by Martin Limon
Hands that had once touched me, the killer thought.
How many months had she lied to him? Too many. Probably from the very beginning.
The rage bubbled up from his gut like lava exploding from a volcano. Still, his years of training kept his movements deft and silent.
He crawled into the room.
For a time the lovers didn’t notice him. They were still too far away, still enfolded in their cocoon of ecstasy. The killer placed himself at the foot of the bed, feet spread shoulder-width apart, watching.
The woman noticed him first. Her eyes popped open. She pushed up on her lover’s shoulders, unable to say anything—unable to scream. The lover twisted his head, grunting, and then his eyes widened in shock, finally spotting the dark monster looming over them in the shadows.
Before they could move, the killer’s fist shot out like a bolt of black-gloved lightning. The lover’s head snapped back. He rolled off the woman, a lewd slushing “pop” ringing through the room as he slid out of her body.
The woman screamed. The killer backhanded her with his ironlike knuckles.
The lover was on all fours now, shaking his head, moaning, but when he started to rise to his feet, the killer shot forward, jabbing his fingers brutally into the man’s neck. Slicing deeper, gripping flesh, he jerked backward with all his strength. The lover’s throat flopped out onto his naked chest.
Blood splattered everywhere. Against the wall, onto the sheets, along the outstretched arms of the screaming woman.
Choked by her own terror, still, the woman’s body moved. Clutching at a blanket. Kicking back toward the open window.
As her spine slid over the wooden sill, the killer grabbed her feet and shoved. The woman fell backward, thudding against brick outcroppings on the side of the building and finally smashing, headfirst, into the street below.
Bone cracked.
She lay silent in the alley. A naked doll, twisted and broken.
The killer shuddered, his body aflame, his manhood engorged and stiff.
People were awake all through the building now. Many of them screamed, and screamed again. Louder and louder. The killer stood by the window, gazing down on the snapped body beneath him in the street. Blood dripping from his hands. Confused.
Why didn’t they stop screaming?
The killer jerked bolt upright on his sleeping mat, kicking back the sweaty comforter.
“Yoboseiyo. Shikkuro. Choyong-hei choral” Hello. It’s too noisy. Quiet down!
He hopped to his feet, instinctively crouching in a fighting stance. His eyes scanned the darkness. Walls, a sleeping mat, a small cabinet, cold air seeping in through a crack in the window.
Not summer anymore. Winter. Outside the steamed window, snow drifted on a sea of tile roofs. He was in a room he had rented last night. Quickly, he groped in the dark. His clothes were here, his money, the knife. It came back to him now. He was safe. The woman pounding on the door was the owner of this rat-infested hovel.
He cleared his throat and spoke.
“Arraso.” I understand.
The owner’s footsteps pounded down the hallway. The killer listened at the door for a moment to make sure she was gone.
Bending down, he grabbed the o-kang, the porcelain pee pot, held it pressed against his thighs, and took a leak. When he was finished, he replaced the lid and shoved the o-kang back into the corner. He squatted back down on the sleeping mat.
The same dream. Over and over. How many times? How long would it haunt him?
He checked the time on the clock radio. Zero five hundred. An hour past curfew.
The killer slipped on his clothes, wiped his face with a damp hand towel, reached under the comforter, and examined the knife. It was long, wickedly curved at the end. The handle wrapped in leather, the steel honed to a razor-sharp edge. Fine workmanship. A Gurkha knife. From Nepal.
Using the hand towel, he carefully wiped off the tiny flecks of blood that still remained. He slipped the knife in his belt behind his back and let his shirt hang loosely over it.
Before leaving, he checked the room to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything. He wouldn’t be back.
Outside, bundled up in his down-lined jacket, his feet crunched in the snow on the dark, almost deserted roads. Scattered flurries of flakes powdered the city. Rats scurried off the sidewalk at his approach and disappeared into broad trenchlike gutters covered with perforated cement block.
