I Can Hear a Serial Killer's Voice in My Head

Chapter 25: The Fourth Case (1)

It's been weeks since my last case, and I can feel the restlessness and frustration building up inside me like a pressure cooker. As I sit at my desk, surrounded by the hustle and bustle of the Seoul Metropolitan Investigation Unit, I can't help but feel like an outsider, a second-class citizen in a world of elite detectives and high-profile cases.

I know that many of my colleagues still look down on me, seeing me as a upstart from a backwater district who doesn't belong among their ranks. And as the days stretch into weeks without a new assignment, I start to wonder if they might be right.

But just as I'm about to give in to despair, I feel a hand on my shoulder, a familiar voice cutting through the din of the office. "Park," Inspector Han says, his tone filled with a mix of urgency and excitement. "I've got a case for you. Please join my team. And trust me, it's a doozy."

I look up at him, my eyes wide with surprise and gratitude. "Really?" I ask, my voice filled with a sudden surge of hope and anticipation. "What's the case?"

Han takes a seat on the edge of my desk, his expression growing serious as he hands me a thick file. "Multiple homicides," he says, his voice low and grave. "Four victims so far, all found in remote parts of the city center. But that's not even the weirdest part."

I flip through the file, my eyes scanning the crime scene photos and autopsy reports. And as I take in the gruesome details, I feel a chill run down my spine, a sense of horror and fascination that I can't quite shake.

"The bodies," I murmur, my voice barely above a whisper. "They're posed, like some kind of macabre art installation."

Han nods, his expression grim and haunted. "Exactly," he says, his words heavy with the weight of the case. "It's clear that the killer is going to great lengths to stage these scenes, to turn his victims into some kind of twisted performance piece."

I lean back in my chair, my mind racing with the implications of the case. "And the local precincts," I ask, my voice tight with tension. "They're handing it over to us?"

Han sighs, his shoulders slumping with the weight of responsibility. "They don't have a choice," he says, his words filled with a mix of resignation and determination. "This case is too big, too complex for them to handle on their own. They need our resources, our expertise."

Han hands me the thick file, his expression grave and serious as he leans in close, his voice low and urgent. "I need you to go through this with a fine-toothed comb, Park," he says, his words filled with a quiet intensity. "Look for any holes, any clues that might help us crack this case wide open."

I nod, my heart pounding with a mix of excitement and trepidation as I take the file from his hands. But even as I flip through the pages, my mind already racing with the details of the case, I feel a familiar presence stirring in the back of my mind.

"Well, well, well," Bundy purrs, his voice dripping with a perverse sort of fascination. "Looks like we've got ourselves a real artist on our hands. A maestro of death and depravity."

I grit my teeth, trying to push his voice aside and focus on the task at hand. But Bundy is persistent, his words echoing in my mind like a sinister melody.

"You have to admit, Park," he whispers, his tone filled with a twisted sort of admiration. "There's something almost beautiful about it, the way he poses his victims like living sculptures. It takes a special kind of mind to see the art in death."

I shake my head, my stomach churning with revulsion and disgust. "Shut up, Bundy. Not now," I mutter under my breath, my eyes never leaving the pages in front of me.

But even as I try to focus on the case files, I can't help but feel a sense of awe and horror washing over me. The crime scene photos are like something out of a nightmare, the victims' bodies contorted into grotesque, unnatural poses that seem to defy the laws of physics and anatomy.

And yet, as I study the images more closely, I start to notice a pattern emerging. The killer is meticulous, choosing his locations with care and precision. Remote, quiet neighborhoods with few cameras or witnesses, the perfect stage for his macabre performances.

But beyond that, there seems to be no rhyme or reason to his choice of victims. Men and women, young and old, from all walks of life and backgrounds. It's as if the killer is choosing his targets at random, driven by some twisted impulse that defies all logic and understanding.

As I flip through the autopsy reports and forensic analyses, I feel a growing sense of frustration and despair. There are no fingerprints, no DNA evidence, no clear leads or suspects. It's as if the killer is a ghost, a phantom who moves through the city like a shadow, leaving only death and horror in his wake.

"You have to admit, it's impressive," Bundy whispers, his voice filled with a perverse sort of glee. "The way he's able to pull off these murders without leaving a trace. It takes a special kind of skill, a special kind of artistry."

I clench my fists, my nails digging into my palms as I try to block out his words. But even as I sit there, the weight of the case pressing down on my shoulders like a physical burden, I can't shake the feeling that Bundy is right.

There is something almost inhuman about this killer, something that defies all reason and understanding. And as I stare at the photos of his victims, their bodies twisted into shapes that seem to mock the very idea of life and death, I feel a chill run down my spine, a sense of dread and fascination that I can't quite shake.

Days turn into weeks as the team pours over the case files, searching for any clue or lead that might bring us closer to the killer. We interview victims' families and friends, canvas neighborhoods where the murders took place, and pore over forensic reports and crime scene photos until our eyes blur and our minds reel with the horror of it all.

But despite our best efforts, the case remains stubbornly opaque, the killer's motives and methods as inscrutable as ever. It's as if we're chasing a ghost, a phantom who moves through the city like a wraith, leaving only death and destruction in his wake.

The frustration and despair are palpable in the office, a heavy weight that seems to press down on us all. But we refuse to give up, refuse to let the killer win.

And then, just when it seems like we've hit a dead end, Han bursts into the office, his face twisted with rage and frustration. "The case has been leaked!" he shouts, his voice shaking with barely contained fury. "It's all over the news, the internet, everywhere. Some idiot at one of the local precincts spilled the beans, and now the whole damn city knows about our 'Artist' killer."

I feel my stomach drop, a wave of dread washing over me as I realize the implications of his words. A leaked case is a nightmare scenario for any investigation, but for one as high-profile and disturbing as this...

It's like throwing gasoline on a fire, watching the flames consume everything in their path.

In the days that follow, the online world explodes with morbid fascination and twisted adulation for the killer. Social media is flooded with posts dissecting the murders, comparing the killer's "artistry" to the works of famous sculptors and painters. The media feeds the frenzy, publishing lurid sketches of the crime scenes and breathless accounts of the killer's "genius."

And through it all, the nickname sticks: "The Artist," a moniker that seems to mock the very idea of justice and morality.

As the public interest in the case grows, the unit has no choice but to shift its approach. We open up the investigation to the public, soliciting tips and leads from anyone who might have information about the killer or his methods.

And as the lowest-ranking member of the team, the task of dealing with the flood of emails and phone calls falls to me. I spend my days wading through a sea of useless tips and crackpot theories, my eyes glazing over as I try to separate the signal from the noise.

But just when I'm about to give up hope, just when I'm ready to throw in the towel and admit defeat, I stumble across an email that stops me cold.

It's from an art teacher at a local community center, a man who claims to recognize the poses of the killer's victims. "I've seen those shapes before," he writes, his words filled with a quiet, unshakable conviction.

"In the works of a student of mine, a young woman, if I remember correctly."