Mr. Kill (2 page)

Nobody was on unauthorized travel. Nobody was absent without leave. At least, that’s the way it seemed so far. The paperwork they showed me could have been forged. It was even possible that their ID cards were phony. Unlikely, but possible. Later today, Ernie and I would be checking out the validity of their stories, but for the moment I was taking what they told me at face value.

When everyone had been interviewed, Ernie and I compared notes with Lieutenant Shin. He had the passenger manifest, which had been radioed up from Pusan and Taegu and Taejon and then painstakingly transcribed by hand by the head clerk in the Seoul Station dispatch office. The manifest didn’t have names, but all assigned seats were indicated, along with an annotation indicating where the passenger boarded the train: Pusan, Taegu, or Taejon. The manifest also indicated those tickets purchased by 8th Army RTO. About 80 percent of the seats were filled when the train left the Pusan Station. Pusan is a bustling international port and the second largest city in the country. Seoul is not only the capital of the country but also the largest city by far—with a population of eight million—and the home of most of the country’s industrial production. As such, the majority of the passengers on the Pusan-to-Seoul Blue Train travel the entire route. Still, at Taegu twenty-two people disembarked and forty boarded. At Taejon less than a dozen disembarked and about thirty boarded the Blue Train to Seoul. At that point, every seat on the train was occupied but five.

Lieutenant Shin made another announcement, asking everyone to continue to remain in their seats, apologizing for the delay, and telling them that they would soon be released. With the conductor at our side, we walked up and down the length of the train, making sure that every seat that was supposed to be occupied was in fact occupied. They were—all but one. It was in car number four, in the back row.

Next to the empty seat a G.I. slouched, bored with the delay. I’d already interviewed him, and he’d assured me that he’d seen nothing unusual, no Americans wandering forward from car four to car three. He was a private first class, wearing a wrinkled khaki uniform, holding a big leather pouch on his lap. The courier. The nameplate pinned to his shirt pocket said Runnels. I checked my notes again to make sure I had the spelling right. His eyes popped open and he looked up at us.

“You’re delaying my delivery,” he told me. “This pouch is supposed to be at 8th Army J-2 by fourteen hundred hours.”

“You still have time,” Ernie told him.

The guy checked his watch, snorted, and gazed out the window.

“Who was sitting next to you?” I asked.

The courier turned his head and gazed down into the seat next to him as if seeing it for the first time. “Here?” he asked.

“You see any other seats next to you?” Ernie asked. He was toying now with the brass knuckles hidden in his coat pocket, aching, I knew, to pop this guy a good one. We waited.

Private First Class Runnels shrugged. “Some guy,” he said finally.

“An American?”

“Yeah. Wearing civvies. He told me he was on in-country leave.”

“Did he say why?”

“No, he didn’t. I guess he just wanted to see Seoul.”

“Where was he stationed?”

“How should I know?”

“You didn’t ask?”

“What do you think I am? A bargirl?” In a singsong voice, Runnels said, “Where you
stationed
, G.I.?”

Lieutenant Shin’s face tightened. I positioned my body between the two men.

“So, what did you talk about?” I asked.

“Nothing. He wanted to be quiet, and so did I.”

Keeping my temper in check, I coaxed PFC Runnels into providing a detailed description of this man who had been sitting next to him. About six feet tall, dark brown hair cut short, blue jeans, sneakers, a thick pullover black sweater. Was he carrying a traveling bag? Runnels hadn’t noticed. He had noticed where he’d boarded the train: in Pusan, just as Runnels had.

Then Ernie placed his hands on the armrests on either side of Private First Class Runnels and leaned in close to him, so close that Runnels winced at Ernie’s breath.

“Okay, Runnels,” Ernie said. “Time for the little-boy act to stop.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean.”

Runnels was squirming now. Ernie’s green eyes shone from behind his round-lensed glasses, and his nose was pointed as if he were a woodpecker about to poke Runnels’s eyes out. These were the moments Ernie lived for. The moments when he turned the tables on criminals.

“Where is this guy?” Ernie sneered. “This invisible guy who boarded the train at the same time you did, who was supposedly going all the way to Seoul. Where is he now?”

