by Martin Limon
And this time, his victim had not only been raped. She’d also been murdered.
5
The stewardess roamed the central aisle of the Blue Train, paying particular attention to elderly passengers. She was a round-faced young woman, husky but not fat, and she looked good in the blue beret, white cotton blouse, and blue skirt. I particularly admired her legs. Sturdy and smooth.
As attractive as she was, if she walked in the door of a modeling agency in New York City, they’d soon enough show her the exit. She wasn’t tall and leggy, and she certainly wasn’t blonde. There are many types of gorgeous women in this world, but the fashion industry’s insistence that there is only one ultimate form of beauty fools many and encourages them to buy the products that Madison Avenue sells. In other words, lying pays.
One of the things I liked about Korea at the time was that advertising was kept strictly under control. No billboards were allowed to mar the serenity of the countryside, and, on Korean television, commercials were permitted only before and after programs, not during. On AFKN, the Armed Forces Korea Network, there were no commercials at all, only public-service announcements. Boring, but at least not obnoxious.
Outside my window, rice paddies rolled by, dry and yellow and already harvested. In the distance, burial mounds dotted round hills; beyond them, a red sun glowered angrily behind purple peaks. Alongside the train, straining to keep pace with us, a gaggle of Manchurian geese flapped their way south.
“You ready for a wet?” Ernie said.
He reached in his AWOL bag, pulled out two cans of Falstaff, and handed one to me. I popped mine open and enjoyed the frothing warmth of hops and barley.
Earlier this afternoon, after we’d reported to his office, the Chief of Staff hadn’t been complimentary. “The only reason the Provost Marshal and I are assigning you to this case is because you’re already familiar with the details.”
And because I’m the only American law-enforcement official in the country who speaks Korean, I thought, but I didn’t say anything.
“If you screw up, you’re off the case. Is that understood?”
Ernie somehow resisted the urge to mouth off and instead replied crisply, “Yes, sir.” Although he pretended he wasn’t involved emotionally, Ernie didn’t want to lose the opportunity to collar this rapist any more than I did.
The Chief of Staff handed us a copy of the dossier compiled by Lieutenant Pong. I thumbed through it. Most of it hadn’t been translated.
“I want you on the next train south,” he said. Then he responded to our surprised looks. “Okay, I know what you’re thinking. If this is so important, why not a chopper? You could be down there in a couple of hours.”
The Chief of Staff, Colonel Oberdorff, was a small man, wiry and tough-looking, with a short-cropped gray crew cut, and he looked lost in his highly starched khaki uniform. His voice was gruff. He spoke plainly and directly-like a plumber, the type of plumber you can trust.
“The truth is,” he said, “the ROKs asked that you two be put on the case. They seem to respect you, Sueno, I suppose because you can speak their language.” He looked away. “Hell of an accomplishment, that.”
This was the first time I’d ever been complimented by anyone in 8th Army-officer or enlisted-for putting in the effort to learn the Korean language.
“Thank you, sir,” I said.
“And your other cases,” Colonel Oberdorff continued. “Word must be getting around. Goddamn it, you two ruffle a lot of feathers but you get results. People are noticing. So the KNPs want you on the case and they want you to take the five p.m. Blue Train to Pusan.”
“Why the train?” Ernie asked. “If we took a chopper, we could be there before evening chow.”
“I know. But the ROKs want you to take the train. Apparently, there’s going to be someone else on the train, some VIP who doesn’t like to fly.”
Ernie and I looked at one another.
“The VIP will meet you on the train, brief you about the case. I suppose you know that all hell has broken loose in the Korean newspapers. It’s even hit the radio, they tell me, and tonight the TV. The ROK government wants to put a stop to all the bad publicity, but that kind of censorship could cause more trouble than it’s worth. Better to get the truth out, let the chips fall where they may. ‘The G.I. Rapist,’ they’re calling it. And now that a woman’s been murdered
…”
Colonel Oberdorff allowed his voice to trail off.
“Murdered?” Ernie said.
“Yes. You’ll be briefed on the details. No time to go into all that now. You have a train to catch.”
