Mr. Kill (9 page)

The 8th Army RTO receives its own block of tickets and sells them to 8th Army military personnel only. That report was being created by Staff Sergeant Riley while we traveled south on the Blue Train and should be waiting for us at the MP station on Hialeah Compound.

Detective Inspector Han presented both Ernie and me with his card and we promised to call him as soon as we had any information concerning any G.I.s who’d taken the Blue Train. The time was getting on toward 2200 hours, 10:00 p.m. Ernie and I said our good-byes to Inspector Han, and Mr. Kill escorted us outside. Rather than having us take a cab, he led us to a brand-new blue Korean National Police car. A white-gloved officer sat up front. Mr. Kill opened the back door, and Ernie climbed in. Before I could follow, Kill stopped me and said, “Your report said something about a ‘checklist.’ What do you think it means?”

“I’m not sure,” I replied. “Whatever it means, something has caused this guy to escalate his violence.”

Inspector Kill stared at me, puzzled.

“Escalate means to step higher,” I said. “In this case, to move up from simple rape to murder.”

Kill nodded. “And ‘checklist’ implies a list that’s longer than two.”

“Yes. It implies a list that can be very long.”

Inspector Kill sighed and looked away.

I folded myself into the backseat next to Ernie. The driver turned on the siren and pulled away from the Pusan police headquarters. Although his knees were scrunched up in front of him, Ernie was pleased by the plush ride. “Beats getting chased by them,” he said.

After twenty minutes, we rolled up to the stone-and-concertina-wire gate of the United States Army’s Hialeah Compound. Ernie and I climbed out of the sedan, thanking the driver as we did so. He saluted and roared off.

Floodlights lit wet pavement. From behind a reinforced concrete barricade, two American MPs glared at us. A heavy mist, laced with salt, was blowing in off the ocean. I shuddered, hoisted my bag, and marched toward the winding cattle chute that was the pedestrian entrance to the compound.

Behind me, Ernie muttered, “Why are those guys staring at us?” When he received no response, he raised his voice and shouted, “Mom! I’m home!”

Neither MP moved.

6

E
rnie and I had met Lieutenant Messler before, on a previous case. He must’ve extended his tour in Korea, because that previous trip to Pusan had been almost a year ago.

“Hot one this time, eh, Sueño?” he asked. “And you brought Bascom along with you. They got tired of him in Seoul?”

“You’ll get tired of me here,” Ernie growled.

The lieutenant smirked. Messler was a smallish man, a fact that he tried to compensate for by keeping his chest puffed out and his posture ramrod straight, so straight that he was practically leaning backward. He was wearing his dress green uniform because he was pulling the duty tonight, and his tie was knotted tightly and his hair combed straight back. He was chomping gum.

“There’s a report,” I said, “should’ve been sent down here by now, from the Chief of Staff’s office.” I kept my voice as even as I could. I didn’t like Lieutenant Messler any more than Ernie did, but we were going to have to work with him for as long as this thing lasted. I could at least encourage him to act professionally.

Mention of the 8th Army Chief of Staff made his eyebrows rise.

“I saw it,” he said. “Not much in it.” He tossed the paperwork on the counter in front of me.

“Thanks for reading it,” Ernie said. “Even though it’s classified and you don’t have a need-to-know.”

“The duty officer needs to know everything,” Messler replied.

“Yeah. You’re needy, all right.”

I grabbed Ernie by the elbow and pulled him away from the MP desk, pretending that I needed his help in evaluating the message. What I really needed was for him to quit needling Messler. Turning the young lieutenant into a yapping Chihuahua wouldn’t help us find the Blue Train rapist.

The report was from the Seoul RTO and listed the names of the G.I.s who’d been issued tickets yesterday for the Blue Train to Pusan. At the civilian ticket counters, all you needed was some hard cash, in
won
, the Korean currency, and anybody could buy a ticket. No names were recorded and no questions were asked. The military, on the other hand, issued tickets mostly to G.I.s who were on official business. And, as such, they had to present their identification and travel orders, and their names were then logged in and their train tickets were issued to them for free. A G.I. on leave orders—or even on weekend pass—could purchase a ticket at the RTO, but once again—it being the military—they would demand to see his identification and he’d be logged in with his purchase point and destination.

I studied the names.

“The courier,” Ernie said, pointing at the name Runnels.

“Figures he’d be on the train returning to Pusan,” I said. “It’s his job to carry classified information back and forth from Seoul.”

“He’s the one who talked to the guy who got off the first train in Anyang, isn’t he?”

“He’s the one.”

“So if the same guy was on this train, Runnels would’ve seen him.”

“Maybe. Whether he did or not, we need to talk to him.”

“I’ll find him,” Ernie said. He left me and spoke to the MP desk sergeant, who made a phone call.

