Martin Limon: Mr. Kill

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.