He should’ve ditched the knife last night, he thought, but he hadn’t been thinking clearly. Too exhausted by the fight.
He shook his head. Not professional. Not professional at all. He’d allowed the fight to go on too long.
He remembered the terror in the Englishman’s eyes. He could taste it on his tongue. The delicious terror. The sure knowledge that he was going to die.
The killer fed off of it again, closing his eyes, reliving the final agony of the dying Brit.
He walked for almost a half hour in the darkness until he was two blocks from the site where he’d killed the Englishman. In the distance, blue and red lights flashed. Emergency vehicles.
He found a deserted alley, crouched, and dropped the knife into a rock-lined sewage ditch. The knife fell, cracked a thin layer of ice, and splashed into the filthy water below.
The killer straightened and walked away. They’d find the knife. No matter, he thought. They’d never find him.
An old woman pushing a cart laden with steaming chestnuts trundled past him. She stared into his eyes and, her face filling with fright, turned away.
The killer smiled to himself.
Terror. Everywhere he went. Terror.
But no time for that now. He had work to do. So much work to do.
His heavy boots plowed through the growing drifts.
10
ERNIE AND I SAT IN THE JEEP, SHIVERING, SIPPING ON hot coffee from a thermos, stomping our feet to keep warm. In the gray distance, the first glimmers of sunlight peeked over white-capped mountains. During the last couple of hours the temperature had plummeted—maybe five or six degrees. Still, an occasional flurry of snow fluttered to the ground.
“Whoever thought of this shit detail?” Ernie asked.
“You did.”
“Oh, yeah. That’s right. You shouldn’t have listened to me.”
“You finally said something that makes sense.”
We were parked beneath an overhang behind a cement-walled warehouse on a small army supply depot known as Camp Market, situated about fifteen miles east of Seoul. Riley gave us the tip. Electrical equipment had been disappearing from this compound at a steady clip for as far back as anyone could remember.
The pilferage had to be organized and it had to be the slicky boys. We were here to catch them in the act.
Last night, we’d run the ville in Itaewon and called in every favor we’d ever done for anyone, asking about the slicky boys.
The answer was always the same: “Moolah.” I don’t know.
After applying a little pressure, a few of our Korean contacts opened up with one more thing: Don’t mess with the slicky boys, it’s not good for your health.
Maybe it was because we’d been drinking soju. Maybe it was because we were tired from the long day and pissed off that no one would give us any information and frightened by all the warnings we’d received about the slicky boys. But whatever the reason, last night Ernie and I had come to a conclusion. The only way to contact the slicky boys was to flush them out. Start making arrests, disrupt their operations, force them to talk to us.
Of course, it was risky. How risky I wasn’t quite sure.
If nothing else, we’d get their attention.
We didn’t know how the electrical equipment here on Camp Market was disappearing, but we did know that there had to be inside contacts involved. The perimeter of the compound was secure: chain-link fence, barbed wire barricade, floodlights, guard shacks every hundred yards.
It looked more like a Nazi concentration camp than a
transhipment point for lightbulbs and toilet paper.
The only way to move stolen property off-compound was through the front gate. But in addition to the Korean perimeter guards and the GI warehouse men, there was also a contingent of MP’s stationed here. An American MP checked everything that passed out of the gate.
American MP’s, like anyone else, can be corrupted. The small village of Pupyong-ni is right outside the gate and it’s chock-full of nightclubs and business girls and cheap booze. A little extra money can make life a lot more pleasant for a hardworking MP.
Still, we couldn’t be sure exactly how stolen goods were transported off the compound until we witnessed something being moved. That’s why we’d been here since before dawn. To catch the slicky boys in the act and stop them.
By the time we had slugged down the last dregs of our coffee, we heard the steady churn of an approaching diesel engine. A truck rolled between us and the next warehouse over, stopping near a cluster of metal drums.
“Trash pickup,” Ernie said.
“Let’s take a look.”
