Mr. Kill

by Martin Limon

  I ran left, into the night.

  Soon I hit the pedestrian walkway that arced along the curve of the shoreline, twenty yards in from the beach. I paused and studied dark waters. By starlight I spotted the vague shadows of ships bobbing in the center of the Port of Pusan; to my right were the high-rise buildings that lined the port. Along the sand, I saw nothing. No revelers. No families traipsing timidly up to the edge of the water. No vacationers toting travel bags to the shuttered bathhouse that squatted a quarter mile to my right. And then I saw movement, off to my left along the edge of the water, just a flicker in the glinting moonlight. Without thinking about it, I ran. First across the sand, lifting my feet high; then across a spongy running surface, sand moistened and solidified by the sea, picking up speed.

  As the shadowy figure ahead of me angled away, I realized that it was a thin man with long legs and limbs. A man who from this distance—about two hundred yards behind—appeared in every respect to be Corporal Robert R. Pruchert.

  “Halt!” I shouted, inanely. I had no pistol to back up my command.

  Where was he going? What lay to the northeast on the far edge of Haeundae Beach? Rice paddies? Shipyards? I had no idea, and my guess was that neither did Pruchert. He’d panicked when he saw me, then he’d hidden; finally he’d sneaked out the back of the casino and run. Where, he couldn’t be sure.

  I was catching my stride now, settling in for the distance. He was too far ahead for me to sprint and catch up. With no end to this beach in sight, this pursuit was becoming an endurance contest. Pruchert was panicked, running hard, not pacing himself. If I kept close, controlled my breathing, and settled into a good pace for a two-mile run, I’d probably catch up with him eventually. Once he collapsed.

  Every soldier in the United States Army is required to take a physical training test every year. The test includes push-ups, sit-ups, and a two-mile run. I take pride in my scores. I’d yet to max the test but I’d come close. My training regimen consisted mainly of doing push-ups and sit-ups first thing in the morning and then jogging, as time permitted, around the Yongsan South Post gymnasium.

  I hadn’t jogged for a few days, not since the Blue Train rapist investigation began, but my body hadn’t forgotten what to do. Slowly, across the wet sand, I was gaining on Pruchert. And then, without warning, he veered sharply to his left.

  As I came closer, I saw what he was heading toward: a low line of shacks. Some sort of shops for the crowds that jammed Haeundae Beach during the daytime. Pruchert was running right toward the center of the shops, and in the dim light I watched as he approached the shops as if he were going to ram into one of them headfirst—and then he disappeared.

  I blinked, straining to see what had happened.

  As I plowed through sand, a gap appeared in the center of the line of shops. A passageway, dark now, and covered so that not even moonlight entered. Where did it lead? Either to the other side or, maybe, into a courtyard. When I reached the passageway, I slowed to a trot. No movement. No sign of Pruchert. Walking quickly, I entered the dark passage. After a few steps, I was blind, realizing that I’d made a mistake. I groped forward, holding my hands out, expecting at any moment to step into a pit lined on the bottom with punji sticks. Instead, I reached the inner courtyard I had imagined. Some of the shops were covered with wooden doors or metal shutters, but a few still had dim blue lights on within, behind polished glass. I stepped close to one of the windows. Two yellow eyes and a row of teeth darted toward me. I jerked back. Then I realized what it was.

  A fish tank.

  Live fish. It figured. These were not shops, but seafood eateries. I read the signs in cursive hangul: hot noodles, fresh seafood, raw squid, spiced octopus. Everything the discerning gourmand could desire. The fish seemed to sense my presence; tail fins waggled, jaws gaped open and then clamped shut, tentacles raised themselves in squiggly greeting.

  I trotted to the far side of the courtyard. Another passageway. I ran through it, quicker this time, figuring Pruchert had already emerged on the other side and would be a half mile up the beach by now. As I hurried, I was reckless about where I stepped and ran into a straight-back chair that had been left in the center of the passageway. I was alert enough not to fall, although I banged my shins pretty hard, and I managed to catch myself on the back of the chair as I kept moving and to toss it off to the side where no one else would run into it.

