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

Social media explodes with a volatile mix of fear and morbid fascination. #TaxiToHell trends relentlessly on every platform, becoming a digital beacon of shared trauma. Netizens frantically share safety tips, from verifying driver IDs to sharing real-time locations with friends.

But beneath the veneer of concern and solidarity, a current of anger surges, directed squarely at us – the police force that knows the killer's identity but has failed to bring him to justice.

In our unit, the tension is so thick it's almost suffocating. Detective Kim hunches over her computer, dark circles under her eyes as she scours CCTV footage for the hundredth time. Officer Lee's voice is hoarse from hours of phone calls, coordinating with other precincts and fielding increasingly hostile questions from the press.

In the corner, Detective Choi stares at a map of Seoul plastered with red pins, each one representing a victim or sighting, searching for a pattern that continues to elude us.

Inspector Han paces the room like a caged tiger, his normally composed demeanor shattered. His face is a storm of frustration and barely contained rage, the weight of each failure etched into the deepening lines around his eyes. "How?" he mutters, more to himself than anyone else, his voice a mix of disbelief and self-recrimination. "How is he still out there? We know who he is, for God's sake!"

I force myself to tune out the chaos surrounding me, to shut out the cacophony of ringing phones and urgent voices. Instead, I focus on the stack of documents piled before me, delving deeper into the life of Shin Ho-chul. His story unfolds through cold, clinical reports and faded photographs, each page revealing another layer of a life marred by trauma and loss.

As I dig deeper into Shin's background, a pattern begins to emerge – a childhood that reads like a case study in neglect and abuse. An alcoholic father looms large in these reports, his presence a constant source of violence and unpredictability. I read accounts of drunken rages, of bruises explained away as "accidents," of a young Shin cowering in corners as bottles smashed against walls.

Alongside the father's fury, another tragedy unfolds. Shin's mother, a ghost-like presence in these reports, battled severe depression for years. Unable to care for her son or protect him from his father's wrath, she eventually made the devastating choice to abandon him. The subsequent report of her suicide, just months after leaving, sends a chill down my spine.

I pause on a photo of Shin at 17, his eyes hollow and defiant as he stares at the camera. This was taken just after he fled his violent home, choosing a life on the streets over the hell he knew. The reports that follow paint a picture of a young man adrift, bouncing between shelters and petty crimes, the anger inside him growing with each passing year.

One detail catches my eye – notes from Shin's time in prison, jotted down by a perceptive guard. They indicate a deep-seated, almost obsessive anger towards his father. It's a thread, thin but potentially crucial, running through the tapestry of Shin's troubled life.

"Shin Yong-ho, current occupation: taxi driver." My heart rate quickens as I look at Shin's father's current job. Shin's father, the man who had made his childhood a living hell, now works as a taxi driver - the very disguise his son uses to hunt his victims.

I reach for the next document, a police report filed about three weeks ago. "Vandalism at Namyangju Cemetery," I mutter, skimming the details. "Family tomb of Shin family damaged by unknown perpetrator." The coincidence seems too great to ignore.

Leaning back in my chair, I let out a long breath, my mind racing. Shin Ho-chul is 38 now. He ran away from home at 17, which means it's been more than two decades since he's had any contact with his father. Twenty-one years of silence, of festering anger and resentment.

As I'm hunched over my desk, poring over Shin's records for what feels like the hundredth time, my concentration is suddenly shattered by a familiar, chirpy voice in my head. The sudden intrusion nearly makes me jump.

"Hey there, Detective," Aileen coos, her tone playful and flirtatious. Her voice seems to reverberate inside my skull, a disconcerting reminder of our unique connection. "All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. Care for a little... distraction?"

I stiffen in my chair, my eyes darting around the bustling unit. Detective Kim is engrossed in her computer screen just a few feet away, while Detective Lee hurries past with a stack of files. I hold my breath, praying no one has noticed my sudden change in demeanor. Keeping my voice to a barely audible whisper, I respond through gritted teeth, "Aileen, this is neither the time nor the place."

Aileen's voice takes on a dramatically wounded tone, reminding me of a petulant child. "Oh, rejected again! And here I was, about to share an interesting observation with you. But I suppose if you're not interested..." She lets the sentence hang, her voice somehow managing to convey both hurt and manipulation.

Despite my irritation at her ill-timed interruption, I feel my curiosity piqued.

I glance at the clock on the wall, noting the late hour and the mountain of work still ahead. "What observation?" I ask cautiously, still keeping my voice low.

"Ah ah ah," Aileen teases, and I can almost imagine her wagging a finger at me. "Promise me you'll talk to me for an hour later today, and I'll tell you. Just you and me, no distractions. Deal?"

I grit my teeth, weighing the potential value of her insight against the annoyance of entertaining her whims. The ticking clock seems to grow louder, a reminder of the urgency of our case. Finally, I relent, my need for any potential lead overriding my reservations. "Fine. One hour. Now what's your observation?"

"Make it quick," I add, glancing nervously at my colleagues. Inspector Han is pacing near the evidence board, his brow furrowed in concentration. I can't afford to appear distracted or, worse, like I'm talking to myself.

Aileen's voice becomes surprisingly serious, dropping the flirtatious tone entirely. She delivers a single sentence that sends a chill down my spine: "This guy Shin, his childhood background reminds me of someone."

"Who?" I ask.

And she answers in a chilling but somehow amusing voince.

"You know, your old friend Bundy."

The name hits me like a thunderbolt, jolting me fully upright in my chair. Suddenly, a thought crystallizes in my mind, sharp and urgent. The pieces of the puzzle that had been floating disconnected in my brain snap together with alarming clarity. I can feel my heart rate accelerating, my palms growing sweaty as the implications of this connection unfold in my mind.

Without a word, I leap from my chair, the sudden movement startling Detective Kim at the next desk. Her surprised "Park?" barely registers as I rush across the room, dodging busy officers and stacks of files. My eyes are locked on Inspector Han, who's now standing by the case board, his face a mask of exhaustion and frustration.

"Inspector," I say, slightly out of breath as I reach him. "I think I've got something. Something important about Shin's motivations and possibly his next move."