Authors: Martin Limon
“Where is he?” I asked.
Marnie stared at me as if she didn’t know who I was talking about.
“Where is Parkwood?” I repeated.
“That’s his name?” she said softly.
Clearly, Marnie Orville was still in shock. After the fright of having her daughter kidnapped, of being raped in a tile shower room, who could blame her?
I asked again, softly, “Where did he go, Marnie?”
Casey raised her little arm. “He went that way,” she said.
Her finger pointed to the right. Ernie hurried over and at the end of the row of private showers found a door that was hidden from view. He shoved it open. It led down a short hallway.
“Don’t leave us!” Marnie shrieked.
Ernie glanced back at me, as if to ask, “Are you staying?”
I nodded.
He took off into the darkness.
I did my best to help Marnie cover herself, ripping down one of the shower curtains as an overgarment. Casey soon made her way to her mom, and the two began hugging each other. Casey was crying and Marnie was crying. I was glad to see the tears: it meant she was coming back to herself.
I asked if they felt well enough to follow me, and they both nodded. With me in the lead, we entered the dark hallway Ernie had gone down. After about ten paces, it led down a wooden stairwell that twisted back on itself. The basement was dark, but a yellow light shone at the far side.
“I don’t want to go in there,” Marnie said. “Let’s go back.”
“Come on, Mommy,” Casey said. “Ernie’s all alone.”
Somehow she’d picked up his name. I patted her on the head. Marnie nodded her consent and we crossed the dark cellar. Halfway through, Marnie screamed. I turned and saw a long tail scurrying off behind wooden crates.
“Mommy,” Casey said. “It’s only a mouse.”
A rat, to be exact, but I didn’t correct her. When we reached the far door, I peered into the yellow-lit room. It was storage: giant beach umbrellas, inflatable rafts, boxes filled with rubber flippers. I took a few steps inside. Marnie and Casey followed. One of the boxes fell, dumping a gaggle of squiggling things onto the ground. I leaped back. Marnie screamed. Casey leaned down and picked one up.
“They’re only goggles,” she said, holding one up to the light.
I felt foolish, but there was no time for embarrassment.
On the far side of the storage room, a door let out into another room streaming with sunlight. A service counter. In front of that, a small foyer and then plate-glass windows. Printed on the windows were the words in hangul: Bathhouse Number Three, Rentals. Stupidly, I was proud that I could read the sign backward.
But when we stepped around the counter, I lost my sense of pride. I heard a shout outside. And then a gunshot.
Ernie stood on the river side of bathhouse number three, his .45 held straight out in front of him, taking aim on a man running toward the beach.
“Halt!” Ernie shouted.
When the man didn’t stop, Ernie fired off another shot. The round flew ineffectually into the far bank.
“He’s out of range, Ernie,” I said.
“I know that.”
He holstered his pistol and was about to take off in pursuit when engines behind us roared to life. In seconds, a fleet of blue KNP sedans went flying across the gravelly sand, heading toward the Gapcheon River.
“They’re cutting him off,” Ernie said.
Marnie and Casey stood behind us. The rain had started again, and drops pattered against the plastic curtain that Marnie held over herself and Casey.
We watched as the sedans sped across the sand like a phalanx of hounds, spinning around on the slick surface some fifty yards in front of Parkwood. He stopped, turned, and started running back toward us.
Slowly, regally, Mr. Kill strode barefoot across the beach. When he was about ten yards away from us, he pointed and said, “Take the women back to that car. There’s a female officer there.”
A smart-looking woman, wearing the neat blouse, skirt, and cap of the Korean National Police, stood at attention next to a sedan. Marnie didn’t need any more encouragement than that. She grabbed Casey and, keeping the shower curtain wrapped tightly around her, the two of them almost ran toward the road.
Kill sauntered casually toward the flowing water. Parkwood was heading right at him. Something was in Parkwood’s hand.
“What is it?” Ernie asked. Then he answered his own question. “A straight razor.”
Suddenly, I was worried for Kill’s safety. “Is he armed?”
“I don’t think so,” Ernie replied.
The two men were closing on one another. Clearly, the intent of the officers driving the sedans had been to drive Parkwood back to Inspector Kill. Their plan was working. Parkwood had run out of options. He had nowhere to go. But as he approached, it was clear from the perspiration pouring from his forehead and the clenched look of his face and the way he gripped the straight razor in his right fist that this was a man who wouldn’t go down without a fight.
I started toward Inspector Kill.
From out of nowhere, two blue-uniformed KNPs stepped in front of me. One of them held out his palm. “Inspector Kill,” the man said in English, “wishes to interrogate the suspect on his own.”
“The man has a straight razor,” I said, pointing.
Their faces remained impassive. “We know that,” one of them said.
“What are you?” Ernie asked. “The Bobbsey Twins? Parkwood’s going to cut Inspector Kill’s spleen out.”
