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

Chapter 38: The Fifth Case (3)

As we arrive back at the station, my mind is still reeling from the revelations at the crime scene. The weight of Bundy's words hangs heavy on my shoulders, but I know that I can't let my own doubts and fears get in the way of the investigation.

I take a deep breath, steeling myself as I approach Inspector Han. "I've been thinking about the case," I say, choosing my words carefully. "And I have a couple of theories that might help us narrow down our list of suspects."

Han looks up at me, his eyebrows raised in interest. "Go on," he says, leaning forward in his chair.

"Well, first of all, I think we need to focus on individuals with a history of violent behavior, especially those who may have started committing crimes at a young age," I explain, trying to keep my voice steady. "The level of brutality in these murders suggests someone who has been honing their skills for a long time."

Han nods slowly, his eyes narrowing as he considers my words. "That makes sense," he admits. "But how do we even begin to identify those kinds of suspects?"

I hesitate for a moment, knowing that my next suggestion is going to raise some eyebrows. "I think we need to expand our search to include people with juvenile criminal records," I say, bracing myself for Han's reaction.

To my surprise, a slight smile crosses Han's face. "You know, you have a weird sense when it comes to investigations," he says, shaking his head. "But I have to admit, your hunches have always been spot on. I'm going to count on you again this time."

With that, Han picks up his phone and starts barking out orders to the other officers. "Expand the search to include juvenile records," he commands, his voice ringing through the station. "I want every stone unturned, every possible lead followed up on."

As the team springs into action, I feel a small sense of relief wash over me. At least one of my theories has been taken seriously, even if I can't reveal the true source of my insights.

But as the hours tick by and the search for potential suspects drags on, I begin to realize the magnitude of the task before us. The juvenile criminal records are a mess, scattered across various databases and often incomplete or poorly maintained.

As the night wears on, the station takes on a frenzied energy, with officers hunched over computer screens and sifting through stacks of old case files. The air is thick with the smell of coffee and the hum of fluorescent lights, and I can feel the exhaustion beginning to take its toll on all of us.

But even as my eyes start to blur and my head begins to throb, I force myself to keep going. Because I know that somewhere in this sea of data and paperwork, there may be a clue that could break this case wide open.

After weeks of tireless effort, the team manages to trim down the list of suspects to around 20 individuals whose profiles closely match the current cases. The next step is to verify their whereabouts, so the officers take turns calling each suspect one by one, inquiring about their location and activities under the guise of a routine check on individuals with criminal records.

Based on the phone conversations, each suspect appears to be living a normal life. One suspect, a middle-aged man, answers the call with a gruff "Hello?" and seems irritated when the officer identifies himself. "Look, I haven't done anything wrong," he snaps.

"I've been clean for years, and I don't appreciate being harassed like this." Another suspect, a woman in her thirties, sounds tired and defeated. "I'm just trying to get by," she sighs. "I have a job, I pay my bills, and I stay out of trouble. What more do you want from me?"

However, many of the suspects express frustration and annoyance at receiving a call from the police. A young man with a history of drug offenses becomes defensive and hostile. "Why are you calling me?" he demands. "I haven't touched that stuff in months, and I'm not planning to start again.

Don't you have anything better to do than bother people who are trying to turn their lives around?" Despite this, the officers are unable to uncover anything suspicious or out of the ordinary.

I listen intently to each conversation, trying to pick up on any subtle cues or inconsistencies that might provide a lead. As I work my way through the recordings, one particular suspect catches my attention. Unlike the others, he remains remarkably calm and composed when questioned by the police. "Of course, officer," he says smoothly, his voice like silk. "I'm happy to cooperate in any way I can.

I understand the importance of your work, and I want to do my part to help keep our community safe."

There's something about his voice that sends a familiar yet chilling sensation down my spine, but I can't quite put my finger on what it is. The way he speaks, the carefully chosen words, the almost rehearsed quality of his responses - it all feels too perfect, too polished. As if he's playing a role, putting on a mask to hide his true nature.

Intrigued, I replay the recording of his conversation several times, focusing on every inflection and pause, trying to decipher the source of my unease. As the hours tick by and the station empties out, I find myself alone at my desk, lost in thought.

Suddenly, I'm startled by a hand on my shoulder. It's Inspector Han, looking at me with a mix of concern and exhaustion. "Hey, are you planning on heading home anytime soon?" he asks, his voice weary.

I shake my head, my eyes still glued to the computer screen. "I think I'll stay a bit longer," I reply, my mind racing with possibilities. "There's something about one of the suspects that I can't quite shake."

Han nods, understanding the obsessive nature of our work all too well. "Alright, but don't push yourself too hard," he warns, before grabbing his coat and heading for the door.

As the station falls silent, I lean back in my chair, rubbing my temples in a futile attempt to ease the throbbing in my head. That's when I hear it - the familiar, taunting voice of Bundy echoing in my mind.

"Burning the midnight oil, are we?" he purrs, his tone dripping with mock concern. "When are you planning on getting some rest?"

And then, like a bolt of lightning, it hits me. The suspect's voice, the one that had been nagging at me all night - it carries the same chilling undertone as Bundy's.

The same cold, calculating cadence of a serial killer.