The Ville Rat Read online

  Also by Martin Limón

  Jade Lady Burning

  Slicky Boys

  Buddha’s Money

  The Door to Bitterness

  The Wandering Ghost

  G.I. Bones

  Mr. Kill

  The Joy Brigade

  Nightmare Range

  The Iron Sickle

  Copyright © 2015 by Martin Limón

  All rights reserved.

  Published by

  Soho Press, Inc.

  853 Broadway

  New York, NY 10003

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Limón, Martin, 1948–

  The ville rat / Martin Limón.

  ISBN 978-1-61695-608-0

  eISBN 978-1-61695-609-7

  1. Sueño, George (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Bascom, Ernie

  (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 3. United States. Army Criminal Investigation Command—Fiction. 4. Americans—Korea—Fiction. 5. Young women—Crimes against—Fiction.

  6. Murder—Investigation—Fiction. 7. Korea (South)—History—1960-1988—Fiction.

  I. Title.

  PS3562.I465V55 2015

  813’.54—dc23 2015009880

  Interior design by Janine Agro, Soho Press, Inc.

  Printed in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  To Aaron, with hope for a brilliant future

  Ville ´vil noun: GI slang for village, usually in Asia.

  -1-

  We left the Main Supply Route and turned onto the two-lane blacktop that led toward the village of Sonyu-ri. The road dropped off precipitously and we both held onto the overhead roll bar as the jeep bounced downhill. When we reached ground level, the tire chains caught and began to crunch reassuringly on freshly fallen snow. Still, even though the time was already an hour past dawn, visibility was poor. Ernie switched on the headlights.

  “Are you sure you’re using the right map there, pal?”

  “Official army map,” I told him, slapping the folded sheet.

  “What’s the date on it?”

  I aimed the beam of my flashlight and checked. “Twenty years ago.”

  “Right at the end of the Korean War,” Ernie said. “This area north of Seoul has changed since then. Half the roads probably aren’t even listed.”

  And half the villages, I thought. With two million dead out of a population of twenty million at the end of the war, the Republic of Korea was only now beginning to recover. And they were still nervous about another North Korean invasion. With 700,000 bloodthirsty Communist soldiers on the far side of the Demilitarized Zone, just a few miles from here, who could blame them? On the trip from Seoul, we’d passed two ROK Army checkpoints and driven around a mile-long row of armor-blocking cement pilings, and rolled beneath tank traps set to explode if the northern hordes ever decided to come south again.

  My name is George Sueño. My partner Ernie Bascom and I are agents for the 8th United States Army Criminal Investigation Division in Seoul. The call had come in at oh-dark-thirty. Our presence was requested at a crime scene some fifteen miles north of the capital city in a village known as Sonyu-ri. Said presence was requested now. Or, as 8th Army liked to say, immediately if not sooner.

  We continued to roll down the snow-covered road, passing the Paju-gun County Health Clinic on our right and then a few idle three-wheeled tractors parked along the edge of a four-foot-high berm. Rows of small farmhouses sat cozy in the brisk winter breeze. Fifty yards farther along, just where the map told me they would be, a cluster of blue police sedans waited atop a rise. As we bounced up the dirt pathway, all eyes were on us, even Mr. Kill’s.

  His real name was Gil Kwon-up, chief homicide inspector for the Korean National Police, but “Kill” is what the American Army MPs had taken to calling him. Changing “Gil” to “Kill” made some sort of sense, at least in GI minds. Whenever they could turn a Korean name or word into something American, they did it. Ernie and I had worked with Mr. Kill before, on more than one case, and somehow we had won his grudging respect. Ernie for his ability to blend in with GIs everywhere, under any conditions, and me for my facility with the Korean language and interest in Korea’s five-thousand-year-old culture.

  Ernie drove up closer to the other vehicles, turned off the engine, and set the emergency brake. We pushed open the stiff canvas doors, climbed out of the jeep, and trudged to the top of the rise.

