Mr. Kill

4

The Crown Hotel is on the main supply route, just a half mile west of the G.I. red-light district known as Itaewon. Probably Marnie Orville and the rest of the girls of the Country Western All Stars didn’t know how close to the center of action they actually were, and they wouldn’t know unless somebody showed them. So far, there hadn’t been time. A blue Hyundai sedan of the Korean National Police sat in front of the hotel, warning light flashing.

Ernie squealed up to the front door, turned off the engine, and we both jumped out of the jeep, showing our badges to the two young cops guarding the front door.

“Odi?” I asked. Where?

He told me the third floor.

We ran past milling hotel staff and ran up the carpeted stairway three steps at a time. In the long hallway, a half dozen doors were open. Marnie Orville stood in front of one of them, screaming at a Korean policeman. Ernie rushed toward her, holding up both his hands.

“Marnie,” he said. “We’re here. What’s going on?”

She swiveled on him, her blonde hair in sleep-ruffled disarray, blue eyes blazing with anger. With one hand she held a bathrobe closed over her full-figured body. With her other hand she kept pointing at the confused cop.

“This son of a biscuit keeps claiming that he doesn’t understand English.”

“Marnie,” I said, “he probably doesn’t. You’re not in Austin anymore. Tell us what happened.”

She took a deep breath, stopped pointing, and used the extra hand to tighten her robe. “Prudence, you okay?” she asked.

“I’m fine, Marnie.”

The other woman crossed the hallway and they embraced.

Now all the women were in the hallway, in various states of undress, and the lone Korean cop seemed overwhelmed by the sheer volume of Caucasian femininity. I showed him my badge and told him that we’d take the report. He nodded enthusiastically, scurried down the hallway, and disappeared into the stairwell.

Marnie spoke first.

“I saw him standing right there.” She pointed at the vase on a table that stood next to the door to Prudence’s room. As she did so, her robe swung open, revealing magnificently curved white flesh. She grabbed the flap and retightened it. “He was kneeling, as if he was looking through the keyhole. But he was doing more than that. He was fiddling with the door handle in some way.”

“In what way?” Ernie asked.

“As if he had some sort of tool in his hand,” Marnie said. “Although I couldn’t see it.”

“You were looking through the peephole of your door?” I asked.

“Yes. I thought I’d heard something, like maybe a room-service cart or something, but I knew nobody had ordered anything because we were all planning on going to breakfast together.”

“What did the guy look like?” Ernie asked.

“I only saw his back.”

We continued to question her, about whether he’d been American or Korean, how tall he was, what type of clothing he was wearing, but all Marnie knew was that the clothing was dark and his hair was dark and when she screamed he must’ve taken off because when she built up the courage to look back outside, he was gone.

The Korean staff was not any more helpful. Reluctantly, the manager admitted that there’d been quite a bit of thievery lately, but such a brazen attempt at burglary was something they rarely saw. The KNPs were less tentative. The Crown Hotel, and all the lodging establishments in the Itaewon area, were meccas for thieves. American women, who were assumed to be rich, would be a tempting target.

On one thing all the staff agreed: even from down here in the lobby, they easily heard Marnie Orville’s scream.

“She has a fine set of lungs,” Ernie said.

Finally, the women of the Country Western All Stars calmed down. They made pledges to one another never to set foot outside their rooms unless they called one another to meet in the hallway. They also made us promise to be back as early as we could and ride with them to tonight’s show. Marnie swore that she was going to contact the USO and make them move the group to a different hotel.

“One with better security,” she said.

The Korean National Police Liaison Office was located on the main Yongsan Compound, not far from the 8th Army MP station. Separating the two was a circular lawn with flagstone walkways that led like spokes in a wheel to a venerable old oak tree that, it was said, had been growing on these grounds since the days of the Chosun Dynasty. Even the Japanese Imperial Army, when they’d established this headquarters some time after 1910, had never bothered the tree. Occasionally, atop the gnarled roots, I spotted gifts: knotted garlands of flowers or polished stones or elaborately crafted creatures made of colored paper, probably left by Korean workers as a wish for a loved one to get well or for good luck.

