The Ville Rat

– 12-

Back in the CID office, Riley said, “What in the hell did you guys do?”

“We didn’t do nothing,” Ernie told him.

“But there was a riot at the courtroom and shots were fired. You must’ve had something to do with it.”

“Just innocent bystanders,” Ernie told him. He stalked to the overheated coffee urn and poured himself a cup of burnt ink.

I asked Riley, “Where’s the NAF inventory report?”

“The one Burrows and Slabem did?”

“Yes,” I said, “the one they won an award for.”

“Why do you want to know?”

“Not your business,” I replied. “Where is it?”

“Already filed,” he said.

“In the records room?”

“Where else?”

I stalked out of the admin office and down the hallway. At a room marked records, I entered and switched on the light. It took a few minutes of searching, but eventually I pulled out the report and plopped the thick document down on a grey table. I sat down and pulled out my notebook and a pen. It was dry, all written in officialese with plenty of graphs and charts and dozens of pages of addendums, but despite these drawbacks, it made for interesting reading.

Someone rapped on the door. Without waiting, Ernie entered.

“What the hell you doing in here?”

I told him.

“And?”

“And nothing. But some of these charts raise questions.”

“Like what?”

“Just a few possible discrepancies. Let’s go talk to somebody.”

“Where?”

“The Eighth Army Comptroller’s Office.”

Ernie groaned.

“Don’t worry,” I told him, “it should be fun.”

The head of the Non-Appropriated Fund section of the 8th Army Comptroller’s Office was a Department of the Army Civilian by the imposing name of Wilbur M. Robinson Sr. He was a round-faced man with wispy hair combed straight back and an old-fashioned, neatly trimmed mustache beneath a red-veined nose. Every letter of his name was etched into a yard-wide hand-carved nameplate that covered the front edge of his mahogany desk.

“Yes?” he said, glancing irritably up at us over steel-rimmed glasses.

I flashed my badge. Ernie chomped on his gum, studying all the awards and photographs plastered to the walls. Some of them showed a youngish Mr. Robinson shaking hands and grinning with various American generals who could now be found in the indices of history books.

“Who let you in?” he asked.

“We did,” Ernie replied, jamming his thumb into his chest.

“Who do you think you are?”

“CID agents,” I replied, “investigating a criminal case.”

“That doesn’t mean you can just barge in here.”

“Sure it does,” Ernie replied, taking a seat in one of the leather-upholstered chairs.

Mr. Robinson reached for the black telephone on the edge of his desk. Before he could lift it, I said, “The Central Locker Fund.” He stared up at me and let go of the phone. I slid one of Burrows and Slabem’s charts in front of him. “Notice anything odd about that?” I asked.

He glanced at it but quickly looked back up at me.

“What are you getting at?”

“Expenditures versus receipt of inventory,” I said. “They don’t match. Haven’t for years.”

“Ridiculous.”

I pointed at one of the lines. “The prices here are approximately three percent higher than expected,” I said. “Have been for years.”

“Prices fluctuate,” he said. “You can’t tell anything from a simple-minded chart.”

“Simple-minded like the guys who conducted the inventory?” Ernie said.

Robinson turned and studied him. Then he turned back to me. “You’re not here on official business, are you?”

“Official as the day is long,” I said.

“But nobody in your chain of command chopped off on this.”

Chopped off. The slang of an old Asia hand, meaning gave the stamp of approval.

“Answer the question, Robinson,” Ernie said. “Why are the Central Locker Fund expenditures higher than the receipt of inventory?”

Robinson stood. He wore what appeared to be an expensive grey suit, probably handcrafted by a British tailor in Hong Kong. DACs could afford regular rest-and-recreation jaunts to Hong Kong or Tokyo. GIs couldn’t.

“This interview is over,” he said.

“No, it’s not,” Ernie replied.

Robinson lifted the phone again, and this time he dialed. A few seconds later, he said, “Fred, I’ve got a couple of your boys over here.”

He was speaking, I believed, to Major General Frederick S. Nettles, acting Chief of Staff of the 8th United States Army.

I motioned to Ernie, and discreetly, and expeditiously, we left the room.

“What the hell did that accomplish?” Ernie asked me once we were out in the hallway.

“Built a fire under their butts,” I said.

