Mr. Kill

19

“She’s gone!” Marnie screamed when we reached her car. “Casey’s gone!”

I checked the seat. Marnie was right. No sign of her daughter Casey.

“Calm down,” I said. “Tell me what happened.”

People were standing, kneeling on their seats or milling in the aisles, keeping a respectful distance from the tall, blonde, hysterical woman.

“I went to the bathroom,” Marnie said. “Just for a minute. I tried to take Casey with me, but she refused. Said it was too stinky. She can be stubborn when she wants to be, and I didn’t want her to make a scene. So I left her here and told her not to budge an inch from that seat.”

And then Marnie was crying, her words indecipherable now. I should have warned her that Parkwood might be on the train, but at the time I hadn’t wanted to alarm her. A mistake. But too late now.

I turned to the Korean passengers staring at us. “Did anyone see anything?” I asked in Korean. “Did you see where the little girl went?”

People looked at one another. One woman finally spoke up.

“I think she got out of her seat and went that way.” She pointed toward the front of the train.

“No!” another passenger said vehemently. “She went that way,” she insisted, pointing toward the rear. “I thought she was going to join her mother.”

“Yes.” Many people nodded, agreeing with the second woman, maybe because she was older.

I grabbed Marnie by her shoulders. “Look at me. Was this the first time you’d gone to the bathroom without her?”

Marnie looked away.

“Don’t be ashamed. I need facts.”

“No,” she said. “Casey hated those bathrooms. She didn’t like squatting down over the little toilet in the floor and she didn’t like the fact that they were always out of toilet paper. She wouldn’t go unless she was about to pee in her pants.”

“So she’d been left alone before at some time during this train ride?”

Marnie nodded meekly. Then her body shuddered as if she had suddenly remembered something. She straightened her back and knocked my hands off her shoulders.

“Why are you interrogating me? Accusing me of not being a good mother? You should be searching for Casey. Search, goddamn you! Search!”

I hadn’t been accusing her of being a poor mother, but this wasn’t the time to argue.

“Ernie, you go to the front,” I said. “I’ll go to the back.”

Ernie nodded.

I started off toward the rear. Without being asked, the conductor followed me.

By now the train was slowing and we were pulling into Taejon Station. I had already reached the rear. No sign of Casey. We’d checked every bathroom along the way and burst into the baggage compartment and searched once again. I’d even checked the wooden crates, pulling on them quickly, to see if they could be pried open. No luck. The caboose and the back platform were similarly empty.

I turned and ran back toward the front. Crossing from one car to another, I bumped into Ernie.

“Nothing up front,” he said.

“Nor back here. Let’s check on Marnie.”

We ran down the aisles. The brakes of the big engine were catching now and steam hissed out of the sides of the train. Passengers stood, locating their bags in the overhead compartments.

“Did you check the overheads?”

“Yes. She’s not there, unless somebody stuffed her into a freaking suitcase.”

“Even that we’ll have to check,” I said.

Inspector Kill and maybe a couple of squads of KNPs would be waiting for us on the platform. I turned to the conductor. “We’ll have to check all luggage,” I said in haste and in a state of near panic. Just then, the train jerked and the brakes hissed louder than ever.

We entered Marnie’s car. I sprinted forward. When I stopped, Ernie bumped into me. We both stared at an empty seat. I turned to the people around me.

“Where is she?” I asked.

In reply, I received a lot of blank looks. I repeated the question in Korean.

People shook their heads. They hadn’t been watching her. An elderly man stepped forward.

“I’m not sure where she went,” he told me. “But I noticed after you left that she searched in her daughter’s traveling bag. She pulled out a piece of paper, like a note, and unfolded it and read it. It was pink paper with a drawing on it for children. Shortly after that, she picked up her bag and left.”

The train shuddered to a halt. People started filing toward the doors. I wiped steam off the window and stared outside. No sign of the KNPs. Inspector Kill was probably farther back, keeping his men hidden, waiting for Parkwood to make a move. And then I saw her, carrying an overnight bag slung over her shoulder. Her head was down, and she moved through the crowd quickly.