  As I did so, something moved out of the shadows. I caught a glimpse of him just before he hit me. Corporal Robert R. Pruchert. It was a good left and caught me moving into it, and I staggered. Then I was hit again and, for a few seconds anyway, that’s all I remembered.

  When I came to, I was kneeling on all fours. I looked up, slowly becoming aware of where I was and what was around me. There was no sign of Pruchert. I stood unsteadily, took a step forward and then another. I breathed deeply, the sharp tang of fish and salt entering my lungs. Soon I was running away from the conclave of seafood restaurants; by the time my head cleared, I had reached the pathway that paralleled the beach. The moon hung no higher in the sky, so I knew I hadn’t been out long, only stunned, and now I had a good view down the beach for about a mile. No sign of Pruchert. Once he thought he had me off his tail, he would’ve headed toward civilization, maybe tried to hide until curfew was over and then find a cab. Where to hide? Near a tourist hotel, where there’d be plenty of taxis waiting outside at four a.m.

  I ran back toward the casino.

  About a hundred yards off to my right, in the old town section, someone darted into a dark alley. I barely caught a glimpse, but my impression was that this was someone taller and heavier than Pruchert. That didn’t make sense at this time of the morning in this part of the world. Near the alley, cobbled lanes wound sinuously between tile-roofed homes. I slowed to a walk, listening. No running footsteps. All was quiet in this sleepy neighborhood at this early hour. I entered the alley.

  It ran about twenty yards, curving to the left out of sight, lined on either side by the backs of brick-walled homes. Finally it opened into an unkempt rose garden surrounding an open-sided pagoda. A fat bronze kitchen god smiled out at me. In a stand in front of the pagoda, incense glowed. I passed the kitchen god with his fragrant environs and entered another alley emanating like the spoke of a wheel from the round garden. It was a clear pathway running downhill toward the tourist hotels. About twenty yards away, beneath a tiled overhang, two men were standing. As I approached, they emerged from the shadows.

  Pruchert, Corporal Robert R.; and, next to him, the somewhat taller black G.I., the one Pruchert had been talking to in the casino. Both of them were holding bricks in their hands.

  I could’ve turned around. In fact, I seriously considered it. I was exhausted, my head throbbed with an exploding headache, my nose still hurt, and I was still perspiring from the long run down the beach. However, whatever decision I was going to make had to be made immediately. I made it.

  Striding forward, I didn’t slow my pace. Everything in my face and my demeanor was meant to convey that I was here to kick some serious ass. Although in my current depleted condition I didn’t believe I could take these two guys, I had to give the impression that there wasn’t the slightest bit of doubt in my mind that I could turn them both into pulverized hamburger without even working up a sweat. As I strode forward, I reached in my jacket pocket and pulled out my badge. I held it up, pointing it at them like a shield.

  “You!” I shouted. “You with the brick in your hand,” addressing the tall black man. “You are not in trouble yet, but if you continue on this course you soon will be. Do you understand me?”

  I stared into his eyes, waiting for him to nod assent. He did.

  “Now drop the brick,” I said, “and step aside.” Although he hesitated, I pretended I hadn’t noticed. “I’m Agent Sueño, badge number 7432, of the Criminal Investigation Division, Eighth United States Army. Any interference in this enforcement action will be considered a criminal offense. Is that understood?” />
  Neither man dropped his brick. Neither man stepped back.

  I strode toward Pruchert, completely ignoring the other man with the brick, and shoved Pruchert on his shoulder. He stared at me dumbly. I ordered him to turn around. He did. Then I slipped my badge into my pocket and started frisking him. He hadn’t yet dropped the brick. The man behind me held his ground.

  I frisked Pruchert as if it were the most routine operation in the world. As I did so, I slapped the brick out of his hand. It clattered to the ground.

