“What about Moran and Jackson? Were they your friends?”

“Moran’s a friend. He brought Jackson along.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t really ask. I guess he thought Lee and Jackson might hit it off.”

“You’ll excuse me, Captain, but that sounds a little odd. You’re an officer and they’re all enlisted.”

“Not odd at all,” Whitehall insisted. “It’s hardly unusual for officers and senior NCOs to have relationships outside of work. And Lee’s a Korean and had done me some favors. I saw nothing wrong with helping him make more American friends.”

“I guess,” Bales said, and I imagined that his tone was somewhat dubious. “There were a lot of empty bottles in your apartment. Was there drinking?”

“I served refreshments.”

“Alcohol?”

“Yes, sure. Why not? They’re all grown-ups.”

“Drugs?”

“I don’t like the nature of that question.”

“Captain, a man was murdered in your apartment. You’re going to get lots of difficult questions. Now please answer. Were there drugs?”

“No, no drugs,” Whitehall finally replied.

“Why did the others spend the night in your apartment?”

“The party went late. Everybody was having fun. Before we knew it, it was nearly two in the morning.”

“Were the others drunk?”

“In my opinion, they’d had a few too many, yes. I didn’t think it was a good idea to let them walk the two miles back to base in their condition, so I invited them to stay.”

“Uh-huh,” Bales said. “When was the last time you saw Lee No Tae alive?”

“I don’t remember exactly. Around two, I guess. He went into the bedroom and I made sure the apartment door was locked and went to sleep.”

“The apartment door was locked?”

“That’s right.”

“There were only three bedrooms, weren’t there?”

“Yes. I gave them the bedrooms and slept on the couch in the living room.”

“Did you hear any sounds that night?”

“What kind of sounds?”

“Maybe someone entering your apartment? Maybe a struggle? Maybe an argument?”

“No. I’m usually a very light sleeper, but frankly, I’m afraid I had a few too many drinks also. I didn’t hear anything.”

“Are you the only one with keys to your apartment?”

“I suppose the management company that runs the place has other keys. Other than that, yes.”

“So you have no idea what happened to Private Lee?”

“None. I was shocked when we discovered him dead. I have no idea how it happened.”

Bales then said, “That’s all I have at this stage of the investigation. Is there anything you want to add to this statement?”

“No, nothing. But, uh, well, uh… have his parents been notified yet?”

“His father was notified about two hours ago.”

“Perhaps I can stop by and offer my condolences. He was a very fine young man. I’d like to tell his parents that. Would you happen to have their address? Do they live here in Seoul?”

“Are you serious?” Bales asked.

“I think it’s the only proper thing to do. He was murdered in my apartment.”

“You mean, you don’t know who his father is?”

“No. Why should I?”

“Private Lee’s father is South Korea’s defense minister.”

“Oh shit.”

With that expletive, the initial interrogation ended. And things being what they were, it was a pretty fitting summary of what Whitehall had stepped into.

I tried to picture what was going through Whitehall’s mind when he was being interrogated. I mean, that final discussion was a doozy. He had to know about Lee’s father. That meant he was lying, and misleading, and blustering. He must’ve been scared as hell. Still, give me a break.

Had he really thought he’d get away with it? How could he? The body was found in his apartment, in his own bedroom, right beside him, for Chrissakes. There were two other witnesses in the apartment. Had they used the time before the Korean cops arrived to coordinate alibis? Wasn’t Whitehall smart enough to know his semen would be found inside Lee’s corpse?

And was he really so clueless that he thought they’d buy the assertion that he didn’t know about Lee’s father? He was obviously trying to get as much distance from the murdered man as he possibly could. A mere acquaintance, a shopping companion; someone he only barely knew and had invited over to his apartment so he could introduce him to some friendly enlisted troops. He had tipped his own hand.

As alibis went, it sucked.

I opened Moran’s interrogation packet. Carl G. Moran was his full name. There was a photograph taken at the MP station clipped to the inside jacket.

It was a black-and-white that showed a large, powerful-looking man – actually, burly might be a better word. Maybe forty years old, with salt-and-pepper hair, a broad face, and a nose that looked like it had been introduced to a few fists in its day. But it was the eyes that really got your attention. Unnaturally large, they made an odd contrast to the rest of his face. They were like doe’s eyes, with long, luxurious lashes, on a face that looked otherwise like a prizefighter’s mug. That Marlon Brando look, at least before Brando ate so much and his face got so bloated you could barely tell he had eyes.

Moran’s expression was maybe confused, maybe irritated, maybe both.

Again, Bales went through the routine of reading him his rights. The strange thing here was that Moran interrupted him to ask if Whitehall had asked for an attorney. Bales said no, so Moran waived his rights as well.

I put down the packet. Why was that important to Moran? Was that some kind of litmus test? So what if Whitehall had declined an attorney? Something was odd about this; like maybe Moran was testing to see if he could trust Whitehall. Anyway, I made a mental note to think more about it later.

“What was your relationship to the victim?” Bales got around to asking after he’d exhausted his repertoire of warm-up questions.

Moran said, “He was a buddy of Captain Whitehall’s. I didn’t know him from shit, but the captain invited him over.”

“Why?”

“Huh?”

“Why did Captain Whitehall invite him over?”

“Got me,” Moran said. “Maybe they were buddies. Maybe he thought we’d like him.”

“Had you ever met the victim before?”

“Nope. I might of seen him about base, but all these friggin’ gooks look alike to me.”

Gooks? I could just imagine the expression that must’ve popped onto Inspector Choi’s face at that moment.

Bales said, “Was there any drinking at the party?”

“Yeah, of course. What do you think, we’re a bunch of choirboys?”

“Any drugs?”

“Come on, Chief. You got a captain and you got a first sergeant there. Think anyone’d be stupid enough to use that shit in front of us?”

“Does that mean no?”

“Friggin’A, it means no.”

“What time did the party end?”

“I don’t know. Wasn’t like I was checking my watch. Late, though.”

“Had you or any of the others had too much to drink?”

“Hell, yeah. I could barely stand up, so the captain told us we could all crash there.”

“And where did everybody sleep?”

“I… uh… shit, I was too drunk to notice.”

“You discovered the corpse, though. How did that happen?”

“I got up at five. I was kind of fuzzy, you know. I mean, I’d put down easily a whole fifth of Jack Walker. I went and pissed. Then I went to the captain’s room to check on ’em. Nobody answered when I knocked, so I opened the door. That gook kid was just laying there, real still. I went over and shook him. Nothing. So I rolled him over and seen this belt around his neck. He looked deader than shit, so I went and called the MPs.”

“The belt was around his neck when you woke him?”

“That’s what I said, wasn’t it?”

“What kind of belt?”

“It… uh, it was a standard Army belt. Could’ve been anybody’s, though. I mean, even the gook, ’cause he was a Katusa, he wore an American Army uniform, right? Might of been his own, you know. I mean, maybe the kid hung himself from the ceiling and he fell off.”