“There she is!” I shouted.

Ernie peered out the window. “She’s alone.”

We ran toward the front of the car. A man in greasestained overalls was hurrying down the aisle toward us. He shouted at the conductor. We stopped. Apparently he was one of the engineers who worked up front.

“We heard about the missing child,” he said to the conductor, speaking rapid Korean. “I’m not sure what it means, but I thought I would tell you. When one of our young assistants came out back, just after we left Taegu, a foreigner slipped in with us up there. He smiled and acted very friendly and used sign language to indicate that he was interested in the engines and how we conducted our business. Occasionally people come up there and if they don’t cause too much trouble we let them watch. And also, he was a foreigner, and who knew how he’d react if we told him to leave. Maybe it was a mistake, but we let him stay.”

The conductor nodded. I wanted to tell the engineer to get to the point but knew that my interruption would only slow things down. The engineer continued.

“He stayed up there with us the entire ride. Finally, he came out, back here, and when he returned he pounded on the door and we let him back in. This time, he had a foreign girl with him and he acted like he wanted to show her the engine and the controls and such, but she seemed frightened and just stared at the ground. He laughed and tried to coax her into having fun, but she would have none of it. Finally, just before we pulled into Taejon, he opened the door, peeked outside, and then pulled the girl out with him, almost running.”

“Where did he go?” I asked.

“Onto the platform. After that, who knows?”

Outside, there was no sign of Marnie. And no sign of Parkwood, and no sign of Casey.

I went to the train station’s KNP office and asked for Inspector Kill; but instead of helping me contact him as I expected, the officers on duty acted strangely reluctant.

“What’s wrong?” I asked in Korean. “Inspector Kill said he’d be here, waiting, with police officers to help us.”

“He will be along,” one of them said.

More entreaties yielded no further information.

Ernie and I walked toward the center of the open lobby of the huge domed station. “What’s going on?” Ernie asked. “It’s almost as if they’re trying to help him.”

“Yeah. Parkwood with Casey in tow would’ve been easy to spot. Even by a rookie cop. They should’ve collared him before he took ten steps off the train.”

“How the hell did he pull it off?” Ernie asked.

“Parkwood suspected that we, or somebody, would be on the train searching for him. After he made it from Kuangju to Taegu, he bought a ticket; and shortly after boarding the train, he bullied his way into the engineer’s compartment.”

Americans have a strange power in Korea. People know that we helped them during the war, and they know that their self-defense and economic growth are dependent on American wealth and American military might, so they treat us with great tolerance. G.I. s are like 300-pound gorillas that wander into genteel front parlors. Everyone knows that the burly primate won’t cause too much trouble as long as he’s fed bananas, kept well diapered, and allowed to do whatever the hell he wants to do.

“So Parkwood waited up front until the train had almost reached Taejon,” Ernie said. “Then he came out, snatched Casey, and left a note of some kind for Marnie.”

“Right. While we were searching the train, she read the note, and it probably told her to meet him someplace and come alone.”

Ernie looked around. “So why in hell isn’t Inspector Kill here?”

Just as he said that, a squad of uniformed KNPs entered the front door of the station. Ahead of them, wearing a suit and a long brown raincoat, strode Inspector Gil Kwon-up.

Ernie crossed his arms and glared sullenly at Kill.

“Sorry I’m late, gentlemen,” Inspector Kill said when he reached us, but, strangely enough, he was smiling.

“Parkwood took off,” I told him, “with the little girl Casey and Marnie Orville, the mother, following. We don’t know where they are.”

“Why are you late?” Ernie asked.

“Unforeseen circumstances,” Kill said.

Ernie studied him. “So why are you so happy?”

“Because,” he said, “the stewardess on the Blue Train is a very observant and astute young woman.”

“What do you mean?”

“She found this, she gave it to the conductor, and the conductor gave it to one of our representatives.” Between his thumb and his forefinger, Kill was holding a folded piece of pink paper. “And now,” Kill said ceremoniously, “I present it to you.”

Ernie snatched the note out of his hand, unfolded it, read it, and handed it to me.