  I cuffed him. At any moment, I expected to feel something heavy and solid landing on the back of my head. Nothing happened. When Pruchert was securely handcuffed, I turned and stared at the other G.I.

  “What’s your name?” I said.

  “Bollington,” he replied.

  “Rank?”

  “E-4.”

  “What unit?”

  At this he balked. He looked away and said, “I don’t want to get into any trouble behind this.”

  “So far,” I said, “you haven’t done anything to get in trouble for.”

  I squinted at him, waiting. He glanced away from me and then looked back. He told me his unit, which, frankly, I wasn’t paying any attention to. All my attention was riveted on his right hand, the hand that held the brick.

  “Let me see some ID,” I said.

  Bollington’s long fingers loosened and the brick fell to the ground.

  Before Pruchert and I were halfway back to the casino, I saw a red light flashing. And then another. Police vehicles, on the edge of town where the high-rise buildings of the Haeundae Beach area started. A blue KNP patrol car sat nearby.

  Pruchert and I walked up to the MP sergeant. He turned, and I realized that I knew him. Sergeant Norris.

  “Sueño,” he said. “I thought you were in Taegu.”

  “I was, earlier today.”

  “We received a report about a disturbance at the Haeundae Casino involving Americans.”

  I shoved Pruchert toward him. “Here’s your disturbance.”

  Norris handed Pruchert off to his partner, who frisked him again and shoved him into the backseat of the jeep.

  “You’ll want to turn him over to the KNPs,” I said.

  “Why?”

  I explained.

  Norris whistled. “The Blue Train rapist. Good collar for you.”

  Pruchert leaned forward in the backseat of the jeep. “What?” he shouted in a reedy voice. “What’s this about rape?”

  “Shut the hell up,” Norris said.

  The other MP shoved Pruchert back against the seat.

  We held a quick conference with the KNPs, with me doing the translating. We finally arranged for Norris and his partner to drive Pruchert over to the Pusan KNP Station. I rode with the KNPs. My stomach felt queasy, from the fried chicken and gravy I’d eaten earlier in the evening, from exhaustion, from the stress of the collar. I didn’t want to start interrogating Pruchert yet and somehow screw things up.

  Besides, I trusted Inspector Kill.

  He’d been notified and was on his way to the station.

  * * *

  The case against Pruchert was based strictly on the fact that he’d had the means and the opportunity to commit the murder. The means, simply because he was bigger and stronger than the women who’d been raped, although we hadn’t found the murder weapon yet. The opportunity, because he’d been away from his post of duty during the times the crimes had been committed. Furthermore, he’d taken elaborate precautions to cover his tracks; to make it seem as if he were studying Buddhism in a remote monastery when in reality he was black-marketing in the slums of Taegu and using that money to feed his gambling habit. Did he have another habit? A habit of rape?

  Both of the victims had been robbed, their purses rifled for whatever bills were available. Certainly Pruchert was well known in the Haeundae Casino. Was he also well known in the Walker Hill Casino in Seoul, closer to where the first rape had been committed? That was something Inspector Kill would be checking out.

  The interrogation lasted for two hours, and Pruchert was smart enough to stick to a simple story. If his gambling habit—and his black-marketing habit—were uncovered, he’d lose his top secret clearance. Without that, he’d no longer be able to work on the highly classified signal equipment at Horang-ni Signal Site. Pruchert wasn’t rich, he had nobody at home backing him up, and he needed his job in the army. He was good at what he did on that job, and he fully expected to make warrant officer some day if he stuck with it. Therefore he’d taken elaborate precautions to keep his extracurricular activities secret. In the army, with so many men living together in close confines, everyone knows everyone else’s business—and this is especially true at a remote signal site. So Pruchert came up with a cover story. He was studying Buddhism, and was so devout that he actually was giving serious consideration to becoming a monk. The teachers at the Dochung Temple didn’t take on novices who they didn’t think were serious. On the other hand, they were a trusting lot. When Pruchert told them that he wanted to meditate on his own, alone in a small cave, they gave him the privacy they thought he needed. He had betrayed that trust and told Inspector Kill now that he regretted having done it.