Ernie stepped forward. With a deft move, one of the officers punched him in the stomach. Ernie grabbed his gut and bent over. I shoved the officer. The two men stepped back.
“You didn’t have to do that!” I shouted.
Two more officers joined them. The four men stood between Ernie and me and the sea, resolutely. Ernie and I could fight them, sure; but even if we gained the upper hand, we’d never reach Kill in time. Whatever would happen between Parkwood and Inspector Kill was about to happen. No one would interfere.
I turned to Ernie. “You okay?”
“Okay. You think that little turd could hurt
me
?”
If the KNP knew what the word “turd” meant, his face didn’t show it.
Parkwood was now just a few feet from Inspector Kill.
Taekwondo, literally the path of kicking and punching, is a national passion in Korea. Korea’s practitioners of martial arts are some of the most accomplished in the world. Still, martial arts aren’t magic. A desperate man with a dangerous weapon is not something to be taken lightly. The correct response, when confronted with a man as desperate as Parkwood, is to take him down with overwhelming force. If you can’t do that, if it is either you or him, you have to kill him immediately, using whatever method possible, whether it be a shotgun blast to the face or a vicious knife-thrust to the throat. To take him on man to man, in the spirit of martial fairness, is not only piss-poor police work, it is ludicrous. But, apparently, that is exactly what Inspector Kill planned to do.
When they closed, Parkwood was wary. He knew this was too good to be true. He suspected Kill was going to try some trick. He swiped the straight razor at Kill’s face a couple of times, but Kill barely moved back at all, only an inch or two, just enough to avoid the blade. Parkwood glanced around, seeing us standing in front of bathhouse number three, the KNPs staying back either on the road or next to their sedans. The situation was clear to everyone: Kill was offering to take him on, one on one.
As if the satisfaction of the moment had finally settled in, Parkwood smiled. He knew he wasn’t going to get away, but he could at least take a cop down with him—a Korean cop at that. He slashed again at Inspector Kill. More viciously this time. Kill backed away and backed away and backed away again. Parkwood thrust forward a little faster each time. Just as the repetitive movements were attaining a rhythm of their own, Kill sidestepped, moved in, and kicked the back of Parkwood’s knee, forcing him to stumble to the ground.
I expected Kill to attack then and knock Parkwood unconscious, to finish this thing. But he didn’t. Ernie stood in rapt attention, as did all the cops on the beach. I was uncomfortable. Everybody else seemed to be enjoying themselves immensely.
Parkwood leaped to his feet, angry. He came at Kill with the blade swinging back and forth, cautious now, not going to be fooled again by the sudden sidestep. Kill backed away, circling. It became apparent that Kill was leading Parkwood where he wanted him to go. They stumbled into the shallow waters of the river and then back out again. Parkwood was wet now, more angry than ever, rapidly becoming exhausted. As if realizing he was being played for the fool, he stopped. Above the roar of the surf, I thought I heard him growl at Inspector Kill: “Come on.” He waved the blade toward his own body, as if inviting Kill to come and get it.
Kill did. He darted forward, like a mongoose tempting a cobra.
The blade flashed out but missed again. Kill darted in and then out, again and again. Parkwood kept missing but refused to chase, a smart move on his part. Within seconds, realizing that his gambit to get Parkwood to follow again wasn’t working, Kill stepped in so close to the blade that I held my breath. Even Ernie gasped.
The blade flashed out, slicing into Inspector Kill’s shoulder. Surprised, Parkwood stared after him. Kill gazed down. Crimson blood rushed out along the slice in his white shirt. Angry, Kill approached again but backed up more quickly this time. Parkwood was smiling now, enjoying the flush of this victory. He started to follow. Again, Kill led him into the water, back out of the water, the blade missing his body by only fractions of an inch, but Parkwood was committed now. His strength was leaving him; even in the misting rain, the perspiration poured freely off his forehead, and his arms and legs seemed to be getting heavy. That’s when Inspector Kill struck. Like a sudden flash of lightning in a dark night, he stood his ground when Parkwood came at him and plowed a right fist into Parkwood’s charging forehead.
Parkwood staggered. Kill backed up, allowing him room to fall, but Parkwood didn’t go down. He regained his footing and leaped at Kill, the blade slashing in front of him. Instead of backing up out of reach, Kill raised his left foot and slammed it into Parkwood’s face. They fell into the water, Kill on top, pummeling Parkwood—and then suddenly Parkwood was on top.
Involuntarily, all the KNPs took two steps forward. Then one of them shouted for everyone to maintain their positions. They did as they were told.
Parkwood bent over Kill, apparently with both hands wrapped around Inspector Kill’s neck, but I couldn’t be sure because Inspector Kill was fully underwater. And then suddenly, Parkwood leaped up as if he’d been electrocuted. When we saw the reason why, Ernie grunted. The sole of Kill’s foot had kicked straight up, ramming into Parkwood’s groin, lifting him into the air. Kill exploded out of the water now, his face a mask of rage. He leaped on Parkwood.