While Ernie tracked down Runnels, I continued to study the list. The names were unfamiliar to me, except one. Specialist Four Weyworth, Nicholas Q. He hadn’t been on the first Blue Train but he’d been one of the G.I.s I’d identified as being stationed at Hialeah Compound and on in-country leave on the day of the first Blue Train attack. I underlined his name. Ten minutes later, Ernie and I had left our travel bags in the expert care of the Hialeah Compound Military Police. We were armed with information and directions, and we were off into the Pusan night.

*  *  *

Ernie and I made a quick trip to the barracks on the compound and rousted Private First Class Runnels out of his bunk. The courier who transported classified documents between Pusan and Seoul was less than thrilled.

“What the hell do you want?” he asked, rubbing his eyes. “Didn’t you harass me enough when you questioned me in Seoul?”

“This is the army,” Ernie said. “There’s never enough harassment.”

I told Runnels to put his clothes on and follow us into the dayroom. I wanted him completely alert when we questioned him. He did as he was told, stopping in the latrine to splash water on his face. Finally, he joined us at the vinyl-covered chairs near the pool tables. The television was running, an old black-and-white movie that no one was watching. I knew it would be the last thing scheduled, because both the Korean stations and Armed Forces Korea Network stop broadcasting at midnight. Ernie switched the television off and returned to stand near me.

Runnels sat with his elbows on his knees. “What is it?” he asked.

“You took the five p.m. Blue Train back from Seoul yesterday.”

“That’s my job.”

“You remember that guy you sat next to the first time we questioned you? The guy who disappeared after the train stopped in Anyang?”

“Yeah. You think he’s the rapist.”

“You don’t?” Ernie asked.

Runnels shrugged. “How the hell would I know?”

“So, yesterday,” I continued, “on the Blue Train from Seoul, did you see the same guy again? Was he on that train?”

Runnels looked away from me, scrunching his forehead. I held my breath. Ernie held his too.

“No,” Runnels said finally. “Can’t say I did see him.”

“Were you looking?” I asked. “Did you get around the train much? Or did you just stay in your seat?”

“I’ve seen the train,” Runnels said, exasperation in his voice, “too many times. These days I just stay in my seat. Especially when I have a good book to read.
The Last
Detail,
by Darryl Ponicsan. It’s about military life.
Real
military life. You ought to try it.”

“Maybe I will. Did you see anybody else you know on the train? Or anything unusual?”

Runnels thought again. “No. Not that I remember.”

I checked my notes. “Do you know a guy named Weyworth, Nicholas Q.? He’s a Spec Four and he’s stationed here on Hialeah Compound.”

“What’s he do?”

“Supply.”

Runnels took his time thinking over the question. “No. The name doesn’t ring a bell. I might recognize his face if I saw him, though.”

“Did you recognize
anybody
on the train? Anybody who you thought might be stationed on Hialeah Compound?”

Runnels thought again and shook his head.

“Did you see anything strange? Anything at all unusual?”

Again he said no, he hadn’t seen anything that he thought was worth remarking on. Finally we gave up, thanked him, and told him he could return to his bunk. On the way out of the dayroom, Runnels turned and looked back at us. “That guy did it again, didn’t he?”

“What guy?” Ernie asked.

“That guy. The Blue Train rapist. He did it again, didn’t he?”

“What makes you think that?”

“Because you guys are here. If he hadn’t done it again, you probably would’ve just stayed in Seoul. It’s about that checklist, isn’t it?”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“I told you before. The last thing he told me before he walked away was that he had a checklist. A checklist to correct deficiencies. That’s what this is about, isn’t it?”

Runnels studied our faces, saw nothing, shrugged, and walked in his flip-flops down the dark corridor that led to the open bay that housed two long rows of military bunks.

The lights of the Kit Kat Club flashed brightly. The midnight curfew was less than a half hour away, but you wouldn’t have known it from the relaxed atmosphere of the customers and waitresses in the G.I. bar. They looked as if they were camped out forever.

“Curfew must not be such a big deal down here,” Ernie said.

In Seoul, or especially up north near the DMZ, the Korean National Police will arrest anyone out even five minutes after the midnight curfew. Down here, the G.I.s were only a hundred yards from the main gate of Hialeah Compound. If they ran, they could make it there in a few seconds. And my guess was that down here in Pusan the local cops weren’t as frantic about shutting off all lights and closing down all businesses by exactly twelve o’clock. We were a couple of hundred miles from the DMZ; a couple of hundred miles from the 700,000-man-strong North Korean Army. Life seemed more normal down here. More cosmopolitan.

Ernie and I strode into the Kit Kat Club.

Bleary eyes looked at us, some of the hostesses with interest, puffing on their cigarettes. The G.I.s stared at us with dull surprise. Two Americans they didn’t know, near a small compound like Hialeah: that was an event.

Ernie stepped to the bar and ordered two beers.

“OB or Crown?” the bartender asked.

“You have draft?” The bartender shook his head. “Then OB”

The bartender popped the tops off the bottles for us. I asked for a glass. Ernie didn’t bother.

