That’s why he was turning on the charm. As we say in the Army, he was presetting the conditions of the battlefield.

The moment I laid eyes on him, I silently cursed. Young, maybe thirty-five or so, dark-haired, strong-featured, with pleasant, pale blue eyes and a benevolent, engaging smile. Unlike most CID guys, who dress horribly, he wore a finely cut gray pinstripe suit with a plain white, freshly starched cotton shirt and a simple striped tie. Lord Fauntleroy he wasn’t, but he looked dapper enough. Worse, he seemed competent and damned handsome in a very earnest, midwestern, likable way.

Here’s why this was bad. Court-martial boards are as susceptible to appearances as anybody else. In fact more so. They’re trapped in their chairs ten hours a day with nothing to do but observe the main actors. They watch and they listen, and they watch and listen some more, and they form opinions. And military men and women, just because of the screwy way they are, are more swayed by appearances than just about anybody else.

I would’ve been much happier if Bales was a middle-aged, balding guy with grungy teeth, a hefty beer gut, scuffed-up shoes, and a plaid sport coat and striped trousers. At least then, when I tried to persuade the board that he’d been criminally negligent, they’d look at Bales, and say to themselves, “Yep, I could see that.”

Anyway, Bales got done with his pleasant routine, and we sat and stared at each other like a bull and matador.

Then I broke the ice. “So, Chief, I’ve read your statements, and, as you might imagine, I’ve got a few questions.”

“Yes sir,” he said, perfectly straight-faced. “I thought you might.”

“Right. Question one, then. When you first got to Whitehall’s apartment building, exactly how many South Korean police were there?”

Suspecting I was up to something clever, he paused, appeared thoughtful, then said, “To the best of my recollection, perhaps twenty.”

“Perhaps twenty, huh? Does that mean you don’t exactly know how many?”

Again, he appeared thoughtful. He said, “That’s correct, Major. I don’t know exactly how many.”

“Pardon me for asking again. I just want to be clear on this point. You don’t know how many Korean police officers were at the apartment building?”

He looked at me very steadily. Crime scenes are supposed to be tightly controlled, almost hermetically sealed. From reading his and Sergeant Wilson Blackstone’s earlier statements, I already had some fairly strong suspicions that things had gotten out of hand. Now I had the feeling I was getting that big break – the stuff we defense attorneys dream about.

He said, “No.”

“Then you have no idea who passed in and out of that crime scene? Is that right?”

Without blinking, he said, “I didn’t say that.”

“No? Well, that’s what I asked you.”

“No, you asked me how many Korean police officers were at the apartment building – and that, I don’t know. There were two guarding the front entrance of the building when I arrived, but they might’ve put more there after I went upstairs – I don’t know. There may have been some guarding the rear entrance – I don’t know. Then there were three or four in the hallway leading into Captain Whitehall’s apartment. There might’ve been more – I don’t know.”

He paused and examined my face. “But if you want to know how many entered Captain Whitehall’s apartment, that I know for a fact.”

“You do?”

“Sure. Sergeant Blackstone and I followed standard procedures. He and his partner arrived at the scene right on the tails of the South Korean police. They took the name of every police officer who entered the apartment. A control log was maintained, IDs were checked, and every visitor who entered was escorted.”

“Funny, I saw no mention of that in either of your statements.”

“You wouldn’t, though, would you? We never list all the procedural things we do at crime scenes.”

If I didn’t know better, I might almost have suspected at this point that Bales had been playing with me, leading me on, then maliciously slamming the door on my nose. Maybe he was sending me a warning not to get too cocky or abrasive in the courtroom or he’d find some sly way to make me pay for it. If that was his game, it worked.

Anyway, I tried to appear unruffled as I said, “In your statement, you mentioned that when you arrived at the scene, you encountered Sergeant Blackstone arguing with Inspector Choi. Could you explain what that argument was about?”

“Sure. Just some standard jurisdictional issues. No big thing.”

“Like what?”

“Like who was responsible for gathering and tagging the evidence. Like who should interview the witnesses.”

“And these issues were resolved?”

“Certainly. Inspector Choi’s a very professional and reasonable man. He’s also an old hand. This wasn’t the first time he’d had GIs commit crimes inside his beat.”

“So what was the resolution?” I asked.

“His guys would bag and tag, and handle the autopsy. Our guys would handle the interrogations. Choi didn’t have any problem with it, either. I think Sergeant Blackstone got a little overbearing and it rubbed him a little wrong. We got it straightened out.”

“Uh-huh,” I said. “So it was more a personality thing than a substantive thing?”

“That’s how I’d describe it, yes.”

“Were you comfortable having the Koreans handle the evidence?”

“Sure. Why not?”

“Well, you and I both know there are very distinct differences between Korean and American rules of evidence. Nor are Korean police taught to handle evidence the same way ours are.”

He rubbed his jaw like this was the first time he’d ever heard such a thing and he needed a moment to think about it. He was very convincing. If I didn’t know better, I would almost have believed it.

Finally, he said, “Well, to be frank, there probably are a few tiny procedural differences, but I can’t think of any that would have a germane impact on this case. Can you?”

This was another very crafty move on his part, because I was obviously on a fishing expedition and he wasn’t about to help me put the worm on the hook.

But to show him that two could play this game, all I said was, “I might have a few ideas, but I’ll save them for later.”

He blinked once or twice, but that was all.

I said, “Did you get a look at the lock on the front door?”

“I did.”

“The crime summary states that the lock had not been jimmied or tampered with. Who made that judgment? And how can you be so sure?”

Bales said, “Look, Major, the Koreans are sparing no resources on this case. They brought in an inspector named Roh, a burglary guy they flew up from Taegu, because he’s considered their foremost national expert on locks. I was there when he checked it. And I learned more about picking locks in that thirty minutes than I learned in ten hours at CID school. He disassembled it and carried it back to the lab so he could inspect every little piece under a microscope, then ran it all through radioactive testing, checking for dents or abrasions, or a scarred tumbler, any telltale signs somebody had tampered with it. There weren’t any. By the way, we also learned it was a brand-new lock, installed by the management company the day Captain Whitehall moved in. You can try to challenge Inspector Roh’s judgment if you want, but he sure as hell convinced me.”

I paused to perform a swift mental inventory. I knew from reading Bales’s written statements that he’d performed all the proper rituals when he’d interrogated Whitehall, Moran, and Jackson. He’d read them their rights, never coerced or threatened them, and performed what appeared to be a model interrogation. I now knew there had been proper police controls at Whitehall’s apartment. I now knew the Korean doctor who performed the autopsy was an exceptionally competent pathologist. And I’d just learned that a national expert had checked the lock.