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

I sit at my desk, poring over the file I've compiled on Song Mi-kyung, Oh Sang-chul's wife. Her name stands out at the top of the page: Song Mi-kyung, born 1981. As I scan through her background, I find myself searching for any hint of darkness, any clue that might connect her to the brutal murders we're investigating.

But the more I read, the more ordinary Song appears. Like her husband, she grew up as an orphan, but her records show no signs of trouble or violence. She seems to have been a model citizen, working hard and staying out of trouble.

According to the file, Song met Oh at a delivery company where they both worked. Their relationship blossomed there, leading to marriage and eventually, the founding of their own business. Everything about her history seems perfectly normal, even mundane.

I'm so engrossed in the file that I don't notice Inspector Han approaching until he's standing right beside me.

"What are you looking at?" he asks, his voice startling me out of my concentration.

I quickly close the file, feeling a mix of guilt and uncertainty. "It's... it's nothing concrete," I stammer. "Just following up on a hunch. I don't want to share too many details right now because I'm only suspicious, and I don't want to confuse the current investigation."

Han nods, his expression understanding. "That's fine," he says, offering me a reassuring smile. "Sometimes the best leads come from hunches. Keep digging. If you find anything solid, you know where to find me."

As Han walks away, I feel a wave of gratitude wash over me. His support means more to me than he could ever know. In a unit where many still look down on me for not graduating from the prestigious Korean National Police University, Han has always been in my corner, judging me on my skills and instincts rather than my background.

I turn back to Song's file, my determination renewed. Even if her background seems clean, I can't shake the feeling that there's more to this story than meets the eye. Bundy's words echo in my mind, urging me to dig deeper, to look beyond the surface.

As I continue my investigation, I silently thank Han for his unwavering support. In this challenging and often thankless job, it's comforting to know that at least one person believes in me, no matter where I came from or what university I attended.

But at the same time, as I delve deeper into Song Mi-kyung's background, I find myself growing increasingly frustrated. Every detail I uncover about her life paints the picture of an utterly ordinary woman. Her work history, her social connections, even her credit report - everything is perfectly normal, almost painfully so.

Sighing, I lean back in my chair, rubbing my tired eyes. I've hit a dead end with Song, but I'm not ready to give up yet. A new idea forms in my mind - perhaps the neighbors of Song and Oh might have some insights, some observations that could shed light on the couple's true nature.

As I make my way back to Oh's neighborhood, doubt begins to gnaw at me. The bustling streets of Seoul pass by in a blur, mirroring the whirlwind of thoughts in my head.

Am I really doing this? Am I really suspecting a man of being a brutal serial killer based solely on the sound of his voice? The rational part of my mind rebels against this idea, reminding me of the importance of evidence, of facts.

But then I hear it again - that chilling tone in Oh's voice, the one that sent shivers down my spine and reminded me so viscerally of Bundy. It's not just the sound, I remind myself. It's the feeling it evoked, the instinctual response that years of working homicide have honed to a razor's edge.

Still, guilt nags at me. What if I'm wrong? What if Oh is just an ordinary man, living an ordinary life with his ordinary wife? What right do I have to disrupt their lives based on a hunch?

As if in response to my doubts, Han's words echo in my mind: "Sometimes the best leads come from hunches." I cling to those words like a lifeline, a justification for the path I'm choosing to follow.

The truth is, in this line of work, there's no clear roadmap. We follow the evidence when we have it, but sometimes all we have to go on is that gut feeling, that prickle at the back of our neck that tells us something isn't quite right.

I start my rounds in the neighborhood, visiting small shops and approaching elderly residents who are out for their afternoon walks. Each conversation seems to reinforce the image of Oh and Song as a loving, devoted couple.

At a small convenience store near Oh's apartment, I strike up a conversation with the elderly owner, Mrs. Kim.

"Oh, Sang-chul and Mi-kyung? They're such a lovely couple," Mrs. Kim says, her wrinkled face lighting up. "Sang-chul comes in here almost every day to buy Mi-kyung's favorite snacks. Always with a smile on his face, that one."

I nod, encouraging her to continue. "They seem very close. Have you known them long?"

"Oh, since they moved in about five years ago," she replies. "You know, I've never seen a man so devoted to his wife. Last winter, when Mi-kyung caught that nasty flu, Sang-chul was here every day, buying medicine, hot packs, anything to make her feel better. He looked so worried, poor thing."

Moving on, I encounter an elderly man sitting on a bench in a small park. After introducing myself, I casually bring up Oh and Song.

"Ah, those two," the man chuckles. "You know, young man, in my day, we didn't show affection so openly. But Sang-chul, he's always holding Mi-kyung's hand when they walk by, looking at her like she's the only woman in the world. It's quite something to see."

I lean in, intrigued. "Do you ever see them argue or fight?"

The old man shakes his head. "Never. Not once. Sang-chul treats her like a queen. Always opening doors for her, carrying her bags. Once, I saw him run all the way down the street in the rain just to bring her an umbrella she'd forgotten at home."

As the day wears on, I speak to more neighbors, each conversation echoing the same sentiments. A florist tells me about Oh's weekly purchases of fresh flowers for his wife. A restaurant owner recounts how Oh always remembers Song's favorite dishes and special dietary requirements.

By the time I finish my rounds, my head is spinning. Every single person I've spoken to has painted a picture of Oh as the perfect, doting husband, almost to the point of obsession.

As I walk back to my car, I can't shake a growing sense of unease. Is this devotion as innocent as it seems, or is there something darker lurking beneath the surface? The words of the neighbors swirl in my mind, mixing with Bundy's sinister insinuations, leaving me more confused than ever about the true nature of Oh Sang-chul and his relationship with Song Mi-kyung.

As I'm about to wrap up my neighborhood investigation, feeling both overwhelmed and underwhelmed by the unanimous praise for Oh and Song, I notice an elderly woman sitting at a nearby bus stop. Something about her distant gaze catches my attention, and I decide to approach her for one last conversation.

"Excuse me, ma'am," I say, showing my badge. "I'm Officer Park. I was wondering if you might know Oh Sang-chul and Song Mi-kyung?"

The woman peers at me through thick glasses, her expression guarded. "Oh yes, I know them. Live just down the street, don't they?"

I nod, encouraging her to continue. "That's right. I've been asking around about them. Everyone seems to think they're quite the perfect couple."

The woman snorts softly, a sound that immediately piques my interest. "Perfect? Well, I suppose that's one way to look at it."

I lean in, my voice lowered. "What do you mean by that?"

She glances around, as if making sure no one else is listening. "Well, it's not my place to gossip, you understand. But since you're asking... I've noticed something peculiar about the wife, Song Mi-kyung."

My heart rate picks up. Finally, something different. "Go on," I urge gently.

"Well, you see, I take this bus every week to visit my daughter," she explains. "And almost every week, without fail, I see Song at this very stop. She is always dressed up nicely."

I frown, processing this information. "Do you know where she goes?"

The woman shakes her head. "No idea. But she's always gone for hours. Doesn't come back until late at night. I've seen her return a few times, looking... well, tired.

Disheveled, even."

"And her husband?" I ask, trying to keep my voice neutral. "Does he ever go with her?"

"Never," the woman replies firmly. "Always just her. Alone."

I nod, thanking her for her time. As I walk away, my mind is racing.

This is the first piece of information that doesn't fit with the perfect image everyone else has painted of Song and Oh's relationship.

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