Martin Limon: The Iron Sickle

I stood in a small office at the end of a long hallway in the western wing of the 121st Evacuation Hospital. The receptionist for Captain Leah Prevault was a punctilious Korean woman who’d probably been working in the hospital since before Christ was a corporal. She asked me if I had an appointment, and when I answered I didn’t, she told me I’d have to make one. I reached across the counter and, before she could react, twisted the appointment book in my direction.

“Captain Prevault is free until two thirty,” I said.

“Yes, but you still must make an appointment.”

I pulled my badge out of my pocket and showed it to her. “Tell her it’s a matter of life and death.”

It never fails. Having lived in a police state for all of her life, the woman’s face blanched and from somewhere in the folds of her skirt a handkerchief appeared. She swiveled on her chair and, holding the embroidered cloth to her nose, disappeared into a back room. Five minutes later, she was back.

“Captain Prevault will see you now,” she said.

Captain Leah Prevault stood with her back to me as I entered the room, studying a book from a shelf behind her desk. She wore the neatly pressed tunic and skirt of a US Army captain. She put the book away, turned, and motioned for me to sit. She was a slender woman, not particularly tall but with long legs and arms she seemed to have to work at keeping under control. She sat at the same time I did and stared at me intently through horn-rimmed glasses, reminding me of a precocious adolescent examining a water bug that had just crawled out of a sewer. Her long brown hair had been pinned back so as not to interfere with her meticulous observation. She continued studying me, saying nothing.

The silence worked. I told her why I was there.

She cleared her throat and glanced briefly down at her Army-issue blotter. “I was wondering when you’d contact me,” she said.

“You mean me ?” I asked, pointing at my nose.

“Not you specifically.”

“So no one else in law enforcement has bothered to ask you about the murder?”

“You’re the first,” she said.

I pulled my notebook out of my jacket pocket. Thumbing through it, I pretended to be reading from notes. I gave her the description of the Korean man who’d been seen waiting in front of the Claims Office.

“You think he’s the killer?” she asked.

“Most likely,” I said. “He matches the descriptions given by the workers inside the Claim Office, even down to the damaged lip.”

“Why do you say ‘damaged?’ ”

“It might’ve been a recent injury.”

“But the woman at the snack stand said it appeared to her to be a permanent deformity.”

“Thanks for pointing that out,” I replied. “But I’m here to ask your help. Are you the only psychiatrist here at the one-two-one?”

“Yes. And after I return to the States, there’ll be none.”

“Why?”

“Budget cuts.”

“Who will take on your case load?”

She shrugged. “The worst cases are shipped to Camp Zama. Or Tripler in Hawaii.”

“Do you have any patients who match the description of the man who murdered the Claims Officer?”

“We don’t do Koreans,” she said.

“Who does?”

“There are a few practitioners on the economy. Not many. Most of the criminally insane would be handled by the Korean health service.”

“You think he’s criminally insane?”

“Either that or he’s what everyone at the Officers Club says he is: a North Korean terrorist.”

“But in your professional opinion, anyone who did what he did would have to be insane.”

“Little doubt.” She placed her hands in front of her chin, touching the tips of the long fingers together. “The attack was too unexpected, too brutal, to be anything else.”

“Was he after Mr. Barretsford in particular, do you think?”

“Unlikely. If it was personal, between Mr. Barretsford and the killer, there would’ve been a moment of confrontation. A moment of taunting, a moment of blame, maybe even an attempt at humiliation. Instead, the killer went immediately to work, as if he wanted to blot Barretsford from the universe. The Eighth Army Claims Officer represented something to him. What exactly, I couldn’t speculate-not without a thorough examination.”

“Come on, Doctor. There’s no way we can examine him. I need you to stick your neck out a little. What do you think motivates this guy?”

“Unofficially?”

“Unofficially,” I said, nodding.

“Hatred,” she said, without hesitation. “This man has been traumatized, deeply and probably repeatedly. For some reason the Chief of the Eighth Army Claims Office represented to him everything he loathes, everything that has caused him to suffer. Even if he’s a North Korean agent, this is what motivated him. Hatred of a man who represented a system he’s been programmed to hate.”

I started to write that down in my notebook but she said, “Unofficial, remember?”

I stopped writing and stared for a moment at the blank page. “This Korean mental health service you mentioned, can you refer me to anyone there?”

“Wouldn’t the Korean National Police already have checked them out?”

“Maybe,” I replied, “but most of the thinking is the killer is a North Korean agent. Not a nut case.” I realized my mistake and felt my face flush red. “Sorry.”

Captain Prevault stared at me. Her face was narrow with a smooth complexion and not unattractive. If a GI stared at another GI like she was doing at me, he might get his nose punched. On her, it seemed normal. Disconcerting, but normal.

“They might be right,” she said. “Even considering the gruesomeness of the crime scene, a North Korean agent might’ve done the same, if he were trying to spread terror.”

“That’s what the brass thinks, yes. The more gore, the more panic.”

“But you don’t?”

“I try to keep an open mind.”

She smiled faintly. It was a nice smile. “An open mind is not good for promotion, not in this man’s army.”

“No,” I agreed.

“What’s the saying? Get along …”

“Go along to get along,” I corrected.

“Yes, which is why I’ll be getting out of the military soon.” She swiveled on her chair, pulled out a drawer at the bottom of her desk, and appeared to be thumbing through some files. She stopped, lifted a clump of paper, stared at it for a moment, and then dropped it back into the folder. Closing the drawer, she turned back to me.

“I’ll make some inquiries,” she said. “Do you speak Korean?”

“Some,” I replied.

“That will help. If the person I’m thinking of consents to talk to you, I’ll let you know.”

“Just give me his name,” I said. “I’ll find him.”

She smiled a sad smile, as if I were hopelessly naive. “That’s not the way it works. Not in the civilian world and particularly not in the academic world. But I’ll be quick about it. I understand the urgency.”

I stood and thanked her and handed her my card. Without glancing at it, she placed it in the center of her desk. I considered offering my hand to shake but when she just kept studying me, I decided against it.

As I was leaving, she said, “Agent Sueno.”

I turned.

“Did I pronounce your name right?”

She had pronounced the “n” as the “ny” in canyon.

“Yes. Very good.”

“I would like to go on a date with you.”

I fidgeted, unaccustomed to anyone being so direct.

She smiled. “I’m making you uncomfortable.”

“It’s just that I’m an enlisted man,” I stammered. “And you’re an officer.”

“But in the CID, your ranks are classified. No one will ever know.”