car. A white-gloved officer sat up front. Mr. Kill opened the back door, and Ernie climbed in. Before I could follow, Kill stopped me and said, “Your report said something about a ‘checklist.’ What do you think it means?”
“I’m not sure,” I replied. “Whatever it means, something has caused this guy to escalate his violence.”
Inspector Kill stared at me, puzzled.
“Escalate means to step higher,” I said. “In this case, to move up from simple rape to murder.”
Kill nodded. “And ‘checklist’ implies a list that’s longer than two.”
“Yes. It implies a list that can be very long.”
Inspector Kill sighed and looked away.
I folded myself into the backseat next to Ernie. The driver turned on the siren and pulled away from the Pusan police headquarters. Although his knees were scrunched up in front of him, Ernie was pleased by the plush ride. “Beats getting chased by them,” he said.
After twenty minutes, we rolled up to the stone-and-concertina-wire gate of the United States Army’s Hialeah Compound. Ernie and I climbed out of the sedan, thanking the driver as we did so. He saluted and roared off.
Floodlights lit wet pavement. From behind a reinforced concrete barricade, two American MPs glared at us. A heavy mist, laced with salt, was blowing in off the ocean. I shuddered, hoisted my bag, and marched toward the winding cattle chute that was the pedestrian entrance to the compound.
Behind me, Ernie muttered, “Why are those guys staring at us?” When he received no response, he raised his voice and shouted, “Mom! I’m home!”
Neither MP moved.
6
E rnie and I had met Lieutenant Messler before, on a previous case. He must’ve extended his tour in Korea, because that previous trip to Pusan had been almost a year ago.
“Hot one this time, eh, Sueño?” he asked. “And you brought Bascom along with you. They got tired of him in Seoul?”
“You’ll get tired of me here,” Ernie growled.
The lieutenant smirked. Messler was a smallish man, a fact that he tried to compensate for by keeping his chest puffed out and his posture ramrod straight, so straight that he was practically leaning backward. He was wearing his dress green uniform because he was pulling the duty tonight, and his tie was knotted tightly and his hair combed straight back. He was chomping gum.
“There’s a report,” I said, “should’ve been sent down here by now, from the Chief of Staff’s office.” I kept my voice as even as I could. I didn’t like Lieutenant Messler any more than Ernie did, but we were going to have to work with him for as long as this thing lasted. I could at least encourage him to act professionally.
Mention of the 8th Army Chief of Staff made his eyebrows rise.
“I saw it,” he said. “Not much in it.” He tossed the paperwork on the counter in front of me.
“Thanks for reading it,” Ernie said. “Even though it’s classified and you don’t have a need-to-know.”
“The duty officer needs to know everything,” Messler replied.
“Yeah. You’re needy, all right.”
I grabbed Ernie by the elbow and pulled him away from the MP desk, pretending that I needed his help in evaluating the message. What I really needed was for him to quit needling Messler. Turning the young lieutenant into a yapping Chihuahua wouldn’t help us find the Blue Train rapist.
The report was from the Seoul RTO and listed the names of the G.I.s who’d been issued tickets yesterday for the Blue Train to Pusan. At the civilian ticket counters, all you needed was some hard cash, in won , the Korean currency, and anybody could buy a ticket. No names were recorded and no questions were asked. The military, on the other hand, issued tickets mostly to G.I.s who were on official business. And, as such, they had to present their identification and travel orders, and their names were then logged in and their train tickets were issued to them for free. A G.I. on leave orders—or even on weekend
“I’m not sure,” I replied. “Whatever it means, something has caused this guy to escalate his violence.”
Inspector Kill stared at me, puzzled.
“Escalate means to step higher,” I said. “In this case, to move up from simple rape to murder.”
Kill nodded. “And ‘checklist’ implies a list that’s longer than two.”
“Yes. It implies a list that can be very long.”
Inspector Kill sighed and looked away.
I folded myself into the backseat next to Ernie. The driver turned on the siren and pulled away from the Pusan police headquarters. Although his knees were scrunched up in front of him, Ernie was pleased by the plush ride. “Beats getting chased by them,” he said.
After twenty minutes, we rolled up to the stone-and-concertina-wire gate of the United States Army’s Hialeah Compound. Ernie and I climbed out of the sedan, thanking the driver as we did so. He saluted and roared off.
Floodlights lit wet pavement. From behind a reinforced concrete barricade, two American MPs glared at us. A heavy mist, laced with salt, was blowing in off the ocean. I shuddered, hoisted my bag, and marched toward the winding cattle chute that was the pedestrian entrance to the compound.
Behind me, Ernie muttered, “Why are those guys staring at us?” When he received no response, he raised his voice and shouted, “Mom! I’m home!”
Neither MP moved.
6
E rnie and I had met Lieutenant Messler before, on a previous case. He must’ve extended his tour in Korea, because that previous trip to Pusan had been almost a year ago.
“Hot one this time, eh, Sueño?” he asked. “And you brought Bascom along with you. They got tired of him in Seoul?”
“You’ll get tired of me here,” Ernie growled.
The lieutenant smirked. Messler was a smallish man, a fact that he tried to compensate for by keeping his chest puffed out and his posture ramrod straight, so straight that he was practically leaning backward. He was wearing his dress green uniform because he was pulling the duty tonight, and his tie was knotted tightly and his hair combed straight back. He was chomping gum.
“There’s a report,” I said, “should’ve been sent down here by now, from the Chief of Staff’s office.” I kept my voice as even as I could. I didn’t like Lieutenant Messler any more than Ernie did, but we were going to have to work with him for as long as this thing lasted. I could at least encourage him to act professionally.
Mention of the 8th Army Chief of Staff made his eyebrows rise.
“I saw it,” he said. “Not much in it.” He tossed the paperwork on the counter in front of me.
“Thanks for reading it,” Ernie said. “Even though it’s classified and you don’t have a need-to-know.”
“The duty officer needs to know everything,” Messler replied.
“Yeah. You’re needy, all right.”
I grabbed Ernie by the elbow and pulled him away from the MP desk, pretending that I needed his help in evaluating the message. What I really needed was for him to quit needling Messler. Turning the young lieutenant into a yapping Chihuahua wouldn’t help us find the Blue Train rapist.
The report was from the Seoul RTO and listed the names of the G.I.s who’d been issued tickets yesterday for the Blue Train to Pusan. At the civilian ticket counters, all you needed was some hard cash, in won , the Korean currency, and anybody could buy a ticket. No names were recorded and no questions were asked. The military, on the other hand, issued tickets mostly to G.I.s who were on official business. And, as such, they had to present their identification and travel orders, and their names were then logged in and their train tickets were issued to them for free. A G.I. on leave orders—or even on weekend
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