“How in the hell should I know?”

Like a hawk swooping up toward the sky, Ernie’s right hand flashed across Runnels’s face. The sound of the slap filled the silent train. Everyone turned. Ernie leaned in even closer to Runnels.

“A woman has been raped, Private Runnels,” Ernie told him. “A decent woman who is the mother of two children. Two children who were sitting only a few feet from her when she was assaulted. I don’t give a shit about what your feelings are about MPs or law enforcement, but you’re not getting off this train, at least not in one piece, until you start telling me and my partner what we want to know. You
got
that?”

Runnels held his palm at the side of his face, his mouth open in shock. “You can’t
do
that,” he said.

“Can’t do what?”

“You can’t hit me.”

Ernie slapped him again.

Runnels squirmed back in his seat, leaning toward the window, trying to get as far away from Ernie as he could. Maybe it was the look on Ernie’s face. Maybe it was the disapproval that flowed in waves from the passengers all around. Whatever the reason, Runnels started talking. His words came in a rush. He told us everything he knew about the silent man who had taken the seat next to him.

“The guy was complaining about the army,” he said. “You know, the usual screw-the-army stuff. But then he said he was going to even the score.”

“How?” Ernie asked.

“He didn’t tell me. All he said was that there were a bunch of things, and people, who had to be taught a lesson. And when he rose from his seat, he glanced back at me and said something funny.”

“What was that?”

“He said he was going to start now.”

“Why was that funny?”

“Because he also said this would be the first check mark on a long list of what he called ‘corrective actions.’”

“‘Corrective actions?’ You mean like after an inspection?”

“That’s what the guy said.”

“What’s it mean?”

“How the hell should I know?”

This time, Ernie didn’t slap him.

Lieutenant Shin ordered everyone off the train. Grumpily, the passengers grabbed their bags and coats and made their way onto the platform. When the technicians had completed their work and everything was done that could be done, Lieutenant Shin talked to the conductor. In a few seconds, the big train was building up steam, and we hopped off and watched it roll slowly away. We made our way back to the huge domed entrance of Seoul Station.

Inside, much to our surprise, a crowd was waiting for us behind the long metal railing. People hooted, shouting epithets. Lieutenant Shin ordered his men to pull their batons. Forming a V with Ernie and me at the center, we started to carve our way through the crowd of angry faces.

That’s when we saw her, sitting in a wheelchair, surrounded by medical personnel and the same group of old women who’d been with her on the train. The victim. By now, Lieutenant Shin had told me that her name was Oh Myong-ja. As we approached, she stood shakily up from her chair. The old women patted her shoulders and tried to persuade her to sit back down. She took a tentative step toward us. The angry crowd grew quiet. We walked up to them. In Korean, Mrs. Oh Myong-ja started to speak.

“You should go home,” she said.

I just stood there, wondering what she meant.

“Back to your country,” she continued. “Back to America. We don’t need you here any more.”

The crowd was strangely silent. And then the woman’s daughter was standing next to her, and then the son; and the small triumvirate put their arms around one another protectively, and all three stared at me until tears started to flow from their eyes.

I wanted to say something, I’m not sure what, but I was sure it was important that I say something at that time. Very important. Instead, I said nothing.

Finally, I felt Ernie’s hand on my elbow. He told me later that as we made our way out of the station, people threw bits of wadded newspaper at us and even a couple of empty juice cans. The KNPs batted them away with their riot batons. In addition to cursing, a few people in the crowd started to chant, “Yankee go home!”

I remember none of this. What I do remember is Mrs. Oh Myong-ja, white gauze taped to her throat, knees shaking, hands clutching her children, black eyes burning with defiance. And I remember the smooth cheeks of her children’s faces and the tears that flowed down them. And the fear that showed in their eyes as they clutched one another.

2

A
t CID headquarters, before we had a chance to take off our jackets, Staff Sergeant Riley was already complaining.

“Where in the hell you guys been? The Provost Marshal has been asking about you all afternoon.”

