by Martin Limon
“The second rape was less daring than the first,” he said, “but more brutal.”
The KNP report, written in Korean, still sat in my AWOL bag back at my seat. I had yet to decipher it.
“A foreign man,” Gil continued, “boarded the southbound Blue Train, either in Seoul or Taejon or East Taegu. We’re not sure which. What we’re sure of is that a woman named Mrs. Hyon Mi-sook departed the train at the end of the line and then made her way through the Pusan Station, dragging two bags and three small children: the oldest, her son, aged nine, and two younger twin daughters. She queued up at the taxi line and eventually caught a cab that took her to the Shindae Tourist Hotel.”
Lodging establishments are divided into three categories in Korea. The lowest is a yoinsuk, nothing more than a building, usually somebody’s residence, with a traditional warm ondol floor heated by charcoal gas flues in the foundation. For a small fee, you rent a sleeping mat and you can spread it out in the communal hall and catch some shut-eye. The next step up is the yoguan, which again is furnished in the traditional Korean style, bedding on the ondol floor. The difference is that the room you rent is separate. The top of the line is the tourist hotel, which is a fully Westernized hotel with central heating, beds and mattresses, and indoor bathrooms with shower stalls and towels.
This Mrs. Hyon Mi-sook must have been fairly well off if she could afford to stay in a tourist hotel. Mr. Kill slid a photograph out of the inner pocket of his jade vest and laid it on the table.
“That’s her?” Ernie asked.
Kill nodded.
She was a knockout. A gorgeous Korean woman with full cheeks and sparkling white teeth smiled out at us. Kill continued his story.
“As soon as Mrs. Hyon had checked in, she and her children were escorted upstairs by a bellhop. Almost immediately after her elevator doors closed, a Western man entered and approached the front desk holding a woman’s handbag, saying it was hers and that she had left it on the train. The desk clerk offered to take it from him, but the man waved him off and asked which floor she was on. The startled clerk told him. The big Western man went to the stairs and climbed them two steps at a time.”
“Will the clerk be able to identify this man?” Ernie asked.
“So I’m told.”
We could imagine what happened next, but Kill elaborated. The Western man, lurking in the hallway of the third floor, waited until the bellhop left and then immediately knocked on her door. Whether she looked through the peephole and saw a Western man holding a purse or thought it was the bellhop returning, we’ll never know. Korea is a trusting society. Violent crime is so much more rare here than it is in the States. Whatever the reason, she opened the door.
“Are the kids still alive?” Ernie asked.
Kill nodded. “They weren’t hurt,” he said. “Not physically.”
I studied this strange, calm man who sat in front of us. Despite his age, his body expressed the grace of someone who’d studied martial arts for years; his knuckles were callused and his waist waspish. He stared at us pleasantly, his mouth set in a half smile, black eyes absorbing everything. Waiting.
I wanted to ask more questions, about him, about the beautiful woman who’d been so cruelly raped and murdered, and about the fate of her children. But the train jerked and a blast of steam screamed out of the side of the engine. Our cups rattled atop their saucers. We were entering Pusan Station. Mr. Kill rose, spoke briefly to the waiter, who bowed, and then turned and made his way through the train back to his seat.
Ernie and I followed.
The train came to a complete stop. We grabbed our bags and waited as the elderly passengers and women with children filed off in front of us. When we reached the end of the car and were about to step off onto the cement platform, the stewardess was there waiting for us. She bowed to me and then, after I’d passed, she stepped close to Ernie. I turned in time to see her whisper something in his ear.
We walked in darkness toward the row of streetlights shining in front of the station. I asked, “What was that all about?”
Ernie held out his palm, showing me a slip of folded paper. I grabbed it and opened it, twisting it toward the light. The stewardess’s name, written in English, and a phone number.
I handed the paper back to him.
“See, Sueno,” he said, grinning. “Acting like an asshole pays off.”
I didn’t reply.
Ernie wadded up the little note and tossed it in the gutter.
The staff at the Shindae Tourist Hotel bowed so much, I almost mistook them for a flock of ducks. They weren’t showing this elaborate politeness to Ernie and me, but to the revered gentleman in the blue silk hanbok-a revered gentleman who’d also flashed the badge of an inspector of the Korean National Police.
The head clerk, wearing a black suit with matching bow tie, showed us the steps the rapist had climbed to reach the room of Mrs. Hyon Mi-sook. The room had been taped off by the local Pusan contingent of the KNP, but Mr. Gil ordered the clerk to unlock the door. We stepped in.