A fat-cheeked kitten smiled out of one corner. The note was scribbled in English: “Come alone. Casey’s with me. Bathhouse number three on the Gapcheon River.”

I handed the note back to Kill. “Where’s that?”

“A resort area, north of the city.”

“Do you have transportation?”

“Waiting,” he said, waving his arm toward the front of the station. “At your service.”

We hurried out of the station to a row of blue police vans.

The rain had let up a bit, just a heavy mist now, but the banks of the Gapcheon River were completely deserted. During the summer, refugees from the city of Taejon spend the day basking in the sun and frolicking in the cool waters of the rapidly flowing stream. A few miles north, the Gapcheon joins the much larger Geum River, which eventually makes its way to the Yellow Sea. The beach is long and flat with a gravel-like sand, and the water is choppy and fast-flowing but relatively shallow. A bather has to wade at least a hundred yards offshore until the water reaches six feet in depth.

Bathhouses are popular in Korean resort areas. The idea is to swim in the river or the lake and then take a hot shower and a steam bath and, if you can afford it, enjoy a full-body massage. Also, there are places to change your clothes and rent swimsuits if you didn’t bring one with you. It was in one of these establishments that Parkwood had set up his rendezvous.

Our convoy of a half-dozen police vehicles pulled up along the deserted road that paralleled the river, parked, and stopped. We stared at bathhouse number three. No movement. It appeared to be deserted.

Ernie started to get out of the car. Inspector Kill told him to stay.

“Why?” Ernie asked. “What are we waiting for?”

“For Parkwood to come out,” Inspector Kill replied.

“Come out? Marnie could be in there. He could be hurting her.”

Inspector Kill didn’t answer him. He just sat quietly in the front passenger seat. Ernie looked at me.

“I don’t know about you guys, but I’m going in there.”

Ernie climbed out of the car. I climbed out with him.

Reluctantly, Mr. Kill got out of the car too. All the uniformed KNPs stayed in their vehicles, awaiting Mr. Kill’s orders.

Calmly, Mr. Kill took off his raincoat. He folded it and set it on the seat inside the sedan. Then he took off his jacket and undid his tie. Finally, he slipped off his shoes.

Ernie stared at him, dumbfounded.

“You gonna take a swim?”

“If I have to,” Kill replied. “When you flush Parkwood out, please send him in my direction.”

Ernie squinted at Kill, trying to understand his strange behavior, but finally gave up. He turned and started marching across the thick gravel. I followed. Footsteps crunched as we approached bathhouse number three. On this side, there were no windows: the entranceway faced the river. Ernie unholstered his. 45. With his free hand, he pointed for me to take the left side of the building; he would take the right. We met out front.

Quietly, Ernie trotted up the wooden steps. He tried the door. Locked.

Behind us, the Gapcheon River rolled serenely as it had rolled for centuries. Crows cawed and swooped low. Ernie leaned back, raised his right foot, and kicked the door in.

The interior was dark. Wood planks squeaked beneath our feet. The bathhouse smelled of incense but also of some herb I couldn’t quite place. Laurel leaves, maybe, like the ancient Greeks used in their baths. One dim bulb shone at the end of the hallway. Doors lined either side. As we passed, we opened them and checked each small cubicle: a body-length table, a work bench, and empty towel racks. No Marnie. No Casey. No Parkwood.

Finally, we reached the end of the hall. A door was open to a much larger room, tiled for showers. Spigots stuck out of cement walls. Casey was squatting, partially hidden, next to some wooden shelving narrow enough to hold slippers. I crouched next to her. She appeared to be all right physically, but her hands and her head rested on her knees. She wouldn’t look up. Marnie sat alone on the far side of the room. Her blouse and her blue jeans were ripped all to hell. She was doing her best to put them back on, but various parts kept slipping off her voluptuous body. Finally, she gave up and, almost naked, threw the clothing to the floor.

“Don’t look at me like that!” she screamed. Ernie and I stared at her. “I did it because I had to, to save my daughter.”