Riley is the Administrative NCO of the 8th Army CID Detachment. His highly starched khaki uniform puffed out around him like cardboard on a scarecrow. He doesn’t eat much, but he’s a tireless worker and he has a habit of taking the side—in every dispute—of the honchos of the 8th United States Army, which goes a long way to explain why the Provost Marshal loves him.

Ernie ignored Riley’s harangue and walked toward the big silver coffee urn on the counter in the back of the admin office. Miss Kim, the statuesque admin secretary, pecked away at her hangul typewriter. I plopped down in a gray army-issue chair.

“A woman was raped,” I told Riley, “on the Blue Train, with her children sitting only a few feet away.”

Riley studied me carefully. “That’s why you look like somebody just placed a size-twelve combat boot up your butt.”

I didn’t answer. Instead, I rubbed my forehead and then the back of my neck.

Miss Kim stopped typing. Out of a plastic container, she poured some of her personal stock of barley tea into a porcelain cup. She brought it over and offered it to me. I accepted the cup with both hands and thanked her. She returned to her desk. The typing started again, more tentatively this time.

While I sipped the lukewarm tea, Riley’s gruff voice grated on my molars. “She was a Korean national, wasn’t she?” he asked.

“Who?”

“The victim on the Blue Train.”

I nodded. “Yeah. Definitely a Korean national.”

“Then why the hell did you spend all that time out there? It’s a KNP case.”

I sat up straighter in my seat. “We have reason to believe,” I told him, “that the perpetrator was one of our brave American men in uniform.”

“Did you arrest him?”

“No. He was gone before we got there.”

“So how can you be sure he was an American?”

“The G.I. sitting next to him said he was.”

“Was this perp wearing civvies?”

“Yeah.”

“So it’s just this G.I.’s opinion that the suspect was an American.”

I knew what he was getting at. If 8th Army could pretend that a suspect wasn’t an American G.I., they’d do it. Any way to avoid bad publicity was worth a try.

“Most of these cases,” Riley continued, “nobody can pin shit on us.”

Riley was correct. Rape is a hideously difficult charge to prove, especially when most of the Korean women American G.I.s hang out with are “business girls,” women forced into prostitution because of economic deprivation. Still, I started to say something, but Riley waved me off and then he tossed a sheet of paper in front of me. I grabbed it on the fly.

“From the head shed,” Riley said. “Chief of Staff, Eighth United States Army. The Provost Marshal wants you two on this. Immediately if not sooner. Looks like we’ve got the USO show from hell.”

“No time,” I said, tossing the paperwork back onto his desk. “We have to go to Anyang.”

“Anyang? What for?”

“This rapist. That’s where we think he got off the train.”

Ernie shouted from the back of the room, “Where’s the coffee, Riley?” He was holding up an empty tin can.

“My ration ran out,” Riley yelled back.

“Your
ration
ran out? How much you been black-marketing, anyway? Can’t you at least buy the coffee
before
you use your monthly ration buying stuff for your
yobo
?”

“It wasn’t for my yobo,” Riley replied. Riley had a thing for older women, and some of the Korean gals he hung around with were verging on the geriatric.

Ernie returned with an empty mug and clunked it down on the edge of Riley’s desk. “So, if it wasn’t for a yobo, what have you been using all your ration on?”

“Information,” Riley said. “I’ve been trading coffee to get information to help jerks like you.”

“Jerks like me,” Ernie replied, “don’t need to trade coffee for information. We get it the old-fashioned way.” Ernie reached into his pocket, slipped on his brass knuckles, and jabbed a short uppercut into the air.

“Okay, Bascom,” Riley said. “I’m impressed. Now convince your partner here to read that report I just handed to him. You two better get it in gear before the Provost Marshal develops a case of the big ass and takes a bite out of your respective butts.”

I grabbed the report again and, after reading a few sentences, I began to understand why it had received such a high priority. It involved round-eyes. A whole bevy of them. A USO-sponsored all-female band known as the Country Western All Stars, lovely ladies who’d flown over from the States to grace us lonely 8th Army G.I.s with their presence. The United Service Organization had been around since at least World War II. Bob Hope made it famous with his star-studded appearances on battlefields all over the world, and the organization, in numerous smaller venues, was still going strong. When it comes to an all-female country-western show and review—direct from Austin, Texas—the brass can’t do enough for them, and every broken fingernail shows up on the Chief of Staff’s morning blotter report.