  Mr. Kill wore a broad-brimmed fedora and a dapper overcoat made of thick material. He stood with his hands shoved deep into his pockets, staring at us. He was tall for a Korean but at six-foot-one Ernie loomed over him. I was three inches taller than Ernie, but to show respect for Mr. Kill’s rank, I stopped lower down on the ridge. We were eye to eye. I nodded a greeting. So did Ernie. Kill pulled his right hand out of his pocket and motioned for us to follow. We did, downhill to the ice-encrusted banks of the Sonyu River.

  In the stray beams of a half-dozen flashlights, it was the splash of color I saw first. Bright red. Ernie saw it too. We both stopped. Mr. Kill took two steps forward and then crouched, both to get himself a better view and to give us time to absorb the scene. The rays of illumination coalesced around her, like a spotlight introducing a star. It was then I saw the stiff flesh and the raven black hair.

  She was beautiful. Like an ice princess.

  Somehow her body had been washed up against the shore and any further drift had been stopped by a foot-high shelf of crystalline white snow. She was wearing a chima-jeogori, a traditional Korean dress made of flowing red silk. The skirt had been tied breast-high, as was the custom, and embroidered with white cranes flapping broad wings to the sky. The short blouse was made of a sturdier material and was canary yellow and tied in the front with a long blue ribbon. Her eyes were open, staring into the opaque grey sky, and the smooth flesh of her face seemed to have been bleached pure white by death. A cold breeze blew down from the north. I shuddered. So did Ernie. So did every cop milling about the crime scene, except for Mr. Kill.

  He was known to be impervious to petty feelings. Heartless, some called him. But I knew that when he was on a crime scene he didn’t have time for emotions, only thought. And the processes of his mind, coupled with his vast investigative experience, were not good news for the perpetrators of any crime scenes he was assigned to.

  I stared at the woman again. Who could have done such a thing? Who could have so cruelly abandoned her in this frigid, unrelenting stream?

  The Sonyu River does not run deep. No more than three or four feet now and even less in the dry summer months. But due to the cold snap that had drifted down from Manchuria in recent weeks, it was frozen almost solid, except for the five or six inches of frigid water that rushed by beneath the ice. The river was about twenty feet wide and at its center, for a width of about two yards, it ran quickly and freely.

  Ernie looked upstream. “How far did she drift?” he asked.

  Mr. Kill nodded at the question but didn’t answer.

  Upriver, a basketball-sized chunk of ice broke free and swirled toward the body. It spun madly and crashed into the red skirt, lifting it lewdly up pale legs.

  “No underwear,” Ernie said.

  Which was unusual. Part of the traditional female outfit during the winter was a wool tunic and long underpants and warm socks under cotton-stuffed slippers. All designed to combat the long Korean winter. None of these appurtenances were worn by the Lady of the Ice.

  The silk string that was used to secure the wrapped skirt was loose, trailing
limply in the slow current.

  As if we were thinking the same thing, both Ernie and I turned and gazed upriver. The meandering stream ran through rice paddies and past small animal pens and near farmhouses, and although we couldn’t see it from here, we both knew that just over the rise was an installation we were both familiar with: Camp Pelham, home of the 2nd of the 17th Field Artillery, which maybe explained why Mr. Kill had called for us. Even though he was the chief homicide investigator of the Korean National Police, under the Status of Forces Agreement signed between the US and the Republic of Korea, he had no jurisdiction on American military compounds.

  A large van pulled up and a team of forensic technicians climbed out. They all wore blue smocks and a few of them toted metal briefcases. Stenciled on their backs in block hangul script was the word kyongchal. Police. Mr. Kill left us and gave them a quick briefing. Soon, they were plotting their grids and slipping on knee-high rubber wading boots.

  Another group of cops had apparently been canvassing the neighborhood and reported back to Mr. Kill. He listened to them and nodded and then barked further orders, pointing at the homes off in the distance. The men saluted and left.