“Maybe one that will spread to us.”

“Maybe. Or maybe it’ll flush out a few snakes.”

Before we left, we wandered down a hallway that led to the Non-Appropriated Fund Records Repository. Bored Korean clerks sat at desks with piles of pink and yellow onionskin in their in-baskets. We walked past them and entered the huge Quonset hut where the records were actually kept. Rows of metal stanchions supported wooden shelves that were labeled with dates and the type of merchandise being recorded. On the shelves, labeled cardboard boxes stuffed with records were piled almost to the ceiling. We wandered around the long rows, craning our necks skyward.

“Burrows and Slabem inventoried all this?” Ernie asked.

“Unlikely,” I replied.

When we returned to the CID office, Miss Kim approached me. “Kuenchanna-yo, Geogie?” she asked. Are you okay?

I told her I was fine. She handed me a written phone message. It was from Inspector Gil Kwon-up. Mr. Kill. The time had been about twenty minutes ago. He wanted to meet us and said he would pick us up in front of Gate 5 in an hour. I showed the message to Ernie, who sipped on the coffee, grimaced, and set it down.

Forty minutes later, we were standing tall outside of Yongsan Compound Gate Number 5. A blue KNP sedan pulled up, Officer Oh at the wheel, Mr. Kill sitting in front in the passenger seat. The back door popped open. Ernie and I climbed in.

“Bad news,” Inspector Kill said.

Officer Oh stepped on the gas and sped into traffic.

“What now?” Ernie asked.

“It’s about the little kisaeng we talked to.”

“The one at the Bright Cloud?” I asked.

“Yes. She’s been taken.”

“Taken by who?” Ernie asked.

“The traffickers she escaped from. They found her.”

We pulled in back of the whitewashed building that housed the Dongbu Police Station. Dongbu means Eastern District. We were ten kilometers east of downtown Seoul, just south of Walker Hill and north of the Han River.

On the drive over, Inspector Kill briefed us on what they’d learned from the two men who’d been arrested in Songtan for trying to kill us with a taxicab. The men were hardened members of a crime syndicate and they hadn’t admitted to much. But the KNPs did believe that they were the same two who had stolen the garlic truck and tried to run us down the same way in Samgakji.

“They’re not very good drivers,” Ernie said.

“Why do you say that?” Kill asked.

“Because if they were good drivers, George and I would be dead.”

He nodded. “I supervised the interrogation myself. But there are layers in these organizations, and one can probe only so deeply into them. What these two men know is limited. What they’re willing to admit to is even less.”

“But you came up with something,” I said.

“I came up with a hunch. A general notion that someone is very unhappy. What do you say, that someone is unhappy because the boat has been stoned?”

“Huh?” Ernie said.

I thought about it for a moment. “Rocked,” I said, “not stoned. Someone is rocking the boat.”

“Yes,” Mr. Kill said, snapping his fingers. “That’s what I meant. Someone higher in the organization is very unhappy because someone lower is rocking the boat.”

“As in, leaving Miss Hwang’s body by the banks of the Sonyu River,” Ernie said.

“Yes. And unhappy because that event could lead to other revelations.”

I recapped for him what we knew about the sale of malt liquor in the GI villages and about the man we were calling the Ville Rat.

“You have his name?”

“Yes.” I gave it to him, along with his date of separation from the army. Mr. Kill jotted it down. From now on, the KNPs would be on the lookout for him.

“When a criminal operation is running well,” Mr. Kill said, slipping his notebook back into his jacket, “my experience has been that it is almost always tripped up by either greed or the foolishness of those operating it.”

“Or by passion,” I said.

“Yes, passion,” he agreed.

“A passion like calligraphy.”

“Yes. Calligraphy and beautiful women.”

Officer Oh shuffled in her seat, but tightened her grip on the steering wheel and continued to guide us expertly through the mid-afternoon Seoul traffic.

The interrogation room of the Dongbu Police Station was packed with khaki-clad cops. In the center were three Korean men, all of them kneeling, all of them with their hands cuffed behind their backs. Perspiration dripped from their foreheads, creating puddles that soaked their knees. Inspector Kill cleared the room until there was only me, him, and Ernie standing next to the three criminals. Gruffly, he told them to repeat their testimony. The one with the least amount of blood dripping from his mouth spoke. His Korean was guttural and full of slang, but I understood the gist of what he said. The little kisaeng had been hunted down and recovered as an example to the other girls that escape was futile. She’d been punished, and then she’d been sold to the same foreigner who’d purchased Miss Hwang, the one who was almost undoubtedly responsible for her violent death near the Sonyu River.

