Martin Limon: Mr. Kill

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.