their schooling, sometimes found employment in the new industries that were coming into existence, but many of them didn’t. Those who didn’t were excess. Their families could no longer support them, and there was no gainful employment to be found. Many ended up in brothels catering to Korean or Japanese businessmen, and some ended up in the GI red light districts like Yongju-gol up north, or Itaewon here in Seoul. Few healthy American males with time on their hands and money in their pockets could resist the lure of the Korean sex trade, and C. Winston Barretsford hadn’t been one of them.
So far, the 8th Army had made heroic efforts to keep this information from his wife. They’d also tried to keep it from the ladies of the Officers’ Wives Club. This wasn’t only motivated by concern for Mrs. Barretsford’s feelings. The less the OWC knew about Itaewon and Yongju-gol, the 8th Army honchos believed, the better for everyone.
I was mulling these thoughts over and plotting the various ways I might be able to track down a cup of hot coffee when the Desk Sergeant called my name.
“Sueño!”
He sat behind the high reception counter of the MP Station, holding a phone receiver in his left hand and motioning frantically with his right hand for me to come running. I did.
“What is it?” I asked.
Instead of answering, he thrust the phone into my hand. I raised it to my ear and said, “Hello?”
The connection was bad, and the message was mostly garbled. It was a GI shouting into a pay phone in Itaewon. Something about someone being hurt and there was blood everywhere and he thought one of the guys might be an MP.
The man was panicked. I knew I had to get information from him and get it quickly.
“Where?” I shouted.
He told me in front of the OB beer tent, one block off the MSR near the Itaewon Market.
“What’s your name?” I shouted, but the line had already gone dead.
I slammed down the phone
“Ernie!” I shouted. “Let’s go.”
He was already up, tucking his fatigue shirt into his trousers and slipping on his field jacket. As we headed for the door, I called back to the Desk Sergeant, “An ambulance! At the southern end of the Itaewon Market. Now!”
We pushed through the big double doors and trotted through the drizzle, sloshing our way toward Ernie’s jeep.
-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, sta
ring 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.
