Martin Limon - Mr. Kill

One of the things I liked about Korea at the time was that advertising was kept strictly under control. No billboards were allowed to mar the serenity of the countryside, and, on Korean television, commercials were permitted only before and after programs, not during. On AFKN, the Armed Forces Korea Network, there were no commercials at all, only public-service announcements. Boring, but at least not obnoxious.

Outside my window, rice paddies rolled by, dry and yellow and already harvested. In the distance, burial mounds dotted round hills; beyond them, a red sun glowered angrily behind purple peaks. Alongside the train, straining to keep pace with us, a gaggle of Manchurian geese flapped their way south.

“You ready for a wet?” Ernie said.

He reached in his AWOL bag, pulled out two cans of Falstaff, and handed one to me. I popped mine open and enjoyed the frothing warmth of hops and barley.

Earlier this afternoon, after we’d reported to his office, the Chief of Staff hadn’t been complimentary. “The only reason the Provost Marshal and I are assigning you to this case is because you’re already familiar with the details.”

And because I’m the only American law-enforcement official in the country who speaks Korean, I thought, but I didn’t say anything.

“If you screw up, you’re off the case. Is that understood?”

Ernie somehow resisted the urge to mouth off and instead replied crisply, “Yes, sir.” Although he pretended he wasn’t involved emotionally, Ernie didn’t want to lose the opportunity to collar this rapist any more than I did.

The Chief of Staff handed us a copy of the dossier compiled by Lieutenant Pong. I thumbed through it. Most of it hadn’t been translated.

“I want you on the next train south,” he said. Then he responded to our surprised looks. “Okay, I know what you’re thinking. If this is so important, why not a chopper? You could be down there in a couple of hours.”

The Chief of Staff, Colonel Oberdorff, was a small man, wiry and tough-looking, with a short-cropped gray crew cut, and he looked lost in his highly starched khaki uniform. His voice was gruff. He spoke plainly and directly-like a plumber, the type of plumber you can trust.

“The truth is,” he said, “the ROKs asked that you two be put on the case. They seem to respect you, Sueno, I suppose because you can speak their language.” He looked away. “Hell of an accomplishment, that.”

This was the first time I’d ever been complimented by anyone in 8th Army-officer or enlisted-for putting in the effort to learn the Korean language.

“Thank you, sir,” I said.

“And your other cases,” Colonel Oberdorff continued. “Word must be getting around. Goddamn it, you two ruffle a lot of feathers but you get results. People are noticing. So the KNPs want you on the case and they want you to take the five p.m. Blue Train to Pusan.”

“Why the train?” Ernie asked. “If we took a chopper, we could be there before evening chow.”

“I know. But the ROKs want you to take the train. Apparently, there’s going to be someone else on the train, some VIP who doesn’t like to fly.”

Ernie and I looked at one another.

“The VIP will meet you on the train, brief you about the case. I suppose you know that all hell has broken loose in the Korean newspapers. It’s even hit the radio, they tell me, and tonight the TV. The ROK government wants to put a stop to all the bad publicity, but that kind of censorship could cause more trouble than it’s worth. Better to get the truth out, let the chips fall where they may. ‘The G.I. Rapist,’ they’re calling it. And now that a woman’s been murdered

…”

Colonel Oberdorff allowed his voice to trail off.

“Murdered?” Ernie said.

“Yes. You’ll be briefed on the details. No time to go into all that now. You have a train to catch.”

“Who is this VIP we’re supposed to meet?” I asked.

“Hell if I know. All I know is that he’s some sort of inspector. Highly respected. They’re putting their best on this case.”

“How will we know him?” Ernie asked.

“He’ll know you. I don’t know who he is or what he looks like. All I know is his name.” Colonel Oberdorff shuffled through a stack of paperwork on his desk.

Ernie and I waited.

“Gil,” Colonel Oberdorff said. “Gilbert maybe. No, that’s his last name. Damn Korean customs.” In frustration, the Chief of Staff mumbled to himself. Koreans put their family name first, then their given name. When working with Americans, they sometimes switch them around to follow our customs. Confusion ensues. Finally, the colonel stopped shuffling and said, “These Korean names make no sense to me.”

I leaned forward and studied the paperwork. “Mr. Gil,” I said.

Colonel Oberdorff brightened. “That’s right. Mr. Kill,” he said, mispronouncing the name. “It says so right here.” Then he shuffled through more paperwork. “What the hell kind of name is that?”

Ernie and I knew who it was. I glanced at Ernie. He glanced at me. I realized that we were both holding our breath. Five minutes later, we were out of the Chief of Staff’s office, heading for the barracks to pack our traveling bags; ten minutes after that, we were on our way to the Seoul RTO, 8th Army’s Rail Transportation Office.

The stewardess walked by again and Ernie glanced at me as my eyes followed her.

“You like that, don’t you?” he said.

“What’s not to like?”

“You’re weird, you know that, Sueno? All those gorgeous Texas women in the Country Western All Stars. Shelly the lead guitar player has even hinted that she’d like to get to know you better, and you pay her no attention.”

“When we’re with them,” I replied, “we’re on duty.”

“Bull. If we were really on duty twenty-four hours a day, like the lifers say, nobody’d ever get laid.”

I sipped my beer.

“But instead of a tall, gorgeous blonde,” Ernie continued, “you like the kind of Korean woman who just stepped out of a rice paddy. What is it with you?”

I shrugged.

The stewardess knelt with her back to us, her knees pressed primly together. She spoke soothingly with a group of children who’d gathered around an old halaboji, a grandfather. Like many elderly people in Korea, the man made no bones about his age. He wore the gentleman’s hanbok, Korean clothing that consisted of light blue silk pantaloons, tied above white socks at the ankles, and a waistcoat of the same material that covered an outer vest the color of jade. This getup indicated that he was retired and no longer had to wear the suit and tie or other Western-style work clothes that indicated he was gainfully employed. The old man balanced a varnished wooden case on his knees. It contained an ink stone, a horsehair brush, and a small lacquered writing area. Deftly, he held the brush with his thumb and two fingers while he sketched out a Chinese character on crinkly rice paper. The children watched, fascinated by the ancient writing implements, occasionally asking questions. Then he offered the brush to the smallest girl. Shyly, she gripped the brush in her hand, dipped the tip into black ink, and traced a few lines across the paper. The halaboji complimented her, as did the stewardess, and then one of the boys insisted on his turn. After the boy had his chance, the stewardess complimented him too, rose gracefully to her feet, and continued her way down the aisle.

Ernie finished his beer, crumpled the can, and tossed it into his AWOL bag.

“Why didn’t you talk to her when she was standing there?”

I shrugged again. “I didn’t want to interrupt.”

He shook his head. “If you’ve got the hots for her, you’ve got to do something about it.”