I pulled a penny out of my pocket and tossed it toward the tree.

“What the hell’s that for?” Ernie asked.

“Fortune and prosperity.”

“You playing poker tonight?”

“No. I’m hoping the Blue Train rapist doesn’t strike again.”

Ernie studied me as we walked toward the big double doors of the KNP Liaison Office. “If the rapist doesn’t strike,” Ernie said, “Colonel Brace is going to look pretty smart. And you’re going to look pretty stupid.”

“Okay by me.” As long as I didn’t have to look at any more confused and frightened children and violated women, I’d be happy.

As we entered the Liaison Office, a blue-uniformed police officer rose from behind a desk. He was a young Korean, and his face was sternly set.

“Lieutenant Pong,” I said to him.

He asked me in Korean if I had an appointment. I told him no but it was about the Blue Train investigation. This made the young man squint and, if possible, stare at us even more sternly than he had before. He left his desk and walked down a squeaking wooden hallway. A few seconds later, he returned and told us Lieutenant Pong was waiting.

Lieutenant Pong sat behind a large desk, studying stacks of pulp fastened with brass studs. Draped attractively from a varnished pole was the white silk flag of the Republic of Korea with the red-and-blue yin-and-yang symbol in the middle. We’d worked with Lieutenant Pong before. He was a tall man, slender, and he wore roundlensed glasses and kept his black hair combed straight back on the sides. His khaki uniform was pressed so neatly that if you rubbed your thumb against one of the creases, you’d slice your skin.

“Where have you been?” he said in English.

I shrugged. “Assigned to other cases.”

“Other cases?” Lieutenant Pong was flabbergasted. To him and to the other officers of the Korean National Police, no case could rate a higher priority than the rape of a virtuous woman on a public conveyance by a big-nosed foreigner. Murder, embezzlement, burglary-among Koreans, those things were routine; but when national pride was at stake, those other things could wait.

Ernie sat on one of the upholstered chairs and draped his right leg over the armrest. Gazing unconcernedly around the room, he pulled a toothpick out of his shirt pocket and used it to pry into the gaps between his teeth.

I ignored him. So did Lieutenant Pong. Pong showed me a folder containing various reports in hangul, in language too difficult for me to comprehend, but I did manage to make out that these were the forensic reports from car number three.

“Nothing more than we already knew,” Lieutenant Pong told me. “Strands of hair cut short. Rich brown in color but too curly to belong to a Korean.”

“Any blood samples?”

“Yes. Blood type B. Matching Mrs. Oh.” Lieutenant Pong glanced sourly at Ernie. For his part, Ernie seemed totally preoccupied. He kept prying the toothpick deeper into his molars, studying the photograph on the wall of President Pak Chung-hee and, beneath that, the elegant bronze replica of the Maitreya Buddha perched on a polished pedestal.

“Anything more?”

“We did find another blood type. A-positive. Rare among Koreans.”

I jotted that down in my notebook. In basic training, when a G.I. is issued his first set of dog tags, imprinted on them are his name, his service number, his religion, and his blood type. Although we couldn’t be certain that this sample had been left by the rapist, an A-positive blood type would be a clue that might provide another link to a suspect, once we found one.

“So the perpetrator was cut in some way,” I said, “or maybe scratched?”

“Neither, that we can be sure of. The blood type was obtained from other material.”

I realized what he meant. Not blood: semen.

This was difficult for Lieutenant Pong to talk about. Despite the fact that Pong was an experienced cop, there are certain things that Koreans have trouble talking about in a formal setting, sex being one of them, poverty another. They’re particularly leery of talking about such intimate subjects with a foreigner. It has to do with their 3,000-year history and their highly developed sense of national pride. By talking to an American about how Mrs. Oh had been subjected to so many indignities by this foreigner, in Lieutenant Pong’s mind, all Koreans were losing face. Ernie’s nonchalant attitude wasn’t making it any easier. That’s why I pointedly didn’t bring Ernie into the conversation.