According to the band’s leader, someone had been pilfering their equipment. At Camp Kitty Hawk, a microphone went missing. At the Joint Security Area, one of the girls’ boots. Near Munsan, at Recreation Center Four, they thought they’d lost an electric guitar but found it behind a Quonset hut. Apparently, whoever lifted the instrument had dumped it after realizing that he wouldn’t be able to make a clean getaway.

I handed the report to Ernie. He groaned.

“Babysitting,” he said.

“Babysitting, my ass,” Riley replied. He pointed at the report. “If you’d read the damn thing you’d see that this detail is going to involve a lot more than babysitting. There’s not only been theft of equipment but also threats made against the command. If you don’t get a handle on this case fast, you’re going to be up kimchee creek without a paddle.”

“Threats?” I asked.

“This band leader,” Riley said, “one female civilian known as Marnie Orville, has declared that if she isn’t assigned a full-time detective, and assigned one today, she’s going to refuse to go on.”

“She won’t perform?”

“You got it. So Eighth Army isn’t taking any chances. They’re assigning two investigators to the case. Namely, Agent George Sueño and Agent Ernie Bascom.”

“When’s their next appearance?” I asked.

“Tonight. Nineteen hundred hours. At the DivArty O Club.”

The Officers’ Club of the 2nd Infantry Division Artillery headquarters, at Camp Stanley in Uijongbu.

“The Provost Marshal wants you there,” Riley continued. “Standing tall and kissing some serious round-eyed butt.”

I tossed the report on Riley’s desk.

Ernie wandered over toward Miss Kim, who kept her eyes glued to a sheaf of paperwork and increased her typing speed to a furious rate. Ernie stood in front of her for a few seconds. They’d dated once. Until, that is, Miss Kim discovered that Ernie was involved with other romances. Ernie couldn’t understand why she’d taken it so hard. When Miss Kim still didn’t look up, Ernie finally shrugged and walked back across the room.

As I rose from my seat, I told Riley not to worry. We’d take care of this USO show situation.

“You’d better,” he growled.

Outside, Ernie started up the jeep. He shouted over the roar of the engine, “We should go to the hotel this band’s staying at. Interview them about the missing equipment. Let them know that someone’s on the case.”

“We should,” I replied.

We were both thinking of the woman on the Blue Train, Mrs. Oh Myong-ja, and her crying children. And we were thinking of the hatred radiating out of the eyes of the people surrounding her. But mostly we were thinking of what Private First Class Runnels, the courier on the Blue Train, had told us after he’d finally opened up. In particular, we both remembered his remark about “the first check mark on a long list.”

Ernie drove to Gate 5. After we were waved through the MP checkpoint, he turned left on the main supply route. Ernie plowed his way through the mid-afternoon Seoul traffic until we reached the turnoff to the Seoul-to-Pusan Expressway. A frisson of fear entered my gut. Misappropriating a vehicle, purposely defying a superior officer’s orders—these were not things to be taken lightly.

“What the hell are you doing?” I asked.

“What do you
think
I’m doing?” he replied. “That guy has to be stopped, whether Eighth Army likes it or not.”

Ernie made the turn and stepped on the gas.

I didn’t have any counterargument. Ernie was right. Any “checklist” that starts with a brutal rape can’t be good. The little jeep rolled south. Twenty-five kilometers later, a sign with an arrow pointing off to the right said Anyang.

Compared to Seoul, Anyang is a small city. A population of about 10,000, according to my 1973 almanac. After winding our way through a few buildings over three stories tall, we reached the eastern side of the city and finally found the Anyang Train Station.

I flashed my badge to the official in charge of the station; he called the local KNPs; and in a few minutes I was being introduced to Captain Ryu, the chief of the Korean National Police, Anyang contingent. In the late afternoon sunlight, he and Ernie and I walked out onto the tracks. Captain Ryu pointed at the main rail.