“Why,” I asked, “had she been sold to this man?”

“As punishment,” the criminal said.

“Punishment because he’s a foreigner?” I asked.

“No. Punishment because of what he does to the girls.”

“And what is that?”

“No one’s sure but, so far, they’ve all ended up dead.”

“All?”

“Yes, there were others.”

“How many?”

“I don’t know.” Mr. Kill kicked him. “Seven, maybe eight,” the man said.

“And why weren’t their bodies found?”

“Usually, he disposes of them carefully. The one in Sonyu-ri was smart. She sensed what was coming and tried to run away.”

What he said was true-Miss Hwang had been smart. Very smart. But not smart enough to survive.

Mr. Kill pressured him for the name of the foreigner, for a description, but no matter how rough the interrogation got, the three men claimed they hadn’t seen him. The transaction was conducted by an intermediary. We tried to find out who that was, but the men were apparently lifelong criminals who wanted to continue to live. They wouldn’t spill.

Finally, Mr. Kill had them taken from the room.

“They don’t know who the foreigner is.”

“No,” Mr. Kill agreed. “They’re merely thugs. When negotiations are conducted, they are not around.”

Ernie chomped on his ginseng gum; upset, I believed, by the rough KNP interrogation but unwilling to admit it. “What are you going to do with those guys?” he asked.

“They’ll be charged.”

“With human trafficking?”

“Probably not.”

The Korean government wasn’t happy with admitting what happened to some of the impoverished women of their country. Mr. Kill was obviously uncomfortable with where the conversation was going, but oblivious, Ernie pressed on.

“So what will they be charged with?”

“Assault, probably.”

“On who?”

“On a police officer.”

“They assaulted a police officer?”

Mr. Kill held out his fist. “They bruised our knuckles, didn’t they?”

On the drive back to Yongsan Compound, we discussed who the foreigner could be.

“Not the Ville Rat,” I said. “He never would’ve exposed himself to us if he was involved.”

“Or thrown that can of Colt 45 at the taxi,” Ernie added.

“But he did mention another man to you,” Inspector Kill said.

“I mentioned him, actually. He seems a likely suspect. He runs the Central Locker Fund, so he must know about the extra smuggling that is being done off the books, and he’s been here in Korea since the fifties.”

“Long enough to become interested in calligraphy,” Mr. Kill added.

“Yes. And kisaeng.”

“It doesn’t take long to become interested in kisaeng,” Ernie said.

Officer Oh drove silently, although it seemed to me that the muscles in the back of her neck were tense. Maybe it was the careening traffic. She honked her horn and swerved around a pivoting taxicab.

“Whoever’s been profiting from this Central Locker Fund scam,” I said, “must’ve made tons of money. Enough to buy whatever he wants.”

“Including women,” Mr. Kill said.

“Yes, including women.”

Officer Oh slammed on the brakes. We all jerked forward. The brake lights of a taxicab glowed red just millimeters in front of our front bumper. Officer Oh turned to Inspector Kill sheepishly and said, “Mianhamnida.” I’m sorry.

I noticed she didn’t apologize to me or Ernie.

Ernie and I knew we were facing a mountain of trouble. The audit of all 8th Army Non-Appropriated Funds, including the Central Locker Fund, had been closed without serious anomalies. The Department of the Army Civilians who ran the funds, including Mr. Wilbur M. Robinson Sr., were firmly entrenched in their jobs, some of them having been here for decades. They had money, contacts in the private sector, and influence with both 8th Army and the Korean government. Rick Mills himself, it was said, lived in a mansion in an old part of Seoul; a part of the city that hadn’t been totally destroyed by the Korean War.

We needed inside information. Ernie called Strange. He met us just after evening chow at the 8th Army snack bar.

“Don’t ask me if I’ve had any strange lately,” Ernie said, pointing his finger at Strange’s nose. “I’m in no mood for it.”