We climbed out of the jeep and slipped through the shadows until we could see the rear of the trash truck.
Four workers, dressed in heavy down coats and pullover caps and gloves, dropped four empty metal drums to the ground, next to the full ones. With deft precision, each of the empty drums was turned upside down. For no apparent reason, two men shuffled off to a nearby coal bin. We followed them. Grabbing broom handles, they poked through a small mountain of coal, raising black dust as they did so.
“This is it,” Ernie said.
After rummaging around for less than a minute, both men returned, a coil of copper wire held in each hand.
Copper wire. Not manufactured in Korea. Imported at a big premium. But here it was, on an American army compound. Easy to sell at a good profit margin. Prime pickings for an experienced thief.
My guess was that someone inside the warehouse had slipped the four coils of wire out the back door during working hours yesterday. Not being able to transport the coils off-post through the heavily guarded gate, the crook had stashed his loot beneath the pile of coal.
The trash collectors, armed with this information, had been sent back to collect more than just trash.
Maybe the slicky boys did this every day. Four coils of wire at thirty or forty dollars each—every day—could soon produce a tidy sum.
The two men back at the truck had turned the empty metal drums back to the upright position.
“What the hell are those?” Ernie asked.
On the ground, where the empty drums had been, lay four metal discs.
The four coils of copper wire were dropped, one each, into the four empty metal drums. Then the four metal discs were tossed in after them.
“False bottoms,” I said. “The copper’s hidden beneath perfectly fitted sheets of metal.”
One by one, the workmen dragged the empty drums over next to the full ones. They lifted the full ones and dumped the contents into the drums containing the false bottoms and the copper wire.
“Ingenious,” Ernie said.
“Also a hell of a lot of work.”
He shrugged. “Hard work, they’re used to.”
Once the four drums with the copper coils and the false bottoms and the trash were loaded onto the bed of the truck, the workmen climbed back aboard and one of them— the smallest—hoisted himself into the cab, started the engine, and drove off.
Ernie looked at me. “We follow?”
“No. They’ve got nowhere else to go. We wait for them at the main gate.”
“Right.”
The trash truck must’ve had other stops because it took about twenty minutes for it to reach the main gate. The back of the truck was fully loaded now with overflowing drums of garbage. How many of them contained false bottoms and copper wire, I couldn’t be sure.
We had parked the jeep in the parking lot of the Battalion Headquarters, engine running, pointed toward the gate.
Ernie said, “Now we see if any of the MP’s are in on it with them.”
We waited. The trash truck rolled up to the gate and stopped. A bored-looking MP emerged from the guard shack and, carrying a long wooden pole, pulled himself up onto the bed of the truck. The Korean workers shuffled out of his way as he methodically ran the pole down through the trash to the bottom of every drum.
After he’d checked them all, the MP hopped off the truck and waved them forward. A Korean guard started to roll back the big chain-link gate.
“Now!” I told Ernie.
He gunned the engine, shoved it into gear, and we shot forward. As he did so, I opened the canvas door of the jeep, stood up, held on to the metal roll bar with one hand, clutching my badge aloft with the other, and shouted at the MP at the gate.
“CID! Don’t let that truck pass!”
The gate was almost completely open now. Ernie had taken off so fast that the wheels missed their traction on the slick road and the jeep’s back end swerved a little. I held on. Ernie regained control in a matter of seconds.
The driver of the truck swiveled around to see what was causing all the commotion.
The MP stepped back from the guard shack, turned, and shouted at the Korean gate guard to close the damn gate.
The truck’s diesel engine roared. The big vehicle lurched forward and started to roll through the open gate.
The Korean gate guard stood motionless, not trying to close the gate, pretending he was confused. The tail of the trash truck cleared the gate and sped out onto the main road that runs in front of the compound.
Suddenly, the Korean guard came alive and leaned into it, shoving the gate closed.
Ernie shouted, “Son of a bitch!” and stepped on the gas.
