Collingsworth was a dead man, he departed immediately, as if concerned about being caught.
I pulled the shroud down further and examined Collingsworth’s arms. Untouched. No cuts or bruises. He’d never seen the blade coming.
This was a disciplined and skilled assassination, giving credence to the ROK Army theory that the man with the iron sickle was a highly trained agent. But why had he lingered at the Claims Office? Had he not been sure a fatal blow had been struck? Or was he merely enjoyinghimself? Enjoying the kill? Or enjoying some other type of emotion? Lust? Revenge? Hate?
“You seen enough?” Ernie asked.
I nodded. He pulled the shroud back over Collingsworth’s open blue eyes.
Outside, the three MP jeeps were still parked. A fourth had joined them. When we pushed through the morgue’s double doors, all the MPs in every jeep climbed out and strode toward us. We stopped on the steps. Staff Sergeant Moe Dexter took the lead. He had both thumbs hooked over his web belt, and he was leaning back, a big smile on his round face. He was always smiling and always joking, even when he arrested someone. It was the way he dealt with life, the way he defused tough situations and the way he relaxed a miscreant right up to the moment before he jammed his baton in his gut.
“Sweeno,” he said, purposely mispronouncing my name. “And Agent Ernestine. How are my two favorite CID pukes doing this fine afternoon?”
“Get bent, Dexter,” Ernie said.
“Oh,” he said in a falsetto voice. “Are you going to bend me over? How thrilling.”
Ernie walked down the steps, and I followed. When Dexter didn’t get out of the way, Ernie shoved him.
Dexter staggered back in mock alarm. “Oh, rough stuff. How
could
you?”
The eight MPs followed us to our jeep. Ernie and I were about to climb in but stood waiting for them, staring them down. The smile had dropped from Dexter’s face. He stared at us through tinted rectangular glasses.
“When you have a lead on this guy,” he said, “you point him out to us. None of this playing footsy with the KNPs, none of this showingrespect to their bullshit judicial system. This guy killed an MP.” Dexter jammed his thumb over his shoulder. “He was one of our own, and you’re MPs too, or you used to be. Once you find him, you turn the guy over to us,” he said, “not to the ROK Army, not to the Korean National Police.”
There was a long silence. “I can’t do that,” I said.
“Why?” Dexter said, stepping closer. “Because you’re too close to the Koreans? Because you speak their freaking language and eat that foul-smelling shit they put in their mouths? Is that why, Sweeno, because you think you’re better than us? Better than regular GIs?”
“There’s nothing regular about you, Dexter,” I said.
“Not without using Ex-Lax,” Ernie added.
Dexter threw his helmet at Ernie. Ernie dodged it but slid around to the front of the jeep, and before anyone could stop them, the two men were trading blows. Dexter’s hard left jab slid off Ernie’s ear, leaving Ernie close enough to land a right uppercut to the taller man’s ribs. I jumped in, holding the two men apart. Some of the more levelheaded MPs grabbed Dexter.
“Don’t you betray us,” Dexter shouted, spewing spit. “Don’t you throw your lot in with people who ain’t our people. You understand me, Sweeno?”
Without answering, I shoved Ernie into the passenger seat, stalked to the other side of the jeep, and climbed behind the steering wheel. I started the jeep and bulled forward through the MPs, kicking up gravel as I gunned the little jeep out of the parking lot.
I drove to the CID office and got out. Ernie had calmed down a little and he was smiling, trying to pretend Dexter’s taunts hadn’t effected him. He slid into the driver’s seat and told me he’d meet me in the ville at twenty hundred hours. Before he left, I said, “You’re not hurt, are you?”
“From that puke? No way.” He
I pulled the shroud down further and examined Collingsworth’s arms. Untouched. No cuts or bruises. He’d never seen the blade coming.
This was a disciplined and skilled assassination, giving credence to the ROK Army theory that the man with the iron sickle was a highly trained agent. But why had he lingered at the Claims Office? Had he not been sure a fatal blow had been struck? Or was he merely enjoyinghimself? Enjoying the kill? Or enjoying some other type of emotion? Lust? Revenge? Hate?
“You seen enough?” Ernie asked.
I nodded. He pulled the shroud back over Collingsworth’s open blue eyes.
Outside, the three MP jeeps were still parked. A fourth had joined them. When we pushed through the morgue’s double doors, all the MPs in every jeep climbed out and strode toward us. We stopped on the steps. Staff Sergeant Moe Dexter took the lead. He had both thumbs hooked over his web belt, and he was leaning back, a big smile on his round face. He was always smiling and always joking, even when he arrested someone. It was the way he dealt with life, the way he defused tough situations and the way he relaxed a miscreant right up to the moment before he jammed his baton in his gut.
“Sweeno,” he said, purposely mispronouncing my name. “And Agent Ernestine. How are my two favorite CID pukes doing this fine afternoon?”
“Get bent, Dexter,” Ernie said.
“Oh,” he said in a falsetto voice. “Are you going to bend me over? How thrilling.”
Ernie walked down the steps, and I followed. When Dexter didn’t get out of the way, Ernie shoved him.
Dexter staggered back in mock alarm. “Oh, rough stuff. How
could
you?”
The eight MPs followed us to our jeep. Ernie and I were about to climb in but stood waiting for them, staring them down. The smile had dropped from Dexter’s face. He stared at us through tinted rectangular glasses.
“When you have a lead on this guy,” he said, “you point him out to us. None of this playing footsy with the KNPs, none of this showingrespect to their bullshit judicial system. This guy killed an MP.” Dexter jammed his thumb over his shoulder. “He was one of our own, and you’re MPs too, or you used to be. Once you find him, you turn the guy over to us,” he said, “not to the ROK Army, not to the Korean National Police.”
There was a long silence. “I can’t do that,” I said.
“Why?” Dexter said, stepping closer. “Because you’re too close to the Koreans? Because you speak their freaking language and eat that foul-smelling shit they put in their mouths? Is that why, Sweeno, because you think you’re better than us? Better than regular GIs?”
“There’s nothing regular about you, Dexter,” I said.
“Not without using Ex-Lax,” Ernie added.
Dexter threw his helmet at Ernie. Ernie dodged it but slid around to the front of the jeep, and before anyone could stop them, the two men were trading blows. Dexter’s hard left jab slid off Ernie’s ear, leaving Ernie close enough to land a right uppercut to the taller man’s ribs. I jumped in, holding the two men apart. Some of the more levelheaded MPs grabbed Dexter.
“Don’t you betray us,” Dexter shouted, spewing spit. “Don’t you throw your lot in with people who ain’t our people. You understand me, Sweeno?”
Without answering, I shoved Ernie into the passenger seat, stalked to the other side of the jeep, and climbed behind the steering wheel. I started the jeep and bulled forward through the MPs, kicking up gravel as I gunned the little jeep out of the parking lot.
I drove to the CID office and got out. Ernie had calmed down a little and he was smiling, trying to pretend Dexter’s taunts hadn’t effected him. He slid into the driver’s seat and told me he’d meet me in the ville at twenty hundred hours. Before he left, I said, “You’re not hurt, are you?”
“From that puke? No way.” He
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