The sink in the bathroom and the counter surrounding it were slathered in dried blood.
“He washed himself here,” Gil said. “Or at least that’s what we believe. The oldest son told us that he forced him and his two sisters to crouch there in the bathtub and then he jerked down the shower curtain and covered them with it. They could barely breathe.”
“But he didn’t actually hurt the children?” Ernie asked.
Gil shook his head. “No.”
Not physically, at least.
“The mother was found bound and gagged with some of the towels.”
We returned to the main room. There was more blood on the bed. “He tied one arm here.” Gil pointed at the posts at the head of the bed. “Another arm there, and a leg each down there.”
“Spread-eagled,” I said.
“Yes,” Gil agreed. “Spread-eagled. This rag,” Gil said, pointing to a washcloth, “was found stuffed in her mouth.”
Inspector Gil knew all this from the detailed KNP report that had been sent to him in Seoul by teletype. His eyes shone as he paced slowly around the room, examining everything. The bed was stained brown, as if an urn of mess-hall coffee had been spilled, but I knew it wasn’t coffee. I could tell by the stench. The air reeked of the meaty odor of a butcher shop’s slaughter room.
“After he raped her,” Gil said, “he started cutting her. She fought. One hand was found free and there was blood and flesh under the nails.”
“Good for her,” Ernie said, sudden passion filling his voice.
Gil glanced at him. “It didn’t do her any good. She died anyway. The boy said he heard his mother stop struggling. Then the foreign man entered the bathroom and washed himself thoroughly; and, without saying anything, he left.”
“How long did the kids stay in there?” I asked.
“Until morning,” Gil replied. “Until the maid found them.”
Outside the Shindae Tourist Hotel, Mr. Gil ordered the doorman to call a taxi. He blew a whistle, and a small Hyundai sedan appeared almost instantly. We piled in and rode silently. The broad streets of the city of Pusan were swathed in darkness and washed with a salty mist from the sea. We swept through lonely streets until we finally reached the cement-block foundation of the building known as the Pusan Main Police Station. As we climbed the well-lit stone steps, an officer wearing a gray Western suit was waiting there for us. He bowed to Mr. Kill and then shook hands with Ernie and me. He turned and ushered us into the huge wooden building.
I paused and studied a plaque written in Chinese. A few of the characters I could read. Apparently, this building had been built in 1905 during the waning days of the Chosun Dynasty. It had originally been the Pusan area’s main administrative building, but had then been converted to other purposes. Unspoken were the uses it had been put to during the Japanese occupation from 1910 to 1945. Still, the building had been in continuous use for almost seventy years.
I hurried to catch u
p with the other men and followed them down long wooden corridors. Inside open-doored offices, blue-clad Korean National Policemen worked at desks or interrogated prisoners, even at this late hour. There were a few Korean women in uniform, mostly typing reports or carrying paperwork. We climbed three flights of broad wooden stairs until we were ushered into an office marked with Chinese characters I couldn’t decipher. As soon as I had a chance, I copied the characters into my notebook. Later I discovered they meant “Homicide Division.”
We sat on hard couches surrounding a coffee table. Soon, a female officer brought a metal tray with cups and a bronze pot of barley tea. We drank. The officer in the gray suit pulled out a pack of cigarettes and offered them all around. When everyone refused, he grimaced and stuffed the pack back into his coat pocket. Then, in English, he introduced himself: Senior Inspector Han of the Pusan Korean National Police.
He pulled out a teletype report written in hangul. The ticket sellers at the train stations in Seoul, Taejon, and East Taegu had all been interviewed thoroughly. The ones at Taejon and East Taegu were certain they hadn’t sold any tickets to foreigners yesterday. This made sense because there were few foreigners in Taejon and Taegu, and they were unlikely to be traveling south toward Pusan. The American military has only a small contingent in Pusan. The bulk of our forces-about 90 percent of the over 50,000 G.I. s stationed in-country-are either in Seoul or north of Seoul, on compounds in the 2nd Infantry Division area near the Demilitarized Zone.
The ticket sellers at the Seoul Station itself, however, couldn’t be sure if they’d sold any tickets to foreigners or not. There are plenty of foreigners living in Seoul, and when you’re a ticket seller in a busy station like Seoul’s, one day blends in with another, and the customers become an undifferentiated mass.
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
Ernie 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, Sueno?” 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?”
