Martin Limon - G. I. Bones

But then Moretti did something stunning. He decided to erect an orphanage, smack dab in the middle of the red-light district of Itaewon. The streets of Seoul were littered with children who, in the madness of war, were either orphaned or abandoned by their parents. The investigator mentioned this project above all the others that Moretti had going at that time because, he believed, this orphanage had led to Moretti’s death.

Or supposed death. There were questions.

The MP investigator identified himself in the upper left corner of all his documents as Cort. That’s it, just Cort. Cort interviewed everyone Moretti had known, including workmen who had to lay down their picks and shovels while a ROK Army MP translated his questions. Although he used precise, direct, and unemotional language in his report, Cort had been caught up in this investigation. The portrait he painted was of an honest man struggling to stay afloat in a swirling sea of corruption, doing his best to provide shelter for people who were desperately in need.

Cort was particularly meticulous in his reconstruction of the assault on Moretti. He interviewed everyone who’d been there, he took samples of the blood spatters and compared them to Moretti’s blood type, and he searched long and hard for the weapons used.

But when the body stayed missing, I believe Cort went a little nuts.

The ivory body before us was topped by a tangled mass of thick red hair.

She wore sheer black panties and matching brassiere and lay sprawled on the twisted sheets of Corporal Francisco Bernal’s unmade bunk. Her tongue lolled pink across rouged lips. Ernie checked her pulse, staring all the while at the voluptuous curves of her freckled flesh.

Ernie dropped her wrist. “Heart’s still pumping. Looks like Corporal Bernal had himself a truly fine evening.”

“With stolen money,” I said.

The redhead shook her curly locks. They rustled past pink ears and then her eyes opened. Blazing green. She sat up suddenly, her breasts swinging wildly with the movement.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

Ernie crowbarred a grin. “Good morning. Let me guess. You must be Miss Motor Pool of 1973.”

The redhead’s eyes darted around the room. “Where’s Paco?”

Ernie gazed at me blankly.

“Paco’s short for Francisco,” I said.

Ernie nodded; his smile broadened once again and he turned back to the redhead.

“That’s what we were going to ask you. Seems there’s been a theft at Colonel Tidwell’s residence.”

She snorted. A dainty yet dismissive sound. Then she bent over and started groping for something, shoving her clothes out of the way. “Where are my cigarettes?”

Her tone was impatient, as if she were dealing with incompetent servants who weren’t responding fast enough.

Ernie grabbed a small black purse off a scratched footlocker and rummaged inside. He found a pack of Kools and tossed them to her along with a lighter. While she fumbled with her cigarette, Ernie searched through the contents of the purse and pulled out a military dependent ID card. He studied it for a moment, his eyes growing wider, and then he whistled softly.

The redhead ignored him, apparently accustomed to people being impressed by her pedigree.

Ernie tossed the card to me.

I snatched it out of the air. Still watching the redhead, I tilted the laminated surface toward the dim light of the floor lamp.

Her name was Tidwell, Jessica H.

Paco-Corporal Francisco Bernal-was preparing himself for a world of hurt. Regardless of who had actually stolen the thousand dollars, Paco would be blamed, as the instigator. And from the evidence I could see in front of me, he’d also be charged with statutory rape.

I gazed at seventeen-year-old Jessica. She was still bleary eyed but sitting on the edge of the bunk now, sucking on her cancer stick, puffing smoke into the air in a way that she must have imagined appeared sophisticated. She wasn’t concerned with being half naked and having two army cops leering at her. She had to have copied the safe combination from the slip of paper hidden in her father’s wallet and sneaked the key to his home office. But I started questioning her from a different angle.

“Why did Paco take the money?” I asked.

She stared at me through a puff of smoke, not shocked by my question but thinking things through. “He didn’t take the money,” she said. “He borrowed it.”

Ernie crossed his arms and leaned against a rickety chest of drawers, keeping his grin firmly in place, enjoying the show. One question had saved us a lot of work.

“Only a loan?” I asked.

She dimpled her cheeks and crossed her eyes, letting me know that she was pleased that the moron had understood.

“When does Paco plan to pay this thousand dollars back?” I asked.

Jessica let out a sigh of exasperation. “Before the end of the week. He needs it for an investment.”

“What type of investment?”

Suddenly Jessica realized that she’d said too much. She inhaled nervously.

When she didn’t answer, Ernie spoke up. “Maybe buying and selling a little weed? Or some hash? Something that the kids at the high school need?”

She lowered her glowing cigarette. “Paco’s not a pusher.”

“But he is a dealer,” I said.

She didn’t answer but looked away and continued to smoke.

A photo atop a footlocker showed Corporal Paco Bernal in green uniform and garrison cap. He was a full-cheeked Hispanic man. Dark. Handsome. A smile that could break teenage hearts.

I knew him. Of fifteen hundred enlisted men assigned to 8th Army headquarters, only two of us were Chicanos from East L.A., Paco and myself. I didn’t know him well. We’d had only one or two casual conversations, asking one another if we had mutual acquaintances back in the barrio. We didn’t. My cop instincts had picked up a devious side to Paco Bernal but I never thought he’d go as far as this. A thief and a defiler of young women, he was shaming the Latino world.

“By the way,” Ernie asked, “where is the dear boy?”

Unconsciously, Jessica patted the sheet beneath her and gazed down.

“I don’t know,” she said.

“But he was here last night when you fell asleep?”

She raised the cigarette to her lips and nodded slowly, lost in thought. “Are you his only girlfriend?” Ernie asked.

Instead of growing angry she said, “I don’t know. Why would I care about that?”

Ernie persuaded Jessica Tidwell to put on her clothes. After finishing her cigarette, she combed her hair and pulled herself together.

Ernie and I interviewed some of the other guys in the barracks. A few of them had seen Paco come in last night with Jessica. She was drunk and stumbling but Paco appeared sober. None of them had seen him leave. His full issue of uniforms was still hanging in his wall locker, so he must’ve been wearing civvies when he left. And his little traveling bag was still there, so he probably left wearing only the clothes on his back-with a thousand stolen dollars tucked safely in his pocket. One item was missing from his field gear, his bayonet.

After we notified CID headquarters about the incident, the search for Paco Bernal began. Despite a military police all-points bulletin, no trace of him was found on base, so we expanded our search to include Seoul’s international airport at Kimpo. No Francisco Bernal on any of the manifests. We also checked the military embarkation point at Osan Air Force Base. Again, no sign of Paco. There are only a half-dozen international embarkation points from South Korea. We contacted them all. While conducting these checks, we passed along an edict from the 8th Army commander: If found, Corporal Francisco Bernal was to be arrested and detained.