I nodded slowly. Ernie’s. 45 was out. He wasn’t staring at Marnie anymore, or even at Casey. He scanned the room, moving from side to side, sliding back plastic curtains in the private stalls.

“Yes,” Marnie screeched, answering a question we hadn’t asked. “Casey was watching. He wouldn’t let her leave the room.”

“Where is he?” I asked.

Marnie stared at me as if she didn’t know who I was talking about.

“Where is Parkwood?” I repeated.

“That’s his name?” she said softly.

Clearly, Marnie Orville was still in shock. After the fright of having her daughter kidnapped, of being raped in a tile shower room, who could blame her?

I asked again, softly, “Where did he go, Marnie?”

Casey raised her little arm. “He went that way,” she said.

Her finger pointed to the right. Ernie hurried over and at the end of the row of private showers found a door that was hidden from view. He shoved it open. It led down a short hallway.

“Don’t leave us!” Marnie shrieked.

Ernie glanced back at me, as if to ask, “Are you staying?”

I nodded.

He took off into the darkness.

I did my best to help Marnie cover herself, ripping down one of the shower curtains as an overgarment. Casey soon made her way to her mom, and the two began hugging each other. Casey was crying and Marnie was crying. I was glad to see the tears: it meant she was coming back to herself.

I asked if they felt well enough to follow me, and they both nodded. With me in the lead, we entered the dark hallway Ernie had gone down. After about ten paces, it led down a wooden stairwell that twisted back on itself. The basement was dark, but a yellow light shone at the far side.

“I don’t want to go in there,” Marnie said. “Let’s go back.”

“Come on, Mommy,” Casey said. “Ernie’s all alone.”

Somehow she’d picked up his name. I patted her on the head. Marnie nodded her consent and we crossed the dark cellar. Halfway through, Marnie screamed. I turned and saw a long tail scurrying off behind wooden crates.

“Mommy,” Casey said. “It’s only a mouse.”

A rat, to be exact, but I didn’t correct her. When we reached the far door, I peered into the yellow-lit room. It was storage: giant beach umbrellas, inflatable rafts, boxes filled with rubber flippers. I took a few steps inside. Marnie and Casey followed. One of the boxes fell, dumping a gaggle of squiggling things onto the ground. I leaped back. Marnie screamed. Casey leaned down and picked one up.

“They’re only goggles,” she said, holding one up to the light.

I felt foolish, but there was no time for embarrassment.

On the far side of the storage room, a door let out into another room streaming with sunlight. A service counter. In front of that, a small foyer and then plate-glass windows. Printed on the windows were the words in hangul: Bathhouse Number Three, Rentals. Stupidly, I was proud that I could read the sign backward.

But when we stepped around the counter, I lost my sense of pride. I heard a shout outside. And then a gunshot.

Ernie stood on the river side of bathhouse number three, his. 45 held straight out in front of him, taking aim on a man running toward the beach.

“Halt!” Ernie shouted.

When the man didn’t stop, Ernie fired off another shot. The round flew ineffectually into the far bank.

“He’s out of range, Ernie,” I said.

“I know that.”

He holstered his pistol and was about to take off in pursuit when engines behind us roared to life. In seconds, a fleet of blue KNP sedans went flying across the gravelly sand, heading toward the Gapcheon River.

“They’re cutting him off,” Ernie said.

Marnie and Casey stood behind us. The rain had started again, and drops pattered against the plastic curtain that Marnie held over herself and Casey.

We watched as the sedans sped across the sand like a phalanx of hounds, spinning around on the slick surface some fifty yards in front of Parkwood. He stopped, turned, and started running back toward us.

Slowly, regally, Mr. Kill strode barefoot across the beach. When he was about ten yards away from us, he pointed and said, “Take the women back to that car. There’s a female officer there.”

A smart-looking woman, wearing the neat blouse, skirt, and cap of the Korean National Police, stood at attention next to a sedan. Marnie didn’t need any more encouragement than that. She grabbed Casey and, keeping the shower curtain wrapped tightly around her, the two of them almost ran toward the road.

Kill sauntered casually toward the flowing water. Parkwood was heading right at him. Something was in Parkwood’s hand.

