He’d seemed nervous since we’d walked in. A normal enough reaction to CID agents. But Burlingame was an intelligence officer. An educated man. He should’ve realized that he had nothing to worry about.
“Before the break-in, or after it, what did you notice that was unusual?”
“Nothing. Everything pretty much routine. Except our typewriter was gone and I had to hustle a replacement. And we had to buy coffee from the snack bar because my ration for the month had been used up,”
“Do you always use your entire ration?”
“Hell, no. Are you accusing me of black-marketing?” I didn’t answer. His face flushed red. “I don’t like your attitude very much.”
Ernie rose from his chair. “A man is dead, Captain. Somebody didn’t like his attitude very much either.”
Ernie stepped over to the hot water pot, grabbed the half-empty jar of freeze-dried coffee, and unscrewed the lid. He licked his finger, dipped it in, and tasted the chunky grounds. Moving his mouth, he savored them for a moment.
“He’s clean,” Ernie said.
Captain Burlihgame’s jaw fell open. “Now you’re accusing me of using illegal drugs?”
Ernie shrugged. “If the shoe fits, wear it.”
The captain rose to his feet and pointed his forefinger at Ernie.
“You’ll take that back. Right now, Mister. You have no reason to be casting aspersions on a superior officer.”
“I’ll cast any goddamn thing I want.”
The interview was over.
I stood up, grabbed Ernie by the elbow, and yanked him toward the door. He shrugged off my grip and walked out on his own. As we left, Captain Burlingame followed us into the hallway. He stood watching us, hands on his hips.
I pulled Ernie outside into the cold air.
“What the hell’s the matter with you?”
“The guy pissed me off. More concerned about whether or not we were accusing him of anything than if we find the guy who sliced up Whitcomb.”
We walked rapidly through the redbrick buildings of the 8th Army complex. The snow had let up, for the moment anyway. Naked elms swayed in the breeze like arthritic claws, scratching at the cold sky.
“Give him a break, Ernie,” I said. “Most people get nervous when CID agents ask them questions. They start worrying about their own positions. About how they’re going to look.”
“Yeah? Well, hell with them.. I’m tired of that piddly shit.”
When Ernie kicked in the door at Suk-ja’s hooch I’d figured he was just having fun. Now I realized that this case was already getting to him. He was pissed that our stupidity in delivering a note and not asking enough questions had somehow contributed to the death of Cecil Whitcomb.
So was I.
We had a list of names. Cecil’s buddies. I wanted to find out about the real life of Lance Corporal Cecil Whitcomb.
But there was somebody I needed to talk to first. The man who knew more about Gl’s than they sometimes knew about themselves.
The houseboy.
We slipped in a side door of the Honor Guard barracks and walked down the long hallway. Each room housed eight to fourteen soldiers, broken down by squads. The building was quiet now in the midafternoon. Most of the houseboys were finishing up the last of their laundry, and the soldiers were out in the motor pool or on the parade field. Maintenance and training, the story of a dogface’s life.
We slipped into Whitcomb’s room and waited. A few minutes later a thin Korean man in baggy fatigue pants and a loose T-shirt shuffled down the hallway, his rubber sandals slapping the cement floor. When he entered the room and saw us, his tired eyes widened slightly. Other than that, his square, craggy face showed no hint of surprise.
“Mr. Yim?”
He nodded. I had gotten the name from the Sergeant Major. I showed him my identification.
“I am Agent Sueño and this is my partner, Agent Bascom. We’re here to ask you a few questions about Cecil Whitcomb.”
He nodded again, dropped the bundle of underwear he was carrying on one of the neatly
“Before the break-in, or after it, what did you notice that was unusual?”
“Nothing. Everything pretty much routine. Except our typewriter was gone and I had to hustle a replacement. And we had to buy coffee from the snack bar because my ration for the month had been used up,”
“Do you always use your entire ration?”
“Hell, no. Are you accusing me of black-marketing?” I didn’t answer. His face flushed red. “I don’t like your attitude very much.”
Ernie rose from his chair. “A man is dead, Captain. Somebody didn’t like his attitude very much either.”
Ernie stepped over to the hot water pot, grabbed the half-empty jar of freeze-dried coffee, and unscrewed the lid. He licked his finger, dipped it in, and tasted the chunky grounds. Moving his mouth, he savored them for a moment.
“He’s clean,” Ernie said.
Captain Burlihgame’s jaw fell open. “Now you’re accusing me of using illegal drugs?”
Ernie shrugged. “If the shoe fits, wear it.”
The captain rose to his feet and pointed his forefinger at Ernie.
“You’ll take that back. Right now, Mister. You have no reason to be casting aspersions on a superior officer.”
“I’ll cast any goddamn thing I want.”
The interview was over.
I stood up, grabbed Ernie by the elbow, and yanked him toward the door. He shrugged off my grip and walked out on his own. As we left, Captain Burlingame followed us into the hallway. He stood watching us, hands on his hips.
I pulled Ernie outside into the cold air.
“What the hell’s the matter with you?”
“The guy pissed me off. More concerned about whether or not we were accusing him of anything than if we find the guy who sliced up Whitcomb.”
We walked rapidly through the redbrick buildings of the 8th Army complex. The snow had let up, for the moment anyway. Naked elms swayed in the breeze like arthritic claws, scratching at the cold sky.
“Give him a break, Ernie,” I said. “Most people get nervous when CID agents ask them questions. They start worrying about their own positions. About how they’re going to look.”
“Yeah? Well, hell with them.. I’m tired of that piddly shit.”
When Ernie kicked in the door at Suk-ja’s hooch I’d figured he was just having fun. Now I realized that this case was already getting to him. He was pissed that our stupidity in delivering a note and not asking enough questions had somehow contributed to the death of Cecil Whitcomb.
So was I.
We had a list of names. Cecil’s buddies. I wanted to find out about the real life of Lance Corporal Cecil Whitcomb.
But there was somebody I needed to talk to first. The man who knew more about Gl’s than they sometimes knew about themselves.
The houseboy.
We slipped in a side door of the Honor Guard barracks and walked down the long hallway. Each room housed eight to fourteen soldiers, broken down by squads. The building was quiet now in the midafternoon. Most of the houseboys were finishing up the last of their laundry, and the soldiers were out in the motor pool or on the parade field. Maintenance and training, the story of a dogface’s life.
We slipped into Whitcomb’s room and waited. A few minutes later a thin Korean man in baggy fatigue pants and a loose T-shirt shuffled down the hallway, his rubber sandals slapping the cement floor. When he entered the room and saw us, his tired eyes widened slightly. Other than that, his square, craggy face showed no hint of surprise.
“Mr. Yim?”
He nodded. I had gotten the name from the Sergeant Major. I showed him my identification.
“I am Agent Sueño and this is my partner, Agent Bascom. We’re here to ask you a few questions about Cecil Whitcomb.”
He nodded again, dropped the bundle of underwear he was carrying on one of the neatly
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