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.
5
The stewardess roamed the central aisle of the Blue Train, paying particular attention to elderly passengers. She was a round-faced young woman, husky but not fat, and she looked good in the blue beret, white cotton blouse, and blue skirt. I particularly admired her legs. Sturdy and smooth.
As attractive as she was, if she walked in the door of a modeling agency in New York City, they’d soon enough show her the exit. She wasn’t tall and leggy, and she certainly wasn’t blonde. There are many types of gorgeous women in this world, but the fashion industry’s insistence that there is only one ultimate form of beauty fools many and encourages them to buy the products that Madison Avenue sells. In other words, lying pays.
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.