“What is it?” Ernie asked. Then he answered his own question. “A straight razor.”

Suddenly, I was worried for Kill’s safety. “Is he armed?”

“I don’t think so,” Ernie replied.

The two men were closing on one another. Clearly, the intent of the officers driving the sedans had been to drive Parkwood back to Inspector Kill. Their plan was working. Parkwood had run out of options. He had nowhere to go. But as he approached, it was clear from the perspiration pouring from his forehead and the clenched look of his face and the way he gripped the straight razor in his right fist that this was a man who wouldn’t go down without a fight.

I started toward Inspector Kill.

From out of nowhere, two blue-uniformed KNPs stepped in front of me. One of them held out his palm. “Inspector Kill,” the man said in English, “wishes to interrogate the suspect on his own.”

“The man has a straight razor,” I said, pointing.

Their faces remained impassive. “We know that,” one of them said.

“What are you?” Ernie asked. “The Bobbsey Twins? Parkwood’s going to cut Inspector Kill’s spleen out.”

Ernie stepped forward. With a deft move, one of the officers punched him in the stomach. Ernie grabbed his gut and bent over. I shoved the officer. The two men stepped back.

“You didn’t have to do that!” I shouted.

Two more officers joined them. The four men stood between Ernie and me and the sea, resolutely. Ernie and I could fight them, sure; but even if we gained the upper hand, we’d never reach Kill in time. Whatever would happen between Parkwood and Inspector Kill was about to happen. No one would interfere.

I turned to Ernie. “You okay?”

“Okay. You think that little turd could hurt me?”

If the KNP knew what the word “turd” meant, his face didn’t show it.

Parkwood was now just a few feet from Inspector Kill.

Taekwondo, literally the path of kicking and punching, is a national passion in Korea. Korea’s practitioners of martial arts are some of the most accomplished in the world. Still, martial arts aren’t magic. A desperate man with a dangerous weapon is not something to be taken lightly. The correct response, when confronted with a man as desperate as Parkwood, is to take him down with overwhelming force. If you can’t do that, if it is either you or him, you have to kill him immediately, using whatever method possible, whether it be a shotgun blast to the face or a vicious knife-thrust to the throat. To take him on man to man, in the spirit of martial fairness, is not only piss-poor police work, it is ludicrous. But, apparently, that is exactly what Inspector Kill planned to do.

When they closed, Parkwood was wary. He knew this was too good to be true. He suspected Kill was going to try some trick. He swiped the straight razor at Kill’s face a couple of times, but Kill barely moved back at all, only an inch or two, just enough to avoid the blade. Parkwood glanced around, seeing us standing in front of bathhouse number three, the KNPs staying back either on the road or next to their sedans. The situation was clear to everyone: Kill was offering to take him on, one on one.

As if the satisfaction of the moment had finally settled in, Parkwood smiled. He knew he wasn’t going to get away, but he could at least take a cop down with him-a Korean cop at that. He slashed again at Inspector Kill. More viciously this time. Kill backed away and backed away and backed away again. Parkwood thrust forward a little faster each time. Just as the repetitive movements were attaining a rhythm of their own, Kill sidestepped, moved in, and kicked the back of Parkwood’s knee, forcing him to stumble to the ground.

I expected Kill to attack then and knock Parkwood unconscious, to finish this thing. But he didn’t. Ernie stood in rapt attention, as did all the cops on the beach. I was uncomfortable. Everybody else seemed to be enjoying themselves immensely.

Parkwood leaped to his feet, angry. He came at Kill with the blade swinging back and forth, cautious now, not going to be fooled again by the sudden sidestep. Kill backed away, circling. It became apparent that Kill was leading Parkwood where he wanted him to go. They stumbled into the shallow waters of the river and then back out again. Parkwood was wet now, more angry than ever, rapidly becoming exhausted. As if realizing he was being played for the fool, he stopped. Above the roar of the surf, I thought I heard him growl at Inspector Kill: “Come on.” He waved the blade toward his own body, as if inviting Kill to come and get it.