“There must’ve been plenty of hair and fingerprint evidence in that bathroom,” I said. It was, after all, a public bathroom. “So this might help us narrow our search, but it won’t do much in helping us win a conviction.”

Lieutenant Pong agreed. “We’ll have to rely on other evidence for that.”

Now that the difficult part was over, Lieutenant Pong pulled a sheet of paper out of a folder and slid it across his desk. It was a drawing of a face.

“From Mrs. Oh?” I asked.

“Yes. It was very difficult for her to try to remember the face of the rapist-she had her eyes closed during most of the assault-but she did her best.”

Ernie slid his leg off the edge of the chair and leaned toward the drawing. He stared at it in astonishment and then barked a laugh. He continued to laugh, holding his stomach, and finally said, “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Lieutenant Pong’s face flushed red, but he said nothing.

The drawing showed a man with devilish upturned eyes, thick eyebrows, a heavy five-o’clock shadow of a beard, and a nose so huge it was almost as big as a banana. In other words, the extreme caricature of a Westerner through Korean eyes.

Ernie held the drawing up to the light and studied it again. “This doesn’t look like anybody I know,” he said.

“She was frightened,” Lieutenant Pong replied.

“I’ll say. I would be too if something like this came at me.”

“Okay, Ernie,” I said. “We get the point.” I took the drawing from him and slid it back to Lieutenant Pong. “I think it would be better if we didn’t use this.”

Lieutenant Pong shoved the drawing back into his desk. The echo of Ernie’s laughter subsided and Lieutenant Pong composed himself. He straightened his shoulders and said, “Now, how about you? What have you come up with?”

I glanced away. “Not much.” He stared at me quizzically. “I’ve eliminated a few suspects,” I continued, “and identified a couple more I want to talk to.”

“When will you talk to them?”

Ernie snorted. We both looked at him, and then I turned to Lieutenant Pong and said, “Maybe never. Eighth Army is not admitting that the rapist was a G.I. They’re saying this is a KNP problem.”

Lieutenant Pong stared at me for a long time, as if he were having trouble deciphering my words. Ernie spoke up. “The honchos have screwed us again. They’re not letting us go to Pusan to investigate.”

Once again Lieutenant Pong was flabbergasted. Finally, he managed to say, “Why?”

“Because they don’t want to admit,” Ernie said, “that a G.I. would rape a Korean woman on a train.” He splayed his fingers and spread his hands out to the side. “That’s it. We’re out of it. It’s up to you to catch this guy.”

Ernie rose to leave.

I rose with him. “I’m sorry,” I said.

As we left, Lieutenant Pong remained sitting, staring after us.

Ernie and I spent the rest of the day in his jeep, parked in the back row of the lot outside the Yongsan commissary, pretending to be interested in busting someone for blackmarketing. Actually what we did was buy Styrofoam cups of PX coffee from the snack stand, return to the jeep, and shoot the breeze about Marnie and the girls of the Country Western All Stars.

“You didn’t take long getting into her blue jeans,” I said.

Ernie shrugged. “She didn’t take long getting out of them.”

I sipped my black coffee. It was bitter but strong, and so hot that I could barely hold on to the cup. Women walked into the commissary and women walked out of the commissary, most of them Korean, a few of them American. Middle-aged Korean men in gray smocks pushed huge carts overflowing with groceries for them, loaded the goods into the trunks of black Ford Granada PX taxis, and then bowed as they accepted a gratuity-usually a buck-for their services. I let the silence grow until Ernie spoke.

“She wants something from me.”

I swiveled my head to look at him. “Not money?”

He laughed. “You’ve been here too long. No, not money. She wants information.”

I waited. The coffee wasn’t quite as hot anymore, but it was still just as bitter.

“She wants me to find somebody for her. A G.I.-an officer, actually. One Captain Frederick Raymond Embry.”