“Who is this VIP we’re supposed to meet?” I asked.
“Hell if I know. All I know is that he’s some sort of inspector. Highly respected. They’re putting their best on this case.”
“How will we know him?” Ernie asked.
“He’ll know you. I don’t know who he is or what he looks like. All I know is his name.” Colonel Oberdorff shuffled through a stack of paperwork on his desk.
Ernie and I waited.
“Gil,” Colonel Oberdorff said. “Gilbert maybe. No, that’s his last name. Damn Korean customs.” In frustration, the Chief of Staff mumbled to himself. Koreans put their family name first, then their given name. When working with Americans, they sometimes switch them around to follow our customs. Confusion ensues. Finally, the colonel stopped shuffling and said, “These Korean names make no sense to me.”
I leaned forward and studied the paperwork. “Mr. Gil,” I said.
Colonel Oberdorff brightened. “That’s right. Mr. Kill,” he said, mispronouncing the name. “It says so right here.” Then he shuffled through more paperwork. “What the hell kind of name is that?”
Ernie and I knew who it was. I glanced at Ernie. He glanced at me. I realized that we were both holding our breath. Five minutes later, we were out of the Chief of Staff’s office, heading for the barracks to pack our traveling bags; ten minutes after that, we were on our way to the Seoul RTO, 8th Army’s Rail Transportation Office.
The stewardess walked by again and Ernie glanced at me as my eyes followed her.
“You like that, don’t you?” he said.
“What’s not to like?”
“You’re weird, you know that, Sueno? All those gorgeous Texas women in the Country Western All Stars. Shelly the lead guitar player has even hinted that she’d like to get to know you better, and you pay her no attention.”
“When we’re with them,” I replied, “we’re on duty.”
“Bull. If we were really on duty twenty-four hours a day, like the lifers say, nobody’d ever get laid.”
I sipped my beer.
“But instead of a tall, gorgeous blonde,” Ernie continued, “you like the kind of Korean woman who just stepped out of a rice paddy. What is it with you?”
I shrugged.
The stewardess knelt with her back to us, her knees pressed primly together. She spoke soothingly with a group of children who’d gathered around an old halaboji, a grandfather. Like many elderly people in Korea, the man made no bones about his age. He wore the gentleman’s hanbok, Korean clothing that consisted of light blue silk pantaloons, tied above white socks at the ankles, and a waistcoat of the same material that covered an outer vest the color of jade. This getup indicated that he was retired and no longer had to wear the suit and tie or other Western-style work clothes that indicated he was gainfully employed. The old man balanced a varnished wooden case on his knees. It contained an ink stone, a horsehair brush, and a small lacquered writing area. Deftly, he held the brush with his thumb and two fingers while he sketched out a Chinese character on crinkly rice paper. The children watched, fascinated by the ancient writing implements, occasionally asking questions. Then he offered the brush to the smallest girl. Shyly, she gripped the brush in her hand, dipped the tip into black ink, and traced a few lines across the paper. The halaboji complimented her, as did the stewardess, and then one of the boys insisted on his tu
rn. After the boy had his chance, the stewardess complimented him too, rose gracefully to her feet, and continued her way down the aisle.
Ernie finished his beer, crumpled the can, and tossed it into his AWOL bag.
“Why didn’t you talk to her when she was standing there?”
I shrugged again. “I didn’t want to interrupt.”
He shook his head. “If you’ve got the hots for her, you’ve got to do something about it.”
I didn’t answer.
“Okay,” he said. “If that’s the kind of kinky dude you are, I’ll help.”
He rose from his seat and started down the aisle. I tried to call him back, but he ignored me. Instead of following, I sat for a minute wondering what he was up to. And then it dawned on me: whatever it was, it couldn’t possibly end well. Already, since boarding the Blue Train, we’d received some nasty looks. The case of the Blue Train rapist was on everyone’s mind, and every G.I. was a suspect. Ernie’s shenanigans normally were embarrassing enough. Under these conditions, they could be dangerous.
