The Iron Sickle (6 page)

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.

“Why would he come back here?” Ernie asked.

“Just to get away without being seen,” I said. “On the far side of the market is the main drag. From there he could blend into the crowd. Make his way to a bus stop or wave down a taxi.”

“Maybe he’s from around here.”

“Maybe.”

I switched on my flashlight and searched the area. Something wild and furry scurried into a gutter with a squeal, a reptilian tail scattering a pile of wilted turnip greens.

“
Rat
,” Ernie said. “Hate those damn things.”

“Wait a minute. What’s that?” I pointed. The beam of Ernie’s flashlight followed mine.

“Hell if I know,” Ernie said.

There was a jumble of wooden crates, most of them flattened, thin slats held together by thick wire. One of the crates was standing upright, the slats of wood forming a teepee-like shape. Atop that, strands of wire had been woven into a flat, rectangular grill. The entire edifice stood about three feet tall.

“Christ,” Ernie said.

Hanging from the construction was a dead rat, eviscerated and dangling from its back paws, thick blood seeping from red guts.

Ernie knelt, peering at the dead rodent. “Who would do a thing like this?”

Whoever had built the edifice had spent some time on it. Wires had been twisted, cut, and retied together, and the object itself had
been placed against the wall where, in the daylight, it easily would be seen by anyone passing by. In the dark, however, it would be invisible without a flashlight.

I knelt and studied it more closely. The immediate area had been cleared of debris and blood from the rat had dripped into a sticky puddle.

“It’s like a fetish,” I said.

“A what?”

“A symbol. A totem.”

That’s when I saw it, through the wooden slats, on the ground in the center of the teepee.

“There’s something in there,” I said.

“Where?”

I pointed. Ernie saw it, too. “What is it?”

“Only one way to find out.”

I warned Ernie to watch our backs. It was possible the whole point of the display was to mesmerize us, allowing for an attack from the rear. As he scanned the alley, I gingerly tilted the base of the teepee-like structure up, slipped my hand underneath, and grabbed the round object that lay flat on the ground. It felt like smooth wood. I pulled it out and allowed the teepee to fall back into position, wires rattling.

The round object fit neatly in the palm of my hand. I stood and held it out to Ernie, and he shone his flashlight on it. It was finely grained, as if it were made from walnut or cherry wood, and sanded so smoothly it almost shone. A serrated raised circle had been carved in the center, and around the edges there were tiny white marks, every fifth one slightly longer.

“A tuning knob,” Ernie said, “like from a radio.”

“Not a regular civilian radio,” I said.

“No, a field radio. Like we used in Nam. Like every combat unit in the country uses.”

“Maybe not a field radio,” I said, “but some sort of electronic device.”

“Right,” Ernie agreed. “I can’t be sure exactly what type of equipment it comes from but something like that.”

I studied the object more closely. There didn’t seem to be any marks or dents on it. But these things were usually made of plastic or sometimes metal, and they were stamped out by machinery. As I studied this one more closely I realized not every part of it was perfectly symmetrical. In some spots the lines had gone astray, as if the carver had needed to make allowances for the hardness of the wood.

“Why would anyone go to all the trouble to carve something like this?” I asked. “And then set this contraption up just to make sure we found it?”

“
Moolah
the hell out of me,” Ernie said, “but we found it.”

I slid the smooth knob into my pocket. “Maybe it has nothing to do with the attack on Collingsworth.”

“Not likely,” Ernie said. “Whoever did Collingsworth knew we’d walk up here and see his little arts and crafts project.”

Yeah, not likely, I thought.

We left the wire and wood slat totem behind and kept walking. At the end of the long rows of stalls was another narrow alley lined with dirty brick walls. This one led to the main drag of Itaewon. Now, an hour past curfew, there was no glimmering neon; all was dark and quiet.

“Maybe he’s waiting for us,” Ernie said.

I scanned the alley with the beam of my flashlight. “No place for him to hide.”

“Maybe down there,” Ernie said.

“One way to find out,” I said. “Let’s go.”

I switched off the flashlight and let the moonlight guide us into the alley. Step by step, we peered into the darkness around us. No monster popped out. At the end of the passageway, we paused, listening. When
we heard nothing, we emerged onto the central street of Itaewon. All the red lights were off now, and everyone had gone to bed. Up above us on the steep hill loomed the unlit signs of the 007 Club and beyond that, the King Club. Below, at the intersection with the MSR, the UN Club sat silent and somber. Except for a few stray
ramyon
wrappers blown by the wind, nothing moved.

“So what now?” Ernie asked.

“This guy’s jerking us around. He leaves an elaborate clue and then disappears. Probably thinks he’s smart as hell.”

“He is. Smart enough to get away with two murders.”

“He hasn’t gotten away with them yet.”

We searched Itaewon for another half hour, to no avail. The streets were silent and empty. Finally, Ernie said, “So maybe I’ll go visit Miss Ju.”

“Isn’t it sort of late, Ernie,” I said, “to be barging in on her?”

Ernie glanced at me, puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“I mean is she expecting you?”

“What’s that got to do with it?”

Miss Ju was a tall and gorgeous cocktail waitress with an elaborate hairdo and an affinity for exotic makeup. A couple of months ago when she’d first started working at the 007 Club she’d attracted so much attention that the owner had taken her off serving drinks and switched her to hostess for whichever table was spending the most money. For some perverse reason, she’d been attracted to Ernie. I’m not sure what it was. He didn’t have much charm as far as I could see—in fact he was often downright rude to women, but for some reason they liked him. Maybe it was his pointed nose and his green eyes behind round-lensed glasses, or the way he was fascinated by whatever odd thing was plopped down in front of him. Or maybe it was the way he looked at life; as if there was nothing, ever, in any way more important than what was happening right now.

“We’re supposed to be on guard duty,” I told him.

“When the call came in, we were the only investigators available. So now we’re investigating. Screw guard duty.”

Ernie was right. Once the honchos of 8th Army heard an MP had been murdered, that’s all they’d be concerned with, not the sergeant-of-the-guard patrol. Still, I felt uncomfortable with him staying out here. It was possible the Provost Marshal had already been informed of the incident and he’d be waiting back at the compound for our report. Ernie read my mind.

“Tell the Colonel that I stayed out here to continue searching for the guy.”

“He’s not going to buy that.”

“Who cares? He won’t have any proof I didn’t.”

I was weakening. “What about your jeep?”

“It’s parked in a safe place. And locked.”

Actually, Ernie had rank on me. He was a Staff Sergeant, and I was only a buck sergeant, E-5. Still, I often played the role of the adult. Ernie liked that. It gave him someone to irritate.

“Okay,” I said finally, “but you better be in early tomorrow. A whole lot of waste is going to hit the fan.”

“Don’t sweat the small stuff, Sueño. See you
mañana
.”

As he started to walk away, I said, “What happens if Miss Ju is otherwise occupied?”

Ernie swung a left hook into the air. “I’ll kick the guy out. Then I’ll go find a different girl.”

He probably would, too. Ernie cared less for the opinions of other people than anyone I’d ever known. It was his two tours in Vietnam that did it to him. Death is waiting. Why worry about anything else? In a few seconds, he was swallowed up by the jumble of passageways
that led back into the tightly packed hooches that surrounded the main drag of Itaewon.