“Never heard of him.”

“Neither have I. She says she met him when he was an ROTC cadet at Texas A amp;M. They started dating, only casually, and then she got busy with her band and they drifted apart. But later he came to visit her after he received his commission.”

“Where was all this at?”

“At the time, she’d moved to Austin, Texas. Freddy Ray, as she calls him, apparently looked real attractive to her, wearing his uniform with his shiny new butter bars, and that’s when it happened.”

“What happened?”

“She got pregnant.”

“Did she have the kid?”

“Of course. She’s a good Southern girl. Goes to church every Sunday.”

“So, where’s the kid now?”

“Staying with Marnie’s mother.”

“And she wants you to find this Freddy Ray?”

“You got it.”

I sipped my coffee again. “Are you going to do it?”

“He owes her child support.”

Maybe, maybe not, I thought. There are ways for state agencies to apply through the Department of the Army to collect back child support directly from a soldier’s pay.

“Why doesn’t she use the usual channels?” I asked.

“She has. Hasn’t worked. Maybe Freddy Ray has some influence with the Finance Officer.”

I didn’t believe it. When a mandated allotment is slapped on a soldier’s pay, as far as I knew, there was no way around it. Still, Ernie seemed to be buying the story.

“So, what are you going to do?”

“Find him,” he said. “Can’t hurt.”

“How does she know he’s stationed over here?”

“Mutual acquaintances.”

“Does she know what unit?”

“No idea.”

“You shouldn’t be doing this,” I said.

“I know.”

“Think about it.”

Ernie tossed his empty Styrofoam cup out the jeep’s window. “I just did.”

“What’d you decide?”

“Screw her.”

“That’s what you’ve been doing.”

“And I’ll do it some more, unless she decides she doesn’t like it when I tell her she can find her old boyfriend on her own.”

The cannon sounded in the distance for Close of Duty Day. Metal speakers at the edge of the parking lot belted out a scratchy version of the bugle call for retreat.

“Damn,” Ernie said.

We both clambered out of the jeep, stood at attention facing the main post flagpole, and saluted. I always felt like an ass doing this. So did Ernie. Normally we’d be indoors at this time of day so we didn’t have to go through the ritual of standing at attention and saluting a flag being lowered somewhere off in the unseen distance. But today, what with all that was happening, we hadn’t paid attention to the time.

When we returned to the CID office, Miss Kim had already gone home, but Riley was waiting for us. Frowning.

“The Provost Marshal wants to see you,” he said.

“You’ve been talking to the KNP Liaison Officer,” Colonel Brace told us. “And don’t try to deny it.”

“We just wanted to keep him updated on the case,” I said.

“I ordered you off it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“So now that you told this Lieutenant Pong that 8th Army has decided not to exercise jurisdiction, he ran it up the flagpole, and somebody in the ROK government decided they didn’t agree. So now the word comes down from the Chief of Staff that they want you, both of you, tomorrow morning at zero eight hundred hours to report to the SOFA meeting at the J-1 building.”

Colonel Brace rubbed his eyes, as if he were extremely tired. “When will you two guys learn to keep your mouths shut?”

We didn’t answer.

“Do you know where the J-1 building is?” he asked.

I nodded my head. “Yes, sir. We know.”

SOFA stands for the Status of Forces Agreement, the treaty between the US and the Republic of Korea concerning the legal standing of American forces stationed on the Korean peninsula. Whenever there’s a dispute that needs to be resolved or a serious crime that comes to their attention, the SOFA Committee holds a meeting and the Korean and American representatives try to hash out a resolution. Apparently they’d been apprised of the Blue Train rape case, and now they’d also been apprised that 8th Army wasn’t going to investigate. Ernie and I, by spilling the beans to Lieutenant Pong, had stirred up some serious bureaucratic waste. Not that we hadn’t expected to.

Colonel Brace studied us. “When you appear before them,” he said, “you answer their questions truthfully. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“But you only answer the questions they ask. You don’t volunteer information. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir,” we said again.