“This is the track used by the Blue Train,” he said. “But earlier today, for the first time in years, the Blue Train was ordered off onto that side rail.” He pointed to another track on the west. I translated for Ernie. “They stopped there,” Ryu continued, “for about twenty minutes.” Then Ryu walked us back to the main line. “Coming from Seoul,” he said, “heading south, was the special train carrying the body of our late First Lady, Madame Yuk Young-soo. It was beautiful. The entire front of the engine was covered with a wreath of white flowers. Some of my officers and I stood on the platform there and saluted.” Then he pointed back to the side rail. “Most of the passengers, the ones who ventured outside when the Blue Train stopped, bowed as the First Lady’s train approached.” Captain Ryu stood quietly for a moment. Then he repeated, “It was a beautiful sight.”

Koreans love death. It gives them a chance to practice every Confucian virtue: reverence, obedience, filial piety, loyalty. The greatest moments in Korean lives are when they travel to the grave mounds of their dearly departed, sweep away debris, burn incense, bow, and then have a picnic with the family, including ritual types of food set aside for the deceased. I can’t tell you how many times Koreans have shown me photographs of themselves with their parents and their children and other family members, enjoying one another’s company, sitting on the grass eating rice cakes while the death mound of their grandfather looms in the background.

When Captain Ryu recovered from his reverie, he escorted us to the Anyang Police Station. There he showed us a stack of reports from the cab drivers who had been working this morning when the First Lady’s train passed. “Not one of them,” he said, “picked up a foreigner.”

That wasn’t surprising. There were no American military bases near Anyang. If our theory was correct and the rapist, whoever he was, had taken advantage of the unscheduled stop in Anyang to make his escape, then the first thing he would’ve needed was transportation out of town. He couldn’t stay here. A foreigner would be easy to spot. Already, Captain Ryu had checked the one tourist hotel in town and the three or four dozen Korean inns. No foreigners in any of them. We studied Captain Ryu’s map of Anyang.

“Here,” Ernie said. “Only a little more than a mile from the train station.”

What Ernie was pointing at was the Myong Jin Bus Station.

Within a few minutes we were sitting in the back room of the ticketing office. A nervous young Korean woman, only slightly portly, twisted a white handkerchief in her lap. In hangul, her nameplate said Ju. I asked her to relax, but it didn’t do much good. Then, in Korean, I asked her if she remembered selling a bus ticket to a foreigner.

“Yes,” she said. “It was about eleven thirty a.m. because I hadn’t yet eaten my
toshirak
.” She was referring to the square metal tin most Koreans use to carry their lunch. Then Miss Ju blushed, probably embarrassed about how she remembered things in relation to food. I encouraged her to continue.

“He was a foreigner. The only one I’ve seen all day.”

“What did he look like?” I asked.

“I don’t know. I didn’t see his face.”

The ticketing window was made of opaque plastic with only a few holes in the middle to speak through and a horizontal slot on the counter through which to slide money.

“If you didn’t see him,” I asked, “how can you be sure that he was a foreigner?”

“Because of the way he spoke. The way he mispronounced Seoul.”

Americans say the name of the Korean capital city as if it were one syllable, like the English word “soul.” Koreans pronounce it the way it is written, with two syllables: “So-
ul
.”

“That’s it?” I said. “The way he talked?”

Miss Ju twisted her handkerchief even tighter, blushed a brighter shade of crimson, and said, “And his hands too.”

“What about his hands?”

“So hairy,” she said, crinkling her nose, “like a
won-sungi
.” Like a monkey.

Then she stared at me, her eyes wide, as if she had realized her mistake, and bowed her head, twisting her handkerchief more ferociously than ever.

Ernie and I sat in a draft beer hall across the street from the Anyang Police Station.

“Seoul,” Ernie said. “We’ll never find him there. He’ll just blend in with the crowd.”

“Maybe,” I said.

Captain Ryu had contacted the head of the Myong Jin Bus Line and they were attempting to locate the driver of the bus that had left Anyang at approximately 11:45 this morning, heading for Seoul. While they did so, Ernie and I decided to get some chow. What we ended up with was beer and unshelled peanuts.