“Tied up in traffic? Doesn’t he live on the compound?”
“Generally.”
“‘Generally.’ What does that mean?”
Just then, Ernie shoved his way through the door. He was wearing his dress green uniform, as we’d been instructed to do, but his tie was loose and his jacket open. His brass hadn’t been shined, much less his shoes.
The lieutenant glared at him. “You look like shit.”
“You don’t look so terrific yourself.”
Red-faced, the lieutenant replied, “Listen, I could have you brought up on charges.”
“For what?”
“For being late.”
Ernie shook his head. “When was the last time a SOFA meeting started on time?”
The lieutenant’s lips tightened, but he didn’t answer. Finally, he said, “You two stay right here. You are to go nowhere, do you understand?”
Ernie tucked in his shirt.
When neither of us answered, the lieutenant said, “I’ll be back. Don’t go anywhere.”
He swiveled and pushed through the swinging double doors into the SOFA conference room. Ernie sat in the chair next to me, straightening his tie. There was a scratch on his neck, starting just above his collar and extending below it.
“You broke the news to Marnie,” I said.
Ernie shook his head. “She likes to get her way.”
“I’ll say. Any more damage, other than that scratch?”
“Nothing that major surgery won’t fix.”
The lieutenant emerged from the double doors and motioned for us to enter. We did, Ernie taking the lead, pushing through the doors and marching regally across the carpeted floor until he reached the skirted tables in front of a row of uniformed men on a dais. The lighting was bright, aimed into our eyes, as if we were going to be given the third degree.
Ernie stood for a moment; I stood next to him. When they didn’t tell us to sit, Ernie reached across the table and poured himself a glass of water. I did the same. Finally, the chairman of the committee, a ROK Army colonel, told us to take our seats. Then the questioning began.
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
