Jung-myung Lee - The Investigation

Back in the guardroom I searched through files, looking for the log listing the names of inmates sentenced to solitary and the length of their stay. The solitary wing was a makeshift cement building in the knoll between the prison wards and the cemetery. It consisted of small rectangular cells, one metre wide by two metres long, closed off by thick steel doors. A prisoner lying on the floor would touch each wall with each shoulder. It was as stuffy as a furnace in the summer and froze like a block of ice in the winter. Being sent to solitary during a heatwave or a cold snap was, for all intents and purposes, a death-sentence. All you got to eat was half a rice ball and half a bowl of miso soup, once a day. Countless men left wrapped up in straw mats, and even if one managed to walk out on his own two feet, his life often hung by a thread.

Maeda looked over my shoulder. ‘The murderer’s name isn’t written in the log, you foolish boy! It doesn’t matter who it is. Just hang those Koreans upside down and beat them, and they’ll talk. There’s no harm in giving them a little tap on the hand.’ His eyes creased in a smile.

Was he actually urging me to force someone to give a false confession? But then that prisoner wouldn’t be the murderer, he would merely be a pitiful liar. I flipped through the solitary log. Even if I did end up interrogating someone, I still had to be prepared.

‘There’s nothing useful there,’ Maeda said. ‘It’s filled with Koreans. They’re all troublemakers: 397, 156, 331, 543, 954, 645.’ He smirked. ‘I know all of them, each and every one. Kang Myeong-u, Lee Man-o, Choi Chi-su, Choi Cheol-gu, Kim Gwing-pil, Hiranuma Tochu! Those dirty pig-names are fouling my mouth.’

I paid no attention to him as I started to scan the records from six months ago.

Maeda spat on the floor. ‘They love it in there. Those dumb monkeys don’t even keel over.’

I pointed at the numbers. ‘But last August all the solitary cells were empty for two whole weeks, as if they planned it!’

Maeda was indifferent. ‘Obviously. It was during the worst heatwave.’

‘Why do such aggressive men become so docile during a heatwave?’

‘Because they know being in solitary during a heatwave is the express train to the graveyard. They were probably more careful.’

‘If they’re able to avoid solitary because of a heatwave, why wouldn’t they behave all the time? Isn’t that odd?’

‘What’s so odd about that?’

‘They kept going to solitary at other times, as if they wanted to.’

‘You wouldn’t think that, if you saw those cells. The fittest person couldn’t survive a week. It’s next to the cemetery. Even the guards are spooked. It’s actually a problem. They keep making up fake reports and skipping their rounds. Anyway, why would those imbeciles choose to go? It’s not like they’ve hidden a pot of honey there!’

‘They might be hiding something, though. I’ll have to take a look.’

The solitary wing was a shabby building of eight cells and a small guard post. The wind raced around the ridge of the hill, causing the dark fir trees to howl like wolves. Maeda jerked open the door to the guard post. An old guard wearing thick, padded clothes was hunched by the extinguished furnace, his face blue from the cold, awaiting the end of his shift.

‘Rounds of the solitary cells! Open the doors!’ Maeda shouted.

The old guard scampered off, his bundle of keys clanging. The steel doors of the solitary wing were secured by a thick metal bar and by two large locks. With clumsy hands, the old guard unfastened the locks and removed the bars. Four cells lined either side of the hallway. When the old guard opened the door to a cell, a terrible stench assaulted my nose.

The old guard explained, ‘The prisoners come here with broken bones or festering wounds. The infected wounds smell so awful that we can’t open the cell doors in the summer.’

I pressed my sleeve against my nose and stepped into the first cell. From the outside it looked to be somewhat roomy, but when I stepped in I realized it was only half the width I thought it was, because of the thick retaining walls, filled with pebbles and sand. It was so cramped it couldn’t hold a single piece of furniture. It wasn’t a prison cell; it was a trap. The spotted walls weren’t even lime-washed and the blackened floor was marinated in sweat, vomit and pus. Everywhere there were fingernail scratches and spots of blood, along with Chinese characters of common Korean girls’ names, some Korean words, and numbers counting down to the day of release. At the far end of the cell there was a waist-high wooden partition. I peeked over it, but had to grab my nose and jump back.

The old guard, jangling his bundle of keys, laughed. ‘That’s the can, my friend. They all bring their own commodes and put them there. When they’re released from solitary they remove them. We don’t clean up those dirty Koreans’ shit, you know.’

I held my breath and looked behind the partition again. A wooden lid was on the floor. I flipped it up to discover a round hole with a handle on the front. I plugged my nose with one hand and with the other lifted the contraption by the handle. Two feet below the hole was a wooden plank soaked in excrement. It was where the prisoner placed his personal latrine. Down there, on the wall, a small ventilation window was covered in inch-thick metal bars.

I walked through the steel doors of the solitary wing and was instantly blinded by the sun. Prisoners 331, 645 and the others who frequented solitary were somehow connected. I was sure of it. I rounded the back of the building and a gust of wind buffeted my face. Coarse grains of sand blew into my eye. ‘This is a year-long problem,’ the old guard said. ‘That shit-storm coming from the mountain, I mean. All the sand and dust pile up under the walls of the buildings. So much so that the prisoners have to shovel it into sacks every month and clear it away.’

A thought darted through my mind, so quickly that it almost slipped by. I whipped around and cried out, ‘Open the cell doors!’

Befuddled, the old guard ran down the corridor. The doors to the solitary wing screeched open again. I ran into the cell I’d just left. I jumped down into the latrine hole and hit the ground with a hollow thud that trembled up through the tips of my toes. I pulled my club out and scraped at the edge of the wooden plank. It caught on a small notch. I squeezed closed my eyes and stuck the tip of my finger in it and pulled. Damp, lukewarm air came rushing up at me, carrying the smell of dirt and tree roots and rocks. An empty hole opened its dark maw between my feet.

The siren blared. Maeda rushed into the solitary wing, looking as hollow as the hole beneath my feet. I shone my torch into the long, narrow tunnel that reeked of excrement, before crawling in. I couldn’t breathe. I crawled along for about five minutes. At the end of the tunnel I discovered worn wooden spoons, flat rocks, broken bowls and bits of china.

‘Fucking moles!’ Maeda said angrily, crawling behind me.

We crawled backwards out to the cell. When Maeda and I emerged from the tunnel, we were relayed the warden’s order to prepare a report. The sun had set. Searchlights scanned the main wing, the outer wall and the roof of the central facilities. They’d increased the number of guards on rounds.

In the warden’s office, standing in front of Hasegawa, Maeda mopped his damp forehead with his sleeve. ‘We did a cell check and everyone is accounted for. The man who dug the tunnel is still inside the prison.’

Hasegawa glared at him. ‘That isn’t the issue, is it? The problem is that there’s a tunnel at all! Don’t you know what will happen if this leaks out?’

‘Yes, sir!’ Maeda said. ‘We’ll find out who did it and fill up the tunnel at once.’