“Where’s Nick?” Ernie asked the G.I. sitting next to us.

“Huh?” The guy’s head was about to droop to the bar.

“Nick,” Ernie repeated. “Nick Weyworth.”

“Hell if I know,” the guy said, and allowed his nose to droop even farther toward the suds puddled on the bar.

I waved down one of the hostesses. “Weyworth
isso
?” I asked. Is Weyworth here? “Nick Weyworth.”

“You buy me drink?” she asked.

I nodded. Ernie stared at me, surprised.

The bartender took his time mixing some colorful concoction and finally slapped it on the bar. “One thousand five hundred won,” he said. Ernie whistled.

I reached deep into my pocket, pulled out the money, and took my time counting out two thousand-won notes, the equivalent in U.S. dollars of about four bucks. The bartender returned with my change. I pocketed it and turned back to the hostess. Through a straw, she was demurely sipping her drink.

“Show me,” I said.

Her eyes widened.

“Show me Weyworth’s yobo hooch.” His girlfriend’s house.

“I finish my drink.”

“No,” I said. “You don’t finish your drink.”

Ernie stepped next to the woman, grabbed the frothy red drink out of her hand, and set it carefully on the bar. “
Kapshida
,” he said. Let’s go.

She looked up at us with her heavily lined eyes, trying to make up her mind. Finally, she shrugged, stood up, and spoke to the other women seated against the wall.

“
Jokum itta dora wa
,” she said. I’ll be right back.

She grabbed her coat and sashayed toward the door.

The three of us wound through a couple of hundred yards of narrow pedestrian lanes. Sewage ran through open stone-lined gutters reeking of ammonia and filth. High walls made of brick and stone lined either side of the passageway, studded on top with brass spikes or shards of embedded glass. An occasional streetlamp glowed yellow at the intersection of two lanes, but mostly we were guided by the dim silvery rays of a half moon. Finally, the hostess crouched through a door in a larger wooden gate. Ernie and I followed. The hostess hollered, “Jeannie
Omma
,
issoyo
?” Is the mother of Jeannie here? Apparently a child was involved.

We stepped into a courtyard of swept dirt. Kimchee pots lined one wall. A
byonso
—an outhouse—behind us smelled of lime and human waste. Across the courtyard, light glowed behind a latticework door stretched with oil paper. The door slid open and a woman’s face peeked out. “
Nugu-syo
?” she said. Who is it?

As soon as she saw the hostess, with Ernie and me looming behind her, she slid shut the door. A metal latch clicked into place.

Weyworth’s hooch wasn’t much. Just a large ondolheated room with a cement-floored kitchen on the side.

“I’ll check the back,” Ernie said.

As he marched off into the darkness, the hostess who’d brought us here surreptitiously retreated toward the entranceway. I ignored her until I heard the door in the large gate shut. I stepped up to the latticework door and knocked. The wooden frame rattled.

“Weyworth,” I said. “I need to talk to you.”

When there was no answer, I said, “I’m Agent Sueño from Seoul. You won’t be able to hide from us, might as well talk now.”

Words were mumbled inside and clothes rustled.

Ernie returned at a trot.

“No way out the back,” he whispered. “The only exit is through the front here and that side door off the kitchen.”

We could keep an eye on both exits from where we stood.

I stepped closer to the door. “Last chance,” I said, “or we’re kicking the door in.”

More frantic mumbling, something being dropped, a heavy object of some sort, and then a shadow appeared in front of the oil paper. I backed up, keeping my hand on my hip where my .45 would’ve been if I’d been armed. That’s one thing that Ernie and I hadn’t thought of: to check out weapons from the Pusan MP station. Suddenly it seemed like a tremendous oversight.

Ernie stepped to his right, into the darkness. I stepped to my left.

The oil-paper door slid open.

Yellow light flooded into the courtyard. Ernie and I tensed. A face peeked out, the same woman who’d peeked out earlier. This time, I caught a good look at her. She was cute, young, maybe in her early twenties, with a bemused expression and braided pigtails hanging down from either side of her round head.

Ernie stepped forward, grabbed the edge of the door, slipped off his shoes and stepped into the hooch. The woman screeched. Ernie shoved her aside.

I followed him into the hooch.

Ernie searched the kitchen and the tiny storeroom out back.

“Nobody here,” he said, returning to the main room.

Nobody except a little girl who was squatting next to an inlaid mother-of-pearl armoire. She had a face and hairstyle just like her mother’s, except for her coloration. She was very light-skinned and her hair was dirty blonde.

“This must be Jeannie,” I said.

The little girl’s eyes widened. Blue fading to green. Her mother stepped away from us and clutched her arms in front of her ample breasts. She wore only a set of PX thermal long johns, no bra underneath. The woman reached into the armoire, pulled out a winter coat, and wrapped it around herself. She squatted down next to Jeannie and placed a protective arm around her.