I rose from my seat, nodding to the halaboji across the aisle, realizing that his hair was mostly black, with only a smattering of gray. He wasn’t as old as he pretended to be. Instead of constantly trying to look younger, like Americans, Koreans often purposely try to appear older. I shoved the thought out of my mind and followed Ernie.
Without really intending to, I found myself stopping at the end of every car, checking into the bathrooms that weren’t occupied. Nothing amiss. I passed through the dining car with its long bar and square tables covered with white linen. Only a handful of customers were sitting there, but some of the black-clad waiters glared at me suspiciously.
Near the end of the train, I found him. The stewardess had stopped in the middle of the aisle and was looking back at him, her eyes wide. From this distance, I couldn’t hear what Ernie was saying; but whatever it was, most of the Korean passengers weren’t pleased with his little display. His hand was on her elbow and he leaned toward her, so closely that the stewardess leaned away from him. Ernie kept talking until finally the stewardess stepped back abruptly and said in Korean, “Na moolah.” I don’t understand.
A burly Korean man stood up from his seat, pointed at Ernie, and said, “Ku yangnom weikurei?” Which could be translated to “Why is this foreigner acting this way?” except that the word he used for foreigner, yangnom, was anything but polite. It meant something akin to foreign lout, and was a well-known insult. So well-known, in fact, that Ernie understood.
“What’d you call me?” Ernie said.
The Korean man bristled, placing both his hands on his hips, facing Ernie directly. Other men stood up.
By the time I stepped up next to Ernie, the stewardess had scurried toward the back of the passenger car and five or six more Korean men were standing in the aisle, wagging their fingers at Ernie and chattering among themselves. I knew what was causing this. The news of a rape, and now a murder, on the Blue Train had made everyone nervous. Seeing Ernie taking what the Koreans considered to be an overly aggressive stance toward the stewardess was not going to sit well.
I placed my hand on Ernie’s elbow. He jerked it away.
“What did this guy call me?” he asked.
“Forget it,” I said. “Let’s go.”
“Like hell. This son of a bitch is calling me names and waving his finger. Who the hell does he think he is?”
Two of the men stepped forward, holding their hands up, in the Korean gesture meant to placate an argument. Before I could react, Ernie stepped forward and pushed one of them. A woman screamed. Others jumped in, and soon Ernie and I were wrestling in the middle of the aisle with what seemed like a sea of angry Korean faces. But no one was hitting. That’s the Korean style. When there’s an altercation, they grab one another, they push, they shove-and they certainly scream-but no one hits.
Except Ernie.
He smacked the man who’d called him a yangnom full in the face.
By now the conductor had been called, and he joined in the fray. Women were screaming and children were crying and I was pushed by the crush of bodies backward across a chair and into an old woman’s lap. Ernie by now had been totally overwhelmed and lay on the floor in the center of the aisle, cursing and kicking and trying to punch somebody, but his arms had been pinned down by the two men who’d originally been trying to stop the fight.
The conductor kept calling for order, but no one paid him any attention. I was still trying to struggle to my feet, apologizing to the woman I’d almost crushed, when a loud voice broke through the din of fear and confusion.
“Ssau-jima!” the voice said. Stop fighting!
Everyone froze and looked at the man standing at the end of the car. Everyone, that is, except Ernie, who kept kicking.
The man who had hollered was the halaboji wearing the blue pantaloons and jade vest. The man I’d seen across the aisle from us, teaching the children the ancient art of calligraphy. His hands were behind his back but his face was red, glowering with disapproval. He strode forward, barking orders in Korean. “Back to your seats! Let that man go. What is it with you? Have you no education?”
The men in the aisle faced the venerable grandfather, bowed their heads, mumbled apologies, and backed up to their original seats. Finally, the two men atop Ernie stood up, faced the halaboji, bowed, and hurried away down the aisle.
Ernie bounced to his feet, shaking his arms free, raising his fists and staring around for a target. All he saw was the much shorter halaboji staring sternly up at him.
I was still wedged between two seats and anyway too far away to reach Ernie in time. Instead, I prayed.
