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

Chapter 90: The Ninth Case (4)

Seo's voice crackles through the phone, filled with a mix of excitement and tension. "Let me give you the full picture of what the guard told us."

I grab a pen, ready to jot down every detail.

"The guard was doing a routine check, even though the park was empty due to the rain," Seo begins. "That's when he spotted a man walking away from the park."

"What did he look like?" I interrupt, eager for details.

"Here's the interesting part," Seo continues. "The man wasn't carrying an umbrella, despite the heavy rain. The guard estimates he was about 170cm tall, which is actually quite short. He described him as small and very thin."

I furrow my brow, surprised by this description. It doesn't match the imposing figure I had imagined.

"After seeing this man leave, the guard continued his rounds and that's when he discovered our victim," Seo explains. "He's certain this was the only person he saw in or around the park at that time."

"Do we know for sure this man is our suspect?" I ask, though I suspect I already know the answer.

"We can't be 100% certain," Seo admits, "but given the timing and circumstances, it's highly likely."

I nod, even though Seo can't see me.

"What's your next move?" Seo asks.

I glance at the pile of case files on my desk. "I'm going to review all our cases again, this time with the theory that our suspect is a short, thin man. It might change how we interpret some of the evidence."

"Good thinking," Seo approves. "Keep me posted on what you find."

As I hang up, I turn back to the case files, ready to look at everything with fresh eyes.

I settle into my chair, spreading out the case files across my desk. This time, I'm focusing on the Wednesday attacks - the ones where the killer used blunt force trauma. These cases left more physical evidence, and with our new description of the suspect, I'm hoping to spot something we missed before.

I pull out the crime scene photos, laying them out in chronological order. The images are gruesome, showing the aftermath of violent attacks, but I force myself to look at them clinically, searching for clues.

The first victim's apartment shows signs of a frenzied attack. Furniture is overturned, and there are blood splatters on the walls. I lean in closer, examining the height of the blood spatter. If our suspect is indeed around 170cm, some of these impact patterns seem consistent with that height.

Moving on to the second case, I notice something interesting. The point of entry was a small window that had been forced open. A larger man would have struggled to fit through, but a thin, smaller man? He could have managed it easily.

The third crime scene photos reveal more about the attacker's state of mind. The victim's belongings are strewn about, drawers pulled out and emptied. It's not the methodical search of a burglar, but rather the actions of someone in a rage. I can almost picture a small, angry man, lashing out at everything around him.

I pull out the autopsy reports, paying close attention to the wound patterns. The blows are concentrated, showing tremendous force, but they're not as widely distributed as you might expect from a larger attacker. It's as if the killer had to focus all his strength into a smaller area - consistent with a smaller, possibly weaker assailant.

As I study the photos, a pattern begins to emerge. In each case, the initial attack seems to have been a surprise - the victims were caught off guard. But then the scene devolves into chaos, with signs of a violent outburst. Broken objects, overturned furniture, multiple blows to the victim - it all paints a picture of someone unleashing pent-up rage.

I lean back, rubbing my tired eyes. The profile we're building is becoming clearer: a small, thin man, possibly harboring intense anger or resentment. Someone who might feel powerless in his daily life, but who becomes a terror in these moments of violence.

But something still doesn't add up. If the killer is driven by rage, why does he leave before ensuring his victims are dead? And what about the rainy day pattern? How does that fit into this angry outburst theory?

As I stare at the crime scene photos, Manson's voice slithers into my mind, uninvited but somehow expected.

"Fascinating, isn't it? All that rage in such a small package," he muses.

I'm about to dismiss him, to say I don't need his twisted insights, but I pause. If engaging with these spectral advisors is the key to banishing them, perhaps I should hear him out. The quicker I let him "help," the sooner he'll be gone.

"Alright, Manson," I say, resigned. "What's your take on this?"

I can almost feel his gleeful smile as he responds. "Oh, I've seen this type before. Back in my day, they were drawn to the Family like moths to a flame."

Despite my revulsion, I find myself intrigued. "What do you mean?"

"Small men, filled with rage at a world that overlooks them," Manson explains, his voice taking on a theatrical tone. "They feel powerless, invisible. But give them a cause, a purpose... and suddenly, they become capable of anything."

I lean back in my chair, considering his words. "So you think our killer feels insignificant in his daily life?"

"Undoubtedly," Manson chuckles. "But in those moments of violence, he becomes a god. The power to hurt, to terrify... it's intoxicating for someone who's always felt weak."

I listen intently as Manson's voice takes on a disturbingly analytical tone, feeling a mix of revulsion and grudging interest.

"These types," Manson begins, his voice unnervingly calm, "they're shaped by a lifetime of dismissal. From childhood, they're overlooked, ignored, made to feel small. That breeds a deep, festering resentment towards the world."

I nod, despite myself. It's a plausible psychological profile.

Manson continues, "That anger, it needs an outlet. Often, it starts with animals. Small creatures they can dominate, hurt. It's a rehearsal, you see."

"But as they grow older," Manson's voice takes on a sneering quality, "rejection by women becomes the new fuel for their rage. Their sexual desires, unfulfilled, twist into something darker."

I shift uncomfortably in my seat, not liking where this is going but unable to deny the potential insight.

"They might seek out the fringes of society, looking for acceptance. But sometimes, even there, they're cast out. Can you imagine the humiliation? Rejected even by those society rejects?"

Manson's voice grows more intense. "And then, one day, it all explodes. They lash out at anyone they perceive as weak - women, often. It's a way to reclaim the power they feel they've been denied."

I feel sick but press on. "And the sexual component?"

"Ah," Manson says, a disturbing note of satisfaction in his voice. "For some, violence becomes intertwined with sexual gratification. It's an automatic response, born from a toxic mix of past experiences and distorted thinking."

I feel a deep unease as Manson continues his disturbing analysis, his voice tinged with a unsettling excitement.

"You see," he says, "most of us - the true serial killers - we relish watching the life drain from our victims' eyes. It's the climax, the ultimate power trip."

I swallow hard, trying to maintain my composure. "But our guy doesn't do that."

"Exactly!" Manson exclaims. "He leaves before the grand finale. Which means he's getting his satisfaction elsewhere. My bet? It's sexual, tied directly to that burst of violent rage."

I lean back, processing this disturbing theory. "So you're saying the act of violence itself is... fulfilling for him?"

"Oh, more than fulfilling," Manson chuckles darkly. "It's everything. The power, the dominance, the release of all that pent-up anger. For him, that's better than any conventional sexual act."

A thought occurs to me, and I voice it before I can think better of it. "Should we be looking at people with records of sexual assault?"

"Now you're thinking!" Manson sounds almost proud. "But here's the twist - look for ones who might have stopped suddenly, or never escalated."

"Why?" I ask, dreading the answer.

"Because our boy probably tried the conventional route first. Sexual assault, thinking it would satisfy his urges. But then he discovered something far more potent - pure, unadulterated violence. He realized he didn't even need the sexual component anymore. The violence itself became his sexual release."

I sit in stunned silence, the implications of this theory washing over me. It's a horrifying thought, but one that fits disturbingly well with the evidence we've gathered.

"Check those records," Manson urges. "Look for someone who might have dipped their toe in sexual crimes, then suddenly stopped. That's when he would have discovered his true calling."

As Manson's presence fades, I'm left with a nauseating mix of disgust and grudging appreciation for the insight. It's a lead we hadn't considered before, and as much as I hate to admit it, it makes a twisted kind of sense.