We were both feeling the stress, not only of the Threets court-martial fiasco but also of the vested interests we were about to go up against. We were close to something and it wasn’t going to be pretty. On the other hand, we had to move fast, very fast, because the life of the little kisaeng was hanging in the balance. She’d been a sweet child, harmless, and I suppose Ernie and I were both affected by the thought of what some men were capable of doing to the innocent. We’d seen evidence of that on the banks of the Sonyu River.

I brought a tray with two cups of coffee and one mug of hot chocolate, with two marshmallows, the way Strange liked it. As he pulled the steaming concoction close, Strange smirked, enjoying being the center of attention and maybe enjoying our desperation even more.

As he slurped the first marshmallow down his gullet, I leaned toward him. “What do you know about Rick Mills?”

“Mr. Brainiac. Survived the soap-opera politics of Eighth Army all these years. Still sitting pretty.”

“He’s rich?”

“Like King Midas. Retired from the army as master sergeant fifteen years ago, now he’s a GS-freaking-fourteen, pulling down big bucks. Just after the war, he and his Korean wife bought a mansion on half a hillside and paid soybeans for it. Now it’s worth a fortune. Smart yobo. She built on the extra land and rents out apartments.”

“Is he crooked?”

“Everybody says so.”

“What do you think?”

“I think he doesn’t have to be. Not for the money. But for the politics of it, that’s different.”

“To keep his position as honcho of the Central Locker Fund, he probably has to play ball with things he’s not too happy with.”

“Could be.”

“And his wife,” Ernie asked, “does she live in that mansion with him?”

“She used to.”

“What do you mean?”

“She died, about three years ago.” He slurped down the second marshmallow.

“How’d she die?”

“Ugly scene,” Strange said. “Fell off one of the stone parapets. Cracked her skull.”

“Parapets,” Ernie said. “Like in a castle.”

“Yeah, like where he lives.”

“Did the KNPs investigate?”

“Of course. Called it an accident. Too much champagne.”

My experience was that most Korean women, and Koreans in general, didn’t like champagne, or any kind of wine. When they drank alcohol, it was usually whiskey, since it had social cachet and because it reminded them of harsh Korean liquors like soju. When something had a fruity taste, they expected it to be sweet, not bubbly and sour.

“So what does he do now,” I asked, “now that his wife is gone?”

“Hides out in his castle. Maybe takes some dollies up there.”

“Do you know anybody who’s been there?”

“All of the honchos have been there. Before his wife died, he loved to throw parties.”

“But not now.”

“Not now.”

“What else do you know about Rick Mills?” I asked.

“He’s a smart guy. They say he loves poetry.”

“What kind of poetry?”

Behind his opaque glasses, Strange’s eyes seemed to widen. “The kind that rhymes.”

“You mean like old-fashioned poetry?”

“What do you mean, ‘old-fashioned’?”

“Skip it,” I said. “Does he have any other hobbies?”

“He gets a haircut every night.”

“Every night?” Ernie asked, astonished.

“Yeah, and a manicure. Not everybody in this world is a slob.”

“Who you calling a slob?”

I waved Ernie back. “Strange, where does he get his hair cut?”

“The name’s Harvey.” He stared resentfully at Ernie.

“Right, Harvey,” I said. “Is it on post?”

“Yes, at the Top Five Club.”

“He’s a GS-fourteen,” I said. “He could go to the barbershop at the officers’ club.”

“I guess he’s still an NCO at heart,” Strange said. “Besides, there’s some sweet dollies working at the Top Five Club.”

“Is that where you get your hair cut?”

“I have my hair cut in private.”

“By who?”

“By me.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t like anyone touching me.”

“You just like to hear about it,” Ernie said.

Strange glared at him. “Had any strange lately?” he asked.

From inside the foyer of the Top Five Club on Yongsan Compound North Post, we watched Rick Mills enjoy his early evening haircut and manicure. He lay back like a pampered potentate while the Korean male barber and his attractive female assistant attended his hair, his shave, and the shape and length of his fingernails. When he finished, the barber flicked the white coverlet and helped him put on his coat. Both the barber and his assistant bowed and Rick Mills handed them a short stack of bills which made them smile and bow even deeper. We hurried outside and waited out of sight when Rick Mills stepped out onto the broad porch and his driver swooped over to pick him up in his black Hyundai sedan. We ran to Ernie’s jeep and followed at a safe distance, winding through traffic all the way across town to an elegant neighborhood in an area of Seoul known as Sodaemun-ku, the Great West Gate district.