He stared at us for a long time, seemed about to speak, but finally shook his head and then waved his hand dismissively. “Get out of here. Both of you. Out!”

We saluted, performed a neat about-face, and marched out of his office.

Marnie was all over Ernie in the van, one arm draped around his shoulders, the other hand toying with the buttons of his shirt. Shelly, the lead guitar player, slapped Marnie’s hand away.

“Behave yourself,” she said.

Marnie pouted, frowned, and then turned back to Ernie, cooing, “You don’t mind, do you?”

Ernie ignored her. “What compound was that again, where you’re playing tonight?”

Shelly, sitting stiffly and continually glancing at Marnie, checked the itinerary. “Someplace called Camp Colbern,” she told us.

“That dump?” Ernie turned to me. “We should’ve brought the jeep, so we could get out of there early.”

“You want to leave me?” Marnie asked.

Ernie shoved her hand away. For the rest of the drive, she sat alone, pouting like a little girl.

After thirty minutes of winding roads, the van finally rolled through the main gate of Camp Colbern. The narrow road between Quonset huts was lined with G.I. s, smiling, waving, blowing kisses. The van’s engine churned as we climbed a short hill and came to a halt in the alley behind the Camp Colbern Enlisted Club.

Once we stopped, Mr. Shin and the other driver and their two assistants began unloading the equipment. We hustled the girls through the back door of the club. After a hallway lined with latrines, we entered a ballroom lit by dim yellow lights, with seating that would hold about a hundred people. The wall-to-wall carpet was tattered and spongy and reeked of mildew. Near the stage, beneath yellow floodlights, a reception committee waited. The post commander introduced himself, and he and his staff started fawning over the girls. Within minutes, Marnie had them rearranging the seating and running errands; soon she had appropriated the club manager’s office as the band’s official dressing room. MPs stationed at the front door kept the rank-and-file G.I. s at bay. The Korean staff-bartenders, cocktail waitresses, and cooks-stood back respectfully, awed by the celebrities from America who had dropped into their midst.

Everything seemed to be under control. The girls were in their dressing room getting ready. Ernie and I wandered out the back door and, after asking for directions, we found the PX snack bar. We both grabbed aluminum trays and slid along the metal railing in front of the steam table, selecting the only items on the menu: meatloaf, mashed potatoes with gravy, and yellowed green beans that had spent more time in the can than the Count of Monte Cristo.

As we ate, we sipped bitter coffee and listened to James Brown screech painfully out of a blinking jukebox.

“Did you tell her?” I asked.

“Tell her what?”

“That you’re not going to find Freddy Ray for her.”

“What’s the rush?”

That was Ernie. Get what he wants first and ruin it later.

“What about this SOFA meeting tomorrow?” he asked. “What do they want from us?”

“They want information,” I said, “to make Eighth Army admit that the Blue Train rapist is a G.I. At least that’s what the ROK side wants.”

“And if they get that?”

“They’ll want an investigation.”

Ernie shook his head. “Colonel Brace is gonna be pissed.”

I jabbed my fork into a small mountain of spuds. It can’t be helped, I almost said. Instead, I kept my mouth shut.

When we returned to the Camp Colbern Enlisted Club, the place was packed with G.I. s, standing room only, and the din of their howling was so loud that a pair of NCOs at the front door were handing out artillery ear plugs. I accepted a pair and twisted them into my ears. The Country Western All Stars were a massive hit, although I doubted anyone could hear their music. Marnie was shaking every quivering bit of flesh she had, and a squad of MPs lined the front of the stage, warning enamored G.I. s off with their nightsticks.

During one of their breaks, I walked out back behind the Enlisted Club to the area near the manager’s office that was being used as the band’s dressing room. An MP stood on duty in front of a high, painted-over window.

“Any problems?” I asked.

“None, other than I’m freezing my balls off.”

“If you see anybody, give us a holler.”

“Over that noise?”