I could see anger cross Ernie’s face. He was about to launch a straight left jab and I was about to scream for him to stop. The halaboji, calmly, stepped closer to Ernie. Ernie glared down at the man. Then the older man said in English, “You must think before you accost women.”
“‘Accost?’” Ernie replied. “I didn’t ‘accost’ anyone.”
“You interrupted her in the performance of her duties.”
“She wasn’t doing nothing.”
“While she’s on this train,” the old man said, “she is responsible for the kibun of the passengers, for their sense of calmness and safety. You interrupted that.”
Ernie seemed confused. He knotted his fist. His face was red, he was embarrassed, and when a young American man is embarrassed-when other people see him as a boob-his natural response is to hit somebody. Violence, in the American mind, will make you seem smarter.
The halaboji read all this in Ernie’s thoughts. He continued to stare up at Ernie, but now his face wasn’t stern. He was calm, waiting patiently for something. For what, I wasn’t sure. I was just hoping it wasn’t a right cross.
Ernie glanced back at me. Mercifully, what must have been a rational thought flitted across his visage like a skittering storm cloud. He turned back to the old grandfather, hesitated, and, at last, lowered his right fist.
I exhaled, not even realizing that I’d been holding my breath.
More mumbling broke out in the crowd; a few of the Korean men would’ve just as soon punched Ernie out. The halaboji motioned for Ernie to follow. He did. I followed them out of the passenger car and back toward the front of the train.
In the dining car, the old man stopped and sat at a table. He motioned for Ernie to sit, and then he stood again and greeted me with a short bow. Suddenly, he didn’t seem old at all. It was because of the traditional getup that I’d assumed he was a grandfather. Now that I looked more closely, I realized that his physique was still sturdy beneath the silk vest and pantaloons, his hair gray on the edges but black on top. I revised my estimate of his age downward to about fifty. Still, he was twice the age of either Ernie or me. After the three of us were seated, a waiter approached and the man spoke.
“Have you ever tried ginseng tea before?”
“Often,” I replied.
He ordered three cups of ginseng
tea. We sat silently until the hot brew was served; then the older gentleman raised his handleless cup with two hands, gestured toward us, and drank. Ernie and I did the same. We continued like that, without speaking, until only the dregs of the ginseng powder remained.
The man leaned back and smiled. “My name is Gil,” he said. “Gil Kwon-up. Chief Homicide Inspector of the Korean National Police.”
Every American MP and law-enforcement official in Korea knew of Inspector Gil. But Americans have trouble pronouncing the first letter of Gil’s name. In Korean, the sound falls somewhere between the harsh English k sound and the soft g sound. I listen carefully when Koreans pronounce the letter, and I can replicate the sound reasonably well, but most MPs and CID agents at 8th Army didn’t bother. They referred to Inspector Gil Kwon-up as “Mr. Kill.”
It was said that he’d made his name in law enforcement some twenty years ago, during and after the Korean War, first by hunting down Communist saboteurs who were planting bombs and blowing up trains, buses, and public buildings. Supposedly, Mr. Kill captured or killed dozens of them. After the war, he then turned his attention to the criminally insane: men-and in a few cases women-who’d been driven mad by the brutalities of the Korean War. Some of them had seen such horrific things and suffered so much that only by pain and blood and terror could they somehow continue to live. After the war, madness was common, despair rampant. People who had once been human were now inhuman, capable of the most appalling acts of violence. Inspector Kill, along with other dedicated members of the Korean National Police, had to wipe out those who were incapable of returning to a world ruled by peace.
Kill had been ruthless, we’d been told, wiping out the worst of the criminals-not even bringing them to trial, but rather bringing peace and justice back to the world out of the smoking barrel of his little pistol. And now, disguised as a calm calligrapher, Inspector Kill sat across from us, his hands resting placidly on white linen, studying me over the brim of a porcelain cup.
Finally, he spoke. His English was excellent, which is probably the first thing most G.I. s would notice. He’d almost certainly studied in the States, maybe trained there during the fifties and sixties when anti-Communist cadres around the world were being prepared to fight the Red demons lurking behind both the iron and bamboo curtains.