The driver pulled up in front of a granite-walled stairway and Rick Mills got out.

On the far side of the block, Ernie parked the jeep.

Stone blocks slanted upward about twenty feet.

“It is like a castle,” Ernie said.

We were out of the jeep now, reconnoitering. A flagstone stairway climbed two flights up to a heavy metal door embedded in a granite wall.

“We could go up and push the buzzer,” Ernie said.

“And if he doesn’t let us in?”

“He’d be smart.”

“Right. And if he has any women trapped inside there, he definitely won’t let us in.”

To get behind Rick Mills’s castle, we had to abandon the narrow pathway that fronted the thick retaining wall, climb back into Ernie’s jeep, and drive all the way around to the far side of the hill upon which it sat. When the roads going up became too narrow, we parked the jeep. Ernie padlocked the steering wheel to the chain welded to the floor and we started walking. Korean men in suits carrying briefcases on their way home late from work, schoolchildren clad in black with heavy book bags hunched atop their shoulders, and old women with bundles balanced on their heads all passed us and stared.

“Not many kocheingi come up here,” Ernie said. He used the Korean word for “long nose.”

Finally, we reached a Buddhist shrine at the top of the hill. Inside, incense burned, illuminating with its tiny flame the metal robes of a calm-faced Buddha.

“Bow,” I told Ernie.

“You bow.”

In the end, neither of us bowed. Probably a mistake. Instead, we edged our way around to the back of the shrine and hoisted ourselves up onto the top of a brick wall. It was dirty, but we sat on it, staring down at the panorama below.

Off to the left, the newly built skyscrapers of Seoul blinked at us with a smattering of lights in windows. Straight ahead, across a five- or six-mile-wide valley, Namsan Mountain rose dark and imposing to the brightly lit signal tower atop. To the right, strings of light were strung like sparkling necklaces across the Han River Bridge.

“How much did Rick Mills have to pay for this view?” Ernie asked.

“Peanuts, according to Strange, when he first bought it.”

“Smart guy. Back in those days, most GIs just wanted to get the hell out of Korea and make it back to Japan. Or better yet, the States.”

“Rick Mills saw what Korea would become.”

“It’s still poor.”

“Yeah, and for a lot of people, it’s still hell.”

We studied the mansion. It was dark and silent except for a light in the northern wing.

“That’s where he must be,” Ernie said. “Do you think he has servants?”

“He has to, to run a house this big.”

“But does he let them go home at night or do they live in?”

“I think we’re going to have to assume that with a house this big, at least some of them live in.”

“But I don’t see any other lights.”

I searched. “Neither do I.”

“So how we going to get in?”

“There doesn’t appear to be an alarm system.” They were rare in Korea and often didn’t work. Even when they did work, they only sounded a local alarm and weren’t hooked up to the KNP station.

“Or dogs,” I said. Guard dogs were not popular in Korea. Not only was there limited space in most homes, but most people didn’t want to go to the expense of feeding and caring for an extra mouth.

“And no foot patrols,” Ernie said. That’s how most wealthy people in Korea guarded their riches, with old-fashioned manpower. It was Korean custom that if someone was home and not sleeping, thieves would usually leave them alone. Crimes against property, if someone was poor and desperate, were understandable, if not completely tolerated. But physically overpowering a homeowner was considered a horrendous crime, a crime against society, and would more often than not land a perpetrator in prison for many years.

“So Rick Mills lives alone,” I said, “and probably figures he can protect his home by himself.”

“He probably can,” Ernie said. “He was an NCO, remember, during the war.”

“Okay,” I said. “We wait until the lights go out, then we come back here and climb the wall.”

“Using what?”

“We’ll find something.”

We left our perch, walked past the shrine again, and returned to the jeep. Two hours later we were back, parking the jeep in the same place, passing the shrine again, and taking our perches on the brick wall.

“Lights out,” Ernie said.

“Early to bed, early to rise.”

We jumped off the wall and made our way along a drainage ditch until we reached the granite back wall of Rick Mills’s mansion. I handed a grappling hook to Ernie.