“Do your best.”

I continued on around the building. Everything was secure. And it continued to be secure for the next few minutes while I stood outside enjoying the fresh air, until I heard a voice scream, “Halt!” It was the MP who’d been freezing his balls off. I ran back around the building in time to see him returning from a dark lane between Quonset huts.

“What happened?”

“I took a leak,” he said. “While I was back there, I heard footsteps. When I finished my business, some joker was hanging from the window ledge. He was pulling himself up so he could peek inside.”

The window was mostly painted over with green paint, but from the edges, yellow light seeped out.

“How long had he been hanging like that?” I asked.

“Less than a minute. I had to piss something fierce, and when I spotted him he dropped from the window and started to run.”

“Did you recognize him?”

“Naw. Too dark.”

“What was he wearing?”

“Fatigues. What else?”

“Then he was a G.I., not a Korean.”

“A Korean wouldn’t do something like that-try to catch a peek, I mean. That’s G.I. stuff.”

I didn’t disagree with him.

Finally, he said, “You going to report me?”

“What for? You were just taking a leak.”

“Yeah. But I hadn’t been properly relieved.”

I let the irony of the remark pass and told him not to worry.

Later that evening, on the drive back to Seoul, Marnie kept pestering Ernie to the point that the other girls were embarrassed, and right up until we finally arrived at the Crown Hotel. Without waiting to help with the unloading, the two lovebirds ran upstairs to their room.

The next morning, I sat on an upholstered chair in the lobby of the J-1 building wearing my dress green uniform and fiddling with the collar of my poplin shirt. My low quarters were highly polished, my chin shaved, and my black tie looped into a double Windsor. I looked sharp, I was on time, I was sober, and I didn’t care who knew it. I was also ready to testify, remembering Colonel Brace’s instructions: answer the questions honestly but don’t volunteer information.

A young lieutenant carrying a clipboard emerged from the SOFA conference room. “Where’s your partner?”

“Haven’t seen him yet, sir,” I replied.

The lieutenant glanced impatiently at his watch. “It’s fifteen after. He was supposed to be here at zero eight hundred hours.”

“Probably got tied up in traffic,” I said.

“Tied up in traffic? Doesn’t he live on the compound?”

“Generally.”

“‘Generally.’ What does that mean?”

Just then, Ernie shoved his way through the door. He was wearing his dress green uniform, as we’d been instructed to do, but his tie was loose and his jacket open. His brass hadn’t been shined, much less his shoes.

The lieutenant glared at him. “You look like shit.”

“You don’t look so terrific yourself.”

Red-faced, the lieutenant replied, “Listen, I could have you brought up on charges.”

“For what?”

“For being late.”

Ernie shook his head. “When was the last time a SOFA meeting started on time?”

The lieutenant’s lips tightened, but he didn’t answer. Finally, he said, “You two stay right here. You are to go nowhere, do you understand?”

Ernie tucked in his shirt.

When neither of us answered, the lieutenant said, “I’ll be back. Don’t go anywhere.”

He swiveled and pushed through the swinging double doors into the SOFA conference room. Ernie sat in the chair next to me, straightening his tie. There was a scratch on his neck, starting just above his collar and extending below it.

“You broke the news to Marnie,” I said.

Ernie shook his head. “She likes to get her way.”

“I’ll say. Any more damage, other than that scratch?”

“Nothing that major surgery won’t fix.”

The lieutenant emerged from the double doors and motioned for us to enter. We did, Ernie taking the lead, pushing through the doors and marching regally across the carpeted floor until he reached the skirted tables in front of a row of uniformed men on a dais. The lighting was bright, aimed into our eyes, as if we were going to be given the third degree.

Ernie stood for a moment; I stood next to him. When they didn’t tell us to sit, Ernie reached across the table and poured himself a glass of water. I did the same. Finally, the chairman of the committee, a ROK Army colonel, told us to take our seats. Then the questioning began.

