“Maybe. Whether he did or not, we need to talk to him.”
“I’ll find him,” Ernie said. He left me and spoke to the MP desk sergeant, who made a phone call.
While Ernie tracked down Runnels, I continued to study the list. The names were unfamiliar to me, except one. Specialist Four Weyworth, Nicholas Q. He hadn’t been on the first Blue Train but he’d been one of the G.I. s I’d identified as being stationed at Hialeah Compound and on in-country leave on the day of the first Blue Train attack. I underlined his name. Ten minutes later, Ernie and I had left our travel bags in the expert care of the Hialeah Compound Military Police. We were armed with information and directions, and we were off into the Pusan night.
Ernie and I made a quick trip to the barracks on the compound and rousted Private First Class Runnels out of his bunk. The courier who transported classified documents between Pusan and Seoul was less than thrilled.
“What the hell do you want?” he asked, rubbing his eyes. “Didn’t you harass me enough when you questioned me in Seoul?”
“This is the army,” Ernie said. “There’s never enough harassment.”
I told Runnels to put his clothes on and follow us into the dayroom. I wanted him completely alert when we questioned him. He did as he was told, stopping in the latrine to splash water on his face. Finally, he joined us at the vinyl-covered chairs near the pool tables. The television was running, an old black-and-white movie that no one was watching. I knew it would be the last thing scheduled, because both the Korean stations and Armed Forces Korea Network stop broadcasting at midnight. Ernie switched the television off and returned to stand near me.
Runnels sat with his elbows on his knees. “What is it?” he asked.
“You took the five p.m. Blue Train back from Seoul yesterday.”
“That’s my job.”
“You remember that guy you sat next to the first time we questioned you? The guy who disappeared after the train stopped in Anyang?”
“Yeah. You think he’s the rapist.”
“You don’t?” Ernie asked.
Runnels shrugged. “How the hell would I know?”
“So, yesterday,” I continued, “on the Blue Train from Seoul, did you see the same guy again? Was he on that train?”
Runnels looked away from me, scrunching his forehead. I held my breath. Ernie held his too.
“No,” Runnels said finally. “Can’t say I did see him.”
“Were you looking?” I asked. “Did you get around the train much? Or did you just stay in your seat?”
“I’ve seen the train,” Runnels said, exasperation in his voice, “too many times. These days I just stay in my seat. Especially when I have a good book to read. The Last Detail, by Darryl Ponicsan. It’s about military life. Real military life. You ought to try it.”
“Maybe I will. Did you see anybody else you know on the train? Or anything unusual?”
Runnels thought again. “No. Not that I remember.”
I checked my notes. “Do you know a guy named Weyworth, Nicholas Q.? He’s a Spec Four and he’s stationed here on Hialeah Compound.”
“What’s he do?”
“Supply.”
Runnels took his time thinking over the question. “No. The name doesn’t ring a bell. I might recognize his face if I saw him, though.”
“Did you recognize anybody on the train? Anybody who you thought might be stationed on Hialeah Compound?”
Runnels thought again and shook his head.
“Did you see anything strange? Anything at all unusual?”
Again he said no, he hadn’t seen anything that he thought was worth remarking on. Finally we gave up, thanked him, and told him he could return to his bunk. On the way out of the dayroom, Runnels turned and looked back at us. “That guy did it again, didn’t he?”
“What guy?” Ernie asked.
“That guy. The Blue Train rapist. He did it again, didn’t he?”
“What makes you think that?”
“Because you guys are here. If he hadn’t done it again, you probably would’ve just stayed in Seoul. It’s about that checklist, isn’t it?”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“I told you before. The last thing he told me before he walked away was that he had a checklist. A checklist to correct deficiencies. That’s what this is about, isn’t it?”
Runnels studied our faces, saw nothing, shrugged, and walked in his flip-flops down the dark corridor that led to the open bay that housed two long rows of military bunks.
The lights of the Kit Kat Club flashed brightly. The midnight curfew was less than a half hour away, but you wouldn’t have known it from the relaxed atmosphere of the customers and waitresses in the G.I. bar. They looked as if they were camped out forever.
“Curfew must not be such a big deal down here,” Ernie said.
In Seoul, or especially up north near the DMZ, the Korean National Police will arrest anyone out even five minutes after the midnight curfew. Down here, the G.I. s were only a hundred yards from the main gate of Hialeah Compound. If they ran, they could make it there in a few seconds. And my guess was that down here in Pusan the local cops weren’t as frantic about shutting off all lights and closing down all businesses by exactly twelve o’clock. We were a couple of hundred miles from the DMZ; a couple of hundred miles from the 700,000-man-strong North Korean Army. Life seemed more normal down here. More cosmopolitan.
Ernie and I strode into the Kit Kat Club.
Bleary eyes looked at us, some of the hostesses with interest, puffing on their cigarettes. The G.I. s stared at us with dull surprise. Two Americans they didn’t know, near a small compound like Hialeah: that was an event.
Ernie stepped to the bar and ordered two beers.
“OB or Crown?” the bartender asked.
“You have draft?” The bartender shook his head. “Then OB”
The bartender popped the tops off the bottles for us. I asked for a glass. Ernie didn’t bother.
“Where’s Nick?” Ernie asked the G.I. sitting next to us.
“Huh?” The guy’s head was about to droop to the bar.
“Nick,” Ernie repeated. “Nick Weyworth.”
“Hell if I know,” the guy said, and allowed his nose to droop even farther toward the suds puddled on the bar.
I waved down one of the hostesses. “Weyworth isso?” I asked. Is Weyworth here? “Nick Weyworth.”
“You buy me drink?” she asked.
I nodded. Ernie stared at me, surprised.
The bartender took his time mixing some colorful concoction and finally slapped it on the bar. “One thousand five hundred won,” he said. Ernie whistled.
I reached deep into my pocket, pulled out the money, and took my time counting out two thousand-won notes, the equivalent in U.S. dollars of about four bucks. The bartender returned with my change. I pocketed it and turned back to the hostess. Through a straw, she was demurely sipping her drink.
“Show me,” I said.
Her eyes widened.
“Show me Weyworth’s yobo hooch.” His girlfriend’s house.
“I finish my drink.”
“No,” I said. “You don’t finish your drink.”
Ernie stepped next to the woman, grabbed the frothy red drink out of her hand, and set it carefully on the