“How do you use this stuff?”

“The hook’s padded,” I told him. “Makes less noise that way. Toss it up to the top of the wall. When we have purchase, we pull ourselves up.”

“Christ,” Ernie said, but he didn’t argue. “Where’d you get this stuff?”

“Palinki.”

“He keeps it in the armory?”

“Along with a lot of other equipment. Like these.” I held up a ring of picks and oddly shaped keys.

“Oh, great.”

Ernie stepped back and tossed the grappling hook toward the top of the wall. His first toss was too short, but the second reached the top and slid toward the far side. When it didn’t find purchase, the hook slid back down the slanted wall. We tried again and again. Finally, on the sixth try, the hook caught. Ernie pulled, testing his weight against it.

“Must be a pipe or something. I think it’ll hold.”

He climbed up first, not having to put all his weight on the rope because the toes of his sneakers clung to the craggy breaks in the slanted wall. For a moment he halted and I thought he was going to tumble backward, but he regained his balance, leaned forward, and continued to climb. Finally he reached the top, lay down flat, and, after checking the purchase of the grappling hook, flashed me the thumbs-up. Reassured by Ernie’s success, I climbed more rapidly and joined him atop the wall in a matter of seconds.

I pulled the rope up and recoiled it on the flat stone. As I did so, we both gazed into the darkness below. The drop was about eight feet. Beyond that rose the back wall of the mansion, with a narrow walkway between. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I realized that the sheds nearby were probably byonso, outhouses. Ernie realized it too.

“He doesn’t have indoor plumbing?” he whispered.

“We’ll find out.”

We hopped down, landing on a flagstone surface, and after waiting and not hearing anything, we walked toward the old wooden sheds. Ernie sniffed. No hideous odor. When we reached the first one, I opened the door and peeked inside. The floor had been covered with lumber, and cleaning and gardening supplies leaned against splintered walls. This byonso wasn’t used any longer, which meant indoor plumbing had been installed. Since the end of the Korean War, it was becoming more prevalent. Especially in the homes of the rich.

We proceeded to the end of the wall, ducked down, and peered ahead. A wooden porch led up to a door. Above it, a metal pipe jutted out, twisting immediately skyward.

“The kitchen,” Ernie said.

It made sense. Across a short walkway sat a brick building with a closed wooden door, probably the pantry.

We approached the back porch. I climbed up and peered in through the window. Nothing but darkness. I knelt and pulled out the burglary tools Palinki had given me. While I worked, Ernie stepped to the front of the building and peered around the corner. When he gave me the all-clear sign, I pulled my penlight from my pocket and went to work. Palinki’s instruction had been thorough, but he was more experienced than I was, manipulating the delicate tools in his huge fingers like a maestro caressing the frets of a Stradivarius. I was clumsy. After ten minutes, Ernie became impatient, but just as he wandered onto the first wooden step of the porch, the back door lock clicked open. I turned the handle and shoved it slowly forward. Nothing moved. Quickly, Ernie and I stepped into darkness.

We were right. It was the kitchen. I shone the penlight on a floor covered in tile. There were two stainless-steel refrigerators, one bench-like freezer, and an industrial-sized stove with a scaffolding of gleaming copper. All the equipment was professional grade with brand names that seemed to be Swedish or Germanic. Ernie and I gazed at the huge kitchen in awe; it must’ve cost him a fortune to import all these things, because they clearly weren’t manufactured in Korea and I doubted that the PX bothered to import them. There’d be no demand, not a legitimate one anyway.

Beyond the kitchen was a serving counter, and beyond that, double doors that led into a carpeted dining room. The table was made of gleaming mahogany and it was long enough to seat at least twenty. The walls were lined with artwork that didn’t look like anything in particular other than splashes of bright color. We were probably coming close to the front entranceway and therefore the main living room, or whatever the room would be called in a big house like this. We were impatient to find the dungeon, or at least the basement, where young women would be held against their will. That’s how I imagined it. At the closed entrance door to the dining room, Ernie and I paused, listening. Still no sound. We’d been quiet, but I hoped Mills was a sound sleeper. I pushed through the door.

A light flashed in my eyes.

A voice shouted, “Freeze, motherfugger!”

I froze. And then I was staring into the unforgiving end of a double-barreled shotgun.