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

I turn to Tak, a new idea forming in my mind. "Tak, I need one more thing. Can I get access to the CCTV footage from when Lee was imprisoned here?"

Tak's eyebrows raise in surprise. "That's... a lot of footage, Detective. We're talking about years of recordings. It would take weeks to go through all of that."

I nod, understanding his concern. "I know it's a big ask, but I think it could be crucial. I can go through it myself. I just need access."

Tak considers for a moment, then sighs. "Alright. I'll have the IT department compile it for you. But it's going to take some time to gather all that data."

"Thank you, Tak. I appreciate your help with this."

A few hours later, I'm driving back to the police station, a hard drive full of CCTV footage sitting on the passenger seat beside me.

There must have been some kind of trade between Lee and an unknown figure - possibly Choi, or someone from the church. But what could it be? What did Lee have that was valuable enough to warrant such an elaborate system of communication?

I drum my fingers on the steering wheel, frustrated by the lack of answers. And then there's the timing of Lee's arrest and confession. It doesn't make sense. Most criminals don't immediately reoffend after being released from prison. So why did Lee seemingly go on a spree of confessions so soon after his release?

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"It doesn't add up," I mutter to myself, earning a strange look from a driver in the next lane.

If someone coerced Lee into confessing to crimes he didn't commit, what could they have offered in exchange? What would be valuable enough for a man to throw away his freedom, to accept the label of a serial killer?

As I pull into the station parking lot, another thought strikes me. What if Lee's confession wasn't voluntary at all? What if he was threatened or blackmailed?

I grab the hard drive and head into the building, nodding to the desk sergeant as I pass. In the elevator, I lean against the wall, feeling the weight of the investigation pressing down on me.

As the elevator doors open, I straighten up, steeling myself for the long night ahead. I've got hours of footage to go through, and somewhere in those countless frames might be the key to unraveling this whole mystery.

I settle at my desk, booting up my computer and connecting the hard drive.

I settle into my chair, the glow of the computer screen illuminating my determined face. After sorting through countless hours of footage, I've narrowed it down to the exercise yard sessions. This is where any covert communication is most likely to happen.

Days blend together as I meticulously scan each video. My other duties have been largely taken care of, thanks to Han's intervention. Still, the weight of responsibility presses down on me. I have to find something. I owe it to the victims, to Lee, to the truth itself.

On the fifth day, bleary-eyed and running on coffee, I spot it. Lee's behavior during exercise time follows a pattern, but there's something off. He's mouthing words, his lips moving in a repetitive manner. As his release date approaches, this behavior intensifies.

My heart races. This could be it.

I immediately reach out to Seo Jin-ah, the department's go-to lip reading expert. Within hours, she's seated beside me, her eyes fixed intently on the screen.

"It's challenging with this quality," Seo says, her brow furrowed in concentration. "But I'm definitely seeing patterns. He's repeating the same phrases over and over."

We spend hours going through the footage. Seo jots down words and phrases as she catches them. Slowly, a picture begins to emerge.

"Detective," Seo says, her voice tight with excitement, "these aren't random words. They're... they're forming statements. Confessions, even."

I lean in closer. "What kind of confessions?"

Seo points to her notes. "Details of crimes. Dates, locations, methods. It's fragmented, but... it's like he's rehearsing a script."

The realization hits me like a thunderbolt. "He was preparing his statement. The confession he gave to the police after his release."

Seo nods, her eyes wide. "Exactly. But why would he be practicing a confession while still in prison? Unless..."

"Unless he knew he was going to confess before he was even released," I finish, the implications making my head spin.

This is the breakthrough I've been waiting for. Lee wasn't just confessing on a whim after his release. This was planned, rehearsed, prepared while he was still behind bars.

But why? Who was orchestrating this elaborate charade? And what did they stand to gain from Lee taking the fall for these crimes?

I reach for my phone, my fingers hovering over Han's number. This discovery changes everything. But before I make the call, I pause. Who can I really trust with this information? How deep does this conspiracy go?

I step out of the elevator, the silence of the empty office enveloping me. It's late, and I'm the only one left on the floor. As I walk towards my desk, the faint sound of a television catches my attention. I follow the noise to the break room, where a small TV is still on, tuned to the news.

The anchor's voice fills the room, discussing the latest updates on Lee Chunsik's case. Legal experts are weighing in, their consensus clear - Lee is likely facing life imprisonment. The trial is just around the corner, and I feel a knot forming in my stomach. I'm close, I know I am, but I still don't have the concrete evidence I need to blow this case wide open.

Feeling overwhelmed, I decide to head to my grandmother's restaurant. It's late, but I need the comfort of familiar surroundings.

As I approach the restaurant, I notice the lights are off. I use my key to let myself in, assuming my grandmother is already asleep upstairs. But as I step inside, I hear a sound that stops me in my tracks - soft, muffled sobs.

My heart clenches as I realize it's my grandmother crying. I stay in the shadows, not wanting to startle her. The scene is painfully familiar, reminiscent of that night years ago when I discovered my parents' death and vowed to become a police officer.

But why is she crying now? A thought hits me like a punch to the gut - does she know something about Lee? About my parents' case? Is she crying because she knows Lee isn't the real culprit?

I have an overwhelming urge to step forward, to demand answers. But I hold back, swallowing the lump in my throat. I've always suspected there was a reason she never told me about my parents' true work. Was she protecting me? Or was she also deceived?

I can't bring myself to confront her, not like this. She's already been through so much, carried so many burdens. I don't want to add to her pain.

Instead, I silently make my way to one of the tables and sit down. In the darkness, I wait, listening as my grandmother's sobs gradually subside.

As the sound of my grandmother's sobs fades into silence, I remain seated in the darkness, waiting to ensure she's fallen asleep. The quiet that settles over the restaurant is heavy with unspoken words and hidden truths.

Once I'm certain she's resting, I rise from my chair, my joints stiff from sitting still for so long. I look around the dimly lit space, memories of bustling dinner services and laughter-filled family meals flooding back. A pang of guilt hits me as I realize how long it's been since I've helped out here.

Driven by a mix of nostalgia and a need to do something, anything, I begin to tidy up. I wipe down tables, straighten chairs, and organize the counter. It's a small gesture, but it feels good to be doing something tangible for my grandmother.

As I'm cleaning behind the counter, I come across a stack of unopened mail. Most of it looks like junk - advertisements, flyers, the usual clutter that small businesses accumulate. I start sorting through it, tossing the obvious junk into the recycling bin.

Suddenly, my hand freezes mid-throw. Among the colorful flyers and glossy advertisements, there's an envelope that stands out. It's simple, white, with a return address that makes my heart skip a beat.

The church. The same church where Choi grew up.

My fingers tremble slightly as I hold the envelope. What could they possibly be sending to my grandmother's restaurant? Is this just a random piece of mail, or is it connected to the web of secrets I've been trying to unravel?

I turn the envelope over in my hands, debating whether to open it. It's addressed to my grandmother, and the thought of invading her privacy makes me uncomfortable. But the potential connection to my investigation is too significant to ignore.

I take a deep breath, steeling myself for what I might find. With a mixture of trepidation and determination, I carefully open the envelope.