  “I had to get away,” he told Kill. “Don’t you see? Everyone was watching me.”

  “Why do you gamble?” Kill asked.

  “I don’t like to gamble,” Pruchert responded.

  “Then why do you do it?”

  “I did it once. Some buddies took me over. They thought it was fun. I didn’t. I lost all my money, everything I had in the bank.” He leaned forward and grabbed the cuff of Inspector Kill’s coat. “Don’t you see? It took me years to save it, years of hard work. I had to get my money back.”

  The compulsive gambler’s famous last words: I have to get my money back.

  Kill told Pruchert about the Blue Train, accusing him of traveling north toward Seoul, committing the rape, and leaving the train near Anyang. Pruchert vehemently denied it. Kill continued, claiming that when Pruchert returned from Seoul and arrived at the Pusan Station, he followed Mrs. Hyon Mi-sook to the Shindae Tourist Hotel and, while her two children cowered in the bathroom, he raped her; and when she resisted, he stabbed her to death.

  Again Pruchert denied it. “The only time I’m ever on the Blue Train,” he claimed, “is when I travel from Taegu to Pusan, after I’ve black-marketed with Lucy.”

  Lucy. The woman who was the leader of Migun Chonguk, G.I. Heaven.

  After the interrogation, Inspector Kill had Pruchert locked in a cell, alone, to ponder his fate. He told Ernie and me that he was going to contact the Walker Hill Casino with a description of Pruchert to see if he was a regular there and, if so, when he’d last been there to gamble. Casinos in Korea keep records of the exchange of foreign currency to won, the Korean currency. These records are required by the government. If we were lucky, they might have Pruchert’s name in those records.

  For my part, I promised to spend the morning back on Hialeah Compound checking Pruchert’s ration-control records, to see if we could get a handle on how much he’d been black-marketing and from where he’d made the purchases. Inspector Kill dispatched a patrol car to pick up the vendor who’d sold the rapist the purse in front of the Pusan train station and the cab driver who’d driven him to the Shindae Hotel. Once they were brought in, they’d see if the two witnesses could identify him.

  I thanked Inspector Kill and told him I was returning to Hialeah Compound. Once more he insisted that I travel in one of his police sedans. I told him that I had my own wheels this time, although actually I could use a ride to the Haeundae Casino to retrieve the army sedan.

  He consented and, after being dropped off near the vehicle, I made my way through the early-morning Pusan traffic, heading toward Hialeah Compound.

  In the sedan, on my way to Hialeah, I thought about my latest conversation with Sergeant Norris. After we’d delivered Corporal Pruchert safe and sound to the Pusan Police Station,
Norris had pulled me aside and said, “I talked to him again.”

  “Who?”

  “That sailor. The one who wants to talk to Sway-no.”

  “What’d he say?”

  “He wants you to meet him. The safest place is along the docks, at the end of Pier Seven. There’s a chophouse there that East European sailors sometimes use. He doesn’t want to meet you there. ‘Too many eyes,’ he said. But behind the chophouse about twenty yards, there’s an overlook along the water.”

  “When?”

  “Twenty-three hundred hours, any evening. He’ll be there waiting every night.”

  “He sounds serious.”

  “He is.”

  “Have you told anyone else about this?”

  “No one,” Norris replied. “Not even my partner. There’s something about the guy. He’s nervous, worried. I think it could be something important.”

  “Any idea what?”

  “He wouldn’t spill. He only wants to talk to you.”

  “How long will he be in port?”

  “Until Thursday.”

  That gave me four nights. “Okay,” I said. “Thanks.”

  Before I walked away, Sergeant Norris grabbed me by the elbow. “He said for you to come alone, but I think you should take some backup with you.”

  “That might scare him off.”

  Norris thought about it. “At least be armed,” he said finally.