Suddenly, I knew what would happen. I knew what this was all about. I knew why Inspector Kill was called the best homicide investigator in Korea. I knew now that he not only solved the cases he’d been assigned to, but he also brought them to trial and brought them to judgment and brought them to execution. Like a Confucian scholar of old, a sage schooled in the Four Books and the Five Classics, that was his right. His right to be judge, jury, and executioner. His right as a
chunja
, a superior man.
I ran forward, shoving the two KNPs out of my way, shouting.
“Don’t! Don’t do it! Halt!”
I fumbled inside my jacket for my .45, but the holster kept rising up with the pistol, not setting it free.
Mr. Kill leaned over Parkwood now, holding the larger man’s head underwater, the muscles on Kill’s forearms bulging with the strain. He didn’t hear me. He didn’t hear anything.
Finally, I freed the .45 and fired a round into the air.
Kill looked up. Awareness entered his eyes. He looked down at his hands, as if realizing for the first time that they were underwater, as if realizing for the first time that they were clutching Parkwood’s throat. Quickly, he rose to his feet and stepped backward, away from Parkwood.
Parkwood didn’t move.
I shoved the .45 back in my holster and splashed into the river. When I reached Parkwood, I shoved Kill out of the way and leaned down and pulled Parkwood’s heavy body toward shore. Ernie helped me. We finally laid him out on the moist sand, and I bent down and cleared his air passage while Ernie loosened his belt and pants. Then Ernie shoved down on his stomach. We turned him over and tried to get as much water out of his lungs as we could, but within seconds we had him flat on his back again and I breathed air into his mouth. His chest rose. I did this three times, and then Ernie pumped his stomach again and I breathed into his lungs three times more.
We did this for a long time.
The rain stopped.
Finally, red-tinted toenails stood in front of me. I looked up. It was Marnie Orville, the plastic shower curtain still wrapped around her shoulders.
“He’s dead, George,” she said. “Stop now. Stop, please.”
She was crying.
I looked down at Parkwood. Marnie was right. He was dead now. And he’d been dead for a long time.
M
arnie Orville and Captain Freddy Ray Embry got back together.
After he heard what had happened, Freddy Ray rushed up to Seoul and told Marnie that he was sorry for all the things he’d done and he asked for another chance. For Casey’s sake, she told us, Marnie forgave him. They were remarried in a military chapel at Camp Henry with a bunch of Freddy Ray’s fellow officers wearing their dress blue uniforms and holding silver swords crossed overhead as the happy couple emerged from the chapel.
Casey was the flower girl.
Ernie studied the marriage photos and grinned. “I done good.”
“You done
good
?” I said. “You almost broke up their marriage forever.”
Ernie’s grin broadened. “You really don’t understand women, do you, Sueño? If it hadn’t been for me, Marnie never could’ve made Freddy Ray jealous and Casey would’ve had to grow up without her daddy.”
We were in the CID admin office. Staff Sergeant Riley was ignoring us, shuffling through the small mountain of paperwork that had built up while he was gone. I decided not to push it. If Ernie was happy with what he’d done, then let him be happy.
Miss Kim, meanwhile, had stopped typing on her hangul typewriter and stared at Ernie in utter astonishment.
The 8th Army honchos were also happy with what we’d done. For once. The Blue Train rapist had indeed turned out to be an American G.I.; but by the time that was fully revealed to the Korean public, the guy was already dead, and dead at the hands of a man, Inspector Gil Kwon-up, who was now a bigger national hero than ever. Of course, the official line was that Parkwood had been killed inadvertently while resisting arrest—and, in a way, that was true. If the guy had just given up and hadn’t insisted on waving that straight razor around, he’d still be with us today.
I wrote a letter to Specialist Vance’s mother, telling her what a wonderful man he’d been and telling her that even though I’d only worked with him briefly, he’d proven himself to be a courageous soldier and he’d died fighting.
Back on that beach on Cheju Island, Staff Sergeant Warnocki had tied a tourniquet around his own leg and dragged himself to the main road, where a Good Samaritan picked him up and rushed him to the nearest medical clinic. He fully recovered from his wounds and was now back training troops on the slopes of Mount Halla.
When he made his occasional appearance at the 8th Army officers’ club, Lieutenant Colonel Ambrose Q. Laurel was asked about the case, but the word was that he was reluctant to talk about our adventure at sea. He was ashamed that Parkwood had gotten away with as much as he did, right under the noses of his Special Forces troops. And maybe he was also ashamed that we’d had to be saved by the haenyo.
The Country Western All Stars returned to the States. I had intended to ask Shelly out for coffee, but, after returning from Taejon, I was so busy that somehow I never got the chance.