silence grew longer. Finally, I found the courage to speak. “Yes, sir,” I said. Nothing more.
Armbrewster nodded his bony head, taking my statement as complete acquiescence. Which, of course, it was.
“On the other hand, if one doesn’t correct one’s mistakes . . .”
The General let the sentence trail off, spreading both his hands, as if allowing sand to sift through his fingers.
His meaning was clear. If Ernie and I don’t catch the people who perpetrated these crimes, he’d allow all charges to be brought against us. The full force and power of the Uniform Code of Military Justice would hammer us senseless.
These weren’t idle threats. In the military justice system, the commanding officer performs the same function that the district attorney and the grand jury do in civilian proceedings. He decides who is going to be prosecuted and who isn’t. In addition, he appoints the officers who will preside as judges over the trial. And often there’s an understanding as to what the CG expects the verdict to be. So the Commanding General functions as the district attorney and grand jury and also—if he chooses to—as the judge and the jury. Ernie and I were toast if the CG decided against us, and we both knew it.
When General Armbrewster was satisfied that we understood what he was saying, he crossed his arms and leaned back in his swivel chair.
“He’s a killer.”
Ernie and I both jerked forward. My first thought was for Han Ok-hi—she hadn’t made it, after all—but the General said, “A traveling man.”
“Where?” Ernie croaked.
“Up in Songtan.”
We knew the place. The village outside Osan Air Force Base, the largest U.S. Air Base in Korea.
“I don’t know much more about the victim yet,” General Armbrewster said. “An old hag who works the streets, they tell me.”
“Who told you, sir?” Ernie was already investigating.
“The Korean National Police Liaison Officer,” Armbrewster answered. “He says the KNPs are worried because they don’t have access to our compounds or much good intelligence amongst the GIs who work mischief off base. He’s going to need American help.”
“How do the KNPs know it’s the same guy?” I asked.
“The way she was killed. Raped, strangled, stabbed, and then she was . . .”
“But that’s not the way Han Ok-hi was hurt,” Ernie interrupted. “Not at all.”
“I’m not finished.” Armbrewster stared at Ernie until he quieted. “Once this cretin was through with the old bag, he put a hole in her skull. With a forty-five.”
My side was still throbbing from the knife wound last night. In fact, I was worried it had started bleeding again. But now it felt as if another hot blade had been shoved into my stomach, by the same guy who had pulled the trigger of my pistol.
“It could be anybody’s forty-five,” I said. “The KNPs couldn’t run a ballistics test that quickly.”
“No, they couldn’t,” Armbrewster agreed. “But they also have this.”
He shoved a small piece of cardboard wrapped in plastic across his desk. Then, while Ernie and I leaned forward, he lifted the portable lamp and shone the beam directly onto the document.
It was made of rectangular white cardboard. Wallet-sized. Perforated edges. A standard 8th Army Form: USFK 108-b, Weapons Receipt. The card that was needed by every GI when he checked out his weapon from his unit’s arms room. This one described the type of weapon authorized—.45 pistol, automatic, one-each—and next to that the serial number of the specific weapon.
I recognized the serial number. I had memorized it over a year ago, when I’d arrived in Korea and been assigned to the 8th Army CID Detachment.
I also recognized the name typed into the top square: Sueño, George (NMI).
There was a thumbprint on the card. Brown. Probably dried blood. Clear. As if it had been purposely placed there by a professional.
I looked back at General Armbrewster, still too stunned to speak. Ernie spoke
Armbrewster nodded his bony head, taking my statement as complete acquiescence. Which, of course, it was.
“On the other hand, if one doesn’t correct one’s mistakes . . .”
The General let the sentence trail off, spreading both his hands, as if allowing sand to sift through his fingers.
His meaning was clear. If Ernie and I don’t catch the people who perpetrated these crimes, he’d allow all charges to be brought against us. The full force and power of the Uniform Code of Military Justice would hammer us senseless.
These weren’t idle threats. In the military justice system, the commanding officer performs the same function that the district attorney and the grand jury do in civilian proceedings. He decides who is going to be prosecuted and who isn’t. In addition, he appoints the officers who will preside as judges over the trial. And often there’s an understanding as to what the CG expects the verdict to be. So the Commanding General functions as the district attorney and grand jury and also—if he chooses to—as the judge and the jury. Ernie and I were toast if the CG decided against us, and we both knew it.
When General Armbrewster was satisfied that we understood what he was saying, he crossed his arms and leaned back in his swivel chair.
“He’s a killer.”
Ernie and I both jerked forward. My first thought was for Han Ok-hi—she hadn’t made it, after all—but the General said, “A traveling man.”
“Where?” Ernie croaked.
“Up in Songtan.”
We knew the place. The village outside Osan Air Force Base, the largest U.S. Air Base in Korea.
“I don’t know much more about the victim yet,” General Armbrewster said. “An old hag who works the streets, they tell me.”
“Who told you, sir?” Ernie was already investigating.
“The Korean National Police Liaison Officer,” Armbrewster answered. “He says the KNPs are worried because they don’t have access to our compounds or much good intelligence amongst the GIs who work mischief off base. He’s going to need American help.”
“How do the KNPs know it’s the same guy?” I asked.
“The way she was killed. Raped, strangled, stabbed, and then she was . . .”
“But that’s not the way Han Ok-hi was hurt,” Ernie interrupted. “Not at all.”
“I’m not finished.” Armbrewster stared at Ernie until he quieted. “Once this cretin was through with the old bag, he put a hole in her skull. With a forty-five.”
My side was still throbbing from the knife wound last night. In fact, I was worried it had started bleeding again. But now it felt as if another hot blade had been shoved into my stomach, by the same guy who had pulled the trigger of my pistol.
“It could be anybody’s forty-five,” I said. “The KNPs couldn’t run a ballistics test that quickly.”
“No, they couldn’t,” Armbrewster agreed. “But they also have this.”
He shoved a small piece of cardboard wrapped in plastic across his desk. Then, while Ernie and I leaned forward, he lifted the portable lamp and shone the beam directly onto the document.
It was made of rectangular white cardboard. Wallet-sized. Perforated edges. A standard 8th Army Form: USFK 108-b, Weapons Receipt. The card that was needed by every GI when he checked out his weapon from his unit’s arms room. This one described the type of weapon authorized—.45 pistol, automatic, one-each—and next to that the serial number of the specific weapon.
I recognized the serial number. I had memorized it over a year ago, when I’d arrived in Korea and been assigned to the 8th Army CID Detachment.
I also recognized the name typed into the top square: Sueño, George (NMI).
There was a thumbprint on the card. Brown. Probably dried blood. Clear. As if it had been purposely placed there by a professional.
I looked back at General Armbrewster, still too stunned to speak. Ernie spoke
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