Kill did. He darted forward, like a mongoose tempting a cobra.

The blade flashed out but missed again. Kill darted in and then out, again and again. Parkwood kept missing but refused to chase, a smart move on his part. Within seconds, realizing that his gambit to get Parkwood to follow again wasn’t working, Kill stepped in so close to the blade that I held my breath. Even Ernie gasped.

The blade flashed out, slicing into Inspector Kill’s shoulder. Surprised, Parkwood stared after him. Kill gazed down. Crimson blood rushed out along the slice in his white shirt. Angry, Kill approached again but backed up more quickly this time. Parkwood was smiling now, enjoying the flush of this victory. He started to follow. Again, Kill led him into the water, back out of the water, the blade missing his body by only fractions of an inch, but Parkwood was committed now. His strength was leaving him; even in the misting rain, the perspiration poured freely off his forehead, and his arms and legs seemed to be getting heavy. That’s when Inspector Kill struck. Like a sudden flash of lightning in a dark night, he stood his ground when Parkwood came at him and plowed a right fist into Parkwood’s charging forehead.

Parkwood staggered. Kill backed up, allowing him room to fall, but Parkwood didn’t go down. He regained his footing and leaped at Kill, the blade slashing in front of him. Instead of backing up out of reach, Kill raised his left foot and slammed it into Parkwood’s face. They fell into the water, Kill on top, pummeling Parkwood-and then suddenly Parkwood was on top.

Involuntarily, all the KNPs took two steps forward. Then one of them shouted for everyone to maintain their positions. They did as they were told.

Parkwood bent over Kill, apparently with both hands wrapped around Inspector Kill’s neck, but I couldn’t be sure because Inspector Kill was fully underwater. And then suddenly, Parkwood leaped up as if he’d been electrocuted. When we saw the reason why, Ernie grunted. The sole of Kill’s foot had kicked straight up, ramming into Parkwood’s groin, lifting him into the air. Kill exploded out of the water now, his face a mask of rage. He leaped on Parkwood.

Suddenly, I knew what would happen. I knew what this was all about. I knew why Inspector Kill was called the best homicide investigator in Korea. I knew now that he not only solved the cases he’d been assigned to, but he also brought them to trial and brought them to judgment and brought them to execution. Like a Confucian scholar of old, a sage schooled in the Four Books and the Five Classics, that was his right. His right to be judge, jury, and executioner. His right as a chunja, a superior man.

I ran forward, shoving the two KNPs out of my way, shouting.

“Don’t! Don’t do it! Halt!”

I fumbled inside my jacket for my. 45, but the holster kept rising up with the pistol, not setting it free.

Mr. Kill leaned over Parkwood now, holding the larger man’s head underwater, the muscles on Kill’s forearms bulging with the strain. He didn’t hear me. He didn’t hear anything.

Finally, I freed the. 45 and fired a round into the air.

Kill looked up. Awareness entered his eyes. He looked down at his hands, as if realizing for the first time that they were underwater, as if realizing for the first time that they were clutching Parkwood’s throat. Quickly, he rose to his feet and stepped backward, away from Parkwood.

Parkwood didn’t move.

I shoved the. 45 back in my holster and splashed into the river. When I reached Parkwood, I shoved Kill out of the way and leaned down and pulled Parkwood’s heavy body toward shore. Ernie helped me. We finally laid him out on the moist sand, and I bent down and cleared his air passage while Ernie loosened his belt and pants. Then Ernie shoved down on his stomach. We turned him over and tried to get as much water out of his lungs as we could, but within seconds we had him flat on his back again and I breathed air into his mouth. His chest rose. I did this three times, and then Ernie pumped his stomach again and I breathed into his lungs three times more.

We did this for a long time.

The rain stopped.

Finally, red-tinted toenails stood in front of me. I looked up. It was Marnie Orville, the plastic shower curtain still wrapped around her shoulders.

“He’s dead, George,” she said. “Stop now. Stop, please.”

She was crying.

I looked down at Parkwood. Marnie was right. He was dead now. And he’d been dead for a long time.