  He walked back to us. Wearily, he nodded toward the corpse. “Your thoughts,” he said.

  I let Ernie go first.

  “Nobody but a madwoman would leave her house dressed like that, not in this weather.”

  Mr. Kill nodded.

  “And the knot holding her skirt came loose,” Ernie continued, “probably tied in a hurry.” He paused. “Do we know the cause of death?”

  “No,” Mr. Kill replied, “but did you see her neck?”

  We all turned and studied the body. Mr. Kill switched on his flashlight. The technicians were closing in on her now, one of them examining the silk skirt.

  “Bruises. She was strangled,” Ernie said.

  “Yes,” Mr. Kill replied. “The river is much too shallow for her to have drowned.”

  Ernie glanced toward the invisible compound upriver. “I bet Eighth Army won’t see it that way.”

  If an American GI was in any way involved, the powers that be at the 8th Imperial Army would do their best to deny it. A young woman, maybe inebriated, staggers around in the dark. She trips and falls into the frigid waters of the Sonyu River, she struggles, maybe hits her head against a rock. She’s disoriented and starts gulping down water. She passes out. Before you know it, she’s history.

  Was that scenario possible? Barely. But all cops, military or otherwise, play the percentages. And with a battalion full of horny American artillerymen just a couple of hundred yards upriver, the percentages were that one of them had something to do with this.

  One of the technicians squatted in the stream. Wearing plastic gloves, he searched the dead woman’s clothing. We waited expectantly. At first, he found nothing. No jewelry, no money, no laminated Korean National Identification Card, nothing that would make our lives easier. Finally, from the inner sleeve, he pulled out a piece of paper. He waded out of the water and handed it to Mr. Kill. The paper was wet but appeared to be made of cloth vellum. Thick. The type of paper used for official documents.

  Kill, having similarly slipped on plastic gloves, unfolded the paper.

  We held our breath.

  Finally, he twisted the dripping paper toward us. It was a torn shard. Some of the ink had run but it was still legible, composed of the phonetic hangul script interspersed with Chinese characters.

  “What does it say?” Ernie asked.

  “You might recognize it,” Mr. Kill said. “It’s about a night and a meeting and something being stretched.” He surveyed our blank faces and almost smiled. “It’s poetry,” he said. “I’ll have it identified.”

  “And the calligraphy,” I said.

  “Yes, another key point. It’s clearly written with ink and a brush, not a ballpoint pen. That in itself is a lead. Very few people write this way anymore.”

  Except for Mr. Kill himself. He was an expert calligrapher. He’d been educated in classical Korean, which included Chinese characters, and he’d attended university in the States, which was why he spoke English so well. And it probably explained why he so quickly recognized this snippet of writing as a fragment of a longer work of poetry.

  “So maybe we can leave now?” Ernie said.

  Kill stared at him quizzically.

  Ernie glanced back toward Camp Pelham. “None of those guys is an expert calligrapher, or is likely to have anything to do with anybody who is.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “They’re nothing but a bunch of know-nothing GIs. Lowlifes.” Ernie jabbed his thumb into his chest. “I ought to know. I’ve been working with them all of my adult life.”

  “You harbor such a high opinion of your fellow soldiers?”

  “I’m being generous. These are guys who read comic books and watch cartoons on AFKN on Saturday mornings. Hell, anybody who can pass a fifth-grade spelling test, like my partner Sueño here, they think he’s a freaking genius.”

  “Still,” Kill said, looking back at the body floating in the frozen river. “She was a beautiful woman. They are men. They would’ve been watching her.”

  “Maybe,” Ernie said, “but the Second D MPI isn’t going to like it.”