Colonel Brace wouldn’t ask us for a rundown on how the SOFA meeting had gone-that would be beneath his dignity. Instead, he’d have Staff Sergeant Riley do it. As we pushed through the big double doors of the CID admin office, I fully expected to be accosted with Riley’s questions. Instead, I saw Marnie.

She was smiling and laughing, sitting in a chair next to Riley’s desk, leaning toward him, the top button of her blouse open, exchanging confidences as if they were two long-lost friends. They both glanced over at us, frowned, and returned to their conversation.

Ernie groaned but walked right past them, heading for the coffee urn.

Miss Kim wasn’t at her desk. Her hangul typewriter was covered and her desk drawer locked. Apparently, she’d gone home for the day. The rose too was missing.

Marnie had permission to enter the compound. All USO performers were provided with not only a pass to access military compounds but also temporary ration cards, so they could purchase items out of the commissary or the post exchange. Most of them didn’t use the privileges much. After all, they were only here for a few days-two or three weeks at the most-and they were put up in tourist hotels and were pretty much constantly on the go. But somehow Marnie had not only made her way from the Crown Hotel to Yongsan Compound, but she’d also managed to locate the CID office. Resourceful girl.

Ernie carried his cup of coffee back to Riley’s desk and sat down in a chair opposite Marnie.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“None of your beeswax,” she said.

Ernie continued to stare at her.

“Okay, if you must know,” Marnie continued, “Staff Sergeant Riley here is going to help me find Freddy Ray. Apparently he doesn’t think it’s right for my little girl not to receive the child support that is due to her.”

“Bull,” Ernie said.

“I beg your pardon?” Marnie said.

She was acting extremely ladylike this morning.

“I mean ‘bull,’” Ernie said. “You’ve got a grudge against this Freddy Ray, and when you find him, you’re going to do something to embarrass the hell out of him.”

Marnie’s face flushed red. “Well, maybe he deserves it.”

Riley grabbed his hat. “Come on, Marnie,” he said. “Let’s go talk somewhere where we won’t be interrupted.”

“Yes,” Marnie replied. “Let’s do.”

Still pouting, she stared at Ernie and then turned and walked out of the office with Staff Sergeant Riley. Ernie waited until the door closed and their footsteps faded down the hallway. Then he said wistfully, “You think he’ll get any of that?”

“Not a chance,” I replied.

The SOFA meeting had been an unpleasant experience. Translators were used for the ROK Army officers-most of whom could speak English but didn’t want to lose face by mispronouncing words in a formal setting. The American officers kept trying to get us to admit that we had no idea, for sure, that the Blue Train rapist was a member of the United States military. This was in fact true. The ROK Army officers kept trying to get us to admit that the chances of the Blue Train rapist being anything other than an American G.I. were slim to nothing. This also was true.

When neither side could shake us from either position, Ernie and I were summarily dismissed.

It was up to the honchos now to hash it out. What came down, came down. I hoped that we’d be allowed to investigate, but after a day with no word, my hopes dimmed. After the second day, they were all but gone. It was the third day, while we were at the MP station finalizing some paperwork on a black-market bust, that the desk sergeant walked over to speak to us.

“You Sueno?” he asked.

I nodded.

“They want to see you over at the head shed.”

“The Provost Marshal’s office?”

He shook his head. “Chief of Staff.”

“Eighth Army?”

“You know any other Chief of Staff?”

Ernie and I stuffed the unfinished paperwork in a drawer, walked out of the MP station, and climbed in the jeep. An hour later, after having our butts reamed by the 8th Army Chief of Staff, we were on a train heading south toward Pusan. A train known as the Blue Train.

Normally, I would’ve been happy about it. I’d played a not-so-subtle bureaucratic game, and I’d won. At least that’s what I thought at first, but that’s not what really happened. Actually, 8th Army never relented on their refusal to admit that the Blue Train rapist was a G.I.

Until events intervened.

Whoever he was-G.I. or not-he’d struck again.

And this time, his victim had not only been raped. She’d also been murdered.