The gate was closing, we were heading straight toward the narrowing gap, and I was standing outside the jeep, the door open, about to have my head smashed against the MP guard shack. I ducked back inside the jeep.
As I did so, Ernie hit the gate, something smashed into our left side, and we bounced against the wall of the MP guard shack but kept moving forward, squeezing through the rolling gate that clanged shut behind us.
“Which way’d they go?” Ernie screamed.
“Right.”
He took the corner sliding, forcing oncoming traffic to slam on their brakes. The trash truck was up ahead, only a few yards from us. Ernie shifted and gunned the engine like a maniac, and within a few seconds we were gaining on them.
“Take it easy, Ernie!” I shouted. “They’re outside the compound now. No longer in our jurisdiction.”
“Fuck our jurisdiction!”
Ernie was just about to swerve to the side of the trash truck and try to force them over, when their red brakelights flashed and they careened left in front of oncoming traffic.
Tires skidded. Horns honked. I screamed.
Ernie didn’t slow down. He followed the truck across a short bridge that led into the little village of Pupyong-ni.
The big truck took up the whole road. The traffic here was composed strictly of pedestrians and people on bicycles. They leapt out of the way of the barreling trash truck, screaming and cursing in several languages.
“The son of a bitch is going to wipe out the whole village!” Ernie shouted. But he stayed right on his ass.
Unlit neon and shuttered barrooms flashed past us. Suddenly the road widened. We were heading into rice paddies. But rather than continue toward the open countryside, the driver of the trash truck swerved back toward the cement block walls of a residential district.
Ernie wasn’t fooled; he stayed right with him, and now, with the road wider, he made his move, gunning the engine, speeding forward, racing alongside the trash truck.
He started to edge toward the nose of the truck, veering to the right to pull him over, when I saw it.
“Stop!” I shouted.
Ahead was a “honey truck.” Workmen stood around it, their faces covered with gauze masks, and a thick rubber hose
draped over a brick wall, sucking the filth out of a septic tank.
Ernie slammed on his brakes. The driver of the trash truck wasn’t so fast. He sped forward, slammed into the rear end of the honey truck, spun it around, and the rubber hose busted loose. Liquid waste sprayed the air in an exploding brown swirl.
Ernie cut to his right but not fast enough. A stream of shit splattered against our windshield.
“Fuck!”
Ernie switched on the windshield wipers, leaned forward so he could peek through the waste, and kept moving forward.
The stench groped its way into my throat and tried to rip out my stomach.
The trash truck was still floundering in the mud, grinding its way past the smashed rear of the honey truck. When we pulled up alongside, Ernie cut the jeep in front of the truck, bumping it until the trash truck was wedged against a cement-block wall. We shuddered to a halt.
I leapt out of the jeep, holding up my badge.
“Don’t move!” I shouted, trying not to gag at the stink. “CID!”
The three workers in the back hopped off the bed of the truck and took off running, splattering shit and mud in their wake.
Ernie ran after them.
People emerged from the gateways lining the street, gaping in awe at the mess, covering their mouths and noses with their hands.
The driver of the honey truck was ranting, shaking his fist at Ernie and the trash truck driver and anyone else who would listen.
Each time I took a breath I felt like throwing up, but I held it.
Instead, I jumped up onto the running board of the trash truck and jerked open the door.
The driver clutched the top of the steering wheel, face buried against two gloved hands.
“CID!” I said. “Climb out of the cab.”
When he didn’t move I jabbed him in the ribs.
“You’re in a world of shit. Don’t make it worse.”
I grabbed the driver by the shoulder and jerked. With surprising force the body pulled back and the head shot up.
“Manji-jima sikkya!” Don’t touch me, you bastard!
The face was wrinkled, but the skin appeared soft and there was no stubble of a beard. Climbing out of the cab, a clawlike hand ripped back the wool cap and a flood of gray hair tumbled out.