  He was referring to the 2nd Infantry Division military police investigators. They controlled the three-hundred-or-so-square-mile area in which the US 2nd Infantry Division operated. Even though the 8th US Army was the higher headquarters, and theoretically in charge of all operations in Korea, the 2nd D cops wouldn’t want us 8th Army investigators poking our noses into what they would consider to be none of our business. A jurisdictional dispute could be overcome, but it would take some high-level phone calls. And the Division would like even less the Korean National Police sniffing around one of their compounds.

  “We will let the evidence lead us,” Mr. Kill said. With that, he turned and started to walk back to his blue police sedan.

  Ernie called after him. “So that means we can’t leave?”

  “No,” he replied without looking back. “I’ve already made some phone calls. Your fate is being determined as we speak.”

  “Shit,” Ernie said, turning to me. “Division’s going to have a case of the ass.”

  We’d dealt with the honchos of the United States Army’s 2nd Infantry Division before, and it hadn’t been pleasant. In fact, with all that firepower at their disposal—tank battalions, howitzer batteries, and gung ho infantry units—it could be downright dangerous.

  The banks of the Sonyu River became muddier and more treacherous the closer we came to the outskirts of Sonyu-ri.

  Ernie balanced himself by holding on to a clump of reeds.

  “Why does Kill want us on the case?” Ernie asked. “What did we ever do?”

  “We worked with him before,” I answered, hopping from one stone to another over a thin crust of ice. “He appreciated our efforts.”

  “We didn’t do anything anybody else couldn’t have done. Except for you speaking Korean, that is.”

  “Maybe,” I replied. “But he knows we don’t give a shit about what Eighth Army thinks. That’s what sets us apart.”

  Ernie didn’t answer. He knew I was right. We both refused to brownnose to get a promotion, especially when it involved overlooking crimes that were considered embarrassing to the 8th Army command. It was an attitude that had gotten us in trouble more than once, and even got me busted down a stripe. But it was an attitude that, no matter how hard we tried, we couldn’t shake.

  Ernie had spent two tours in Vietnam. He’d seen death and he knew he was lucky to be alive. And as such, he lived each day without worrying about tomorrow, and he sure as hell didn’t care what anyone thought about him.

  I had a different take. I didn’t care what most people thought, but the opinion of those I respected wa
s desperately important to me. Mr. Kill, for example. He’d somehow survived the Machiavellian politics of the South Korean government and managed to rise to top homicide investigator of the Korean National Police, all the while maintaining a reputation for impeccable integrity.

  I wasn’t sure if that was possible for me, not in the 8th US Army, but I was trying. I’d been orphaned at an early age and grown up as a Mexican-American orphan in an indifferent Los Angeles County foster care system. What kept me from giving up were the very few people who had inspired me to do better. That’s what I was trying to do here and now in the US Army. And I believed that’s what Mr. Kill was demanding of me—to do better—because we owed it to that woman who’d been left to float all night, alone in a river of ice.

  “There it is,” Ernie said, pointing. “Sonyu-ri.”

  A muddy walkway ran parallel to the water as it curved along an almost unbroken wall of wood and brick. Each building was dirty and run-down, and now the river was littered with trash: empty tin cans, a tiny shoe bobbing in muddy water, a dead rat. Every twenty yards or so a crack appeared between buildings, barely wide enough for a person to squeeze through, and I knew from previous visits that these ran uphill about a hundred feet until they reached the same two-lane blacktop that led back to the MSR—the Main Supply Route.

  On the right bank stood Camp Pelham, protected by a ten-foot-high chain-link fence held up by sturdy four-by-four wooden beams and topped by rolled concertina wire. Every fifty yards or so, stretching all around the perimeter, were guard towers with floodlights and a wooden ladder leading up to a roofed platform. At each one, the muzzle of a .50-caliber machine gun poked out from behind a sandbagged firing position. Backed up against the fence were rows of round-topped tin Quonset huts, all of them painted the army’s favorite color: olive drab.

  Ernie pointed straight ahead. “That must be one of the bridges over the River Seine.”