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

I lean forward, my elbows resting on the cold metal of the interrogation table as I meet Yuri's gaze, my expression serious and intent. "Listen to me carefully, Yuri," I begin, my voice low and urgent. "Based on everything we've uncovered so far, it's becoming increasingly clear that the killer, whoever they are, has been intercepting your letters to Hosu.

They've been monitoring your communication, using it to fuel their twisted obsession and inspire their heinous crimes."

Yuri's eyes widen, a flicker of fear and revulsion crossing her face as the implications of my words sink in. "But... but why?" she whispers, her voice trembling with horror. "Why would someone do that? What could they possibly hope to gain from my letters, from the photos of my artwork?"

I shake my head, my own mind racing with the same unanswered questions. "I don't know," I admit, my voice heavy with frustration. "But what I do know is that we need to find out who this person is, and how they've been able to intercept your correspondence without detection. And to do that..."

I pause, my gaze boring into Yuri's with an intensity that borders on desperation. "To do that, we need you to write one more letter to your brother. One more envelope filled with photos and artwork, just like all the others you've sent over the years. Only this time... this time, we'll be watching. Waiting to see who comes to collect it, to steal it away before it can reach its intended destination."

Yuri recoils slightly, her face twisting with a mix of fear and uncertainty. "I... I don't know," she stammers, her hands twisting nervously in her lap. "What if... what if something goes wrong? What if the killer realizes what we're doing, and comes after me, or my brother?

I can't... I can't put him in danger like that."

I reach out, my hand resting gently on her arm as I meet her gaze with a look of unwavering determination. "I understand your fear, Yuri. Believe me, I do. But this... this is the only way we can clear your brother's name, the only way we can prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that he has nothing to do with these murders."

Yuri is silent for a long moment, her eyes filling with tears as she stares down at her clasped hands. And then, with a shuddering breath, she nods slowly, her voice barely audible above the hum of the fluorescent lights.

"Okay," she whispers, her words trembling with a mix of fear and resolve. "Okay, I'll do it. I'll write one more letter, send one more envelope filled with my artwork."

As Yuri rises from her seat, her face still etched with worry and fear, I give her a reassuring nod, my voice calm and steady. "Remember, Yuri, it's crucial that you maintain your normal daily routine. Go about your life as if nothing has changed, as if this conversation never happened. The killer must not suspect that we're on to them, that we're closing in on the truth."

Yuri nods slowly, her hands trembling slightly as she gathers her things.

As the door closes behind her, I let out a heavy sigh, my mind already racing with the next steps, the plan that's slowly taking shape in my mind. And then, like a whisper in the depths of my consciousness, Bundy's voice emerges.

"So," he purrs, his words dripping with false curiosity. "What's the plan? How do you intend to catch this twisted little letter thief, hmm?"

I close my eyes, my jaw clenching with determination as I answer, my voice low and steady. "It's simple, Bundy. We know that the killer has been intercepting Yuri's letters, which means they must have access to the mail somewhere along the delivery route.

Most likely, it's someone working inside the post office itself, someone with the means and opportunity to steal the letters without anyone noticing."

I pause, a small smile tugging at the corner of my mouth as I continue, my words heavy with anticipation. "So we're going to use that against them. Before Yuri sends her next letter, we'll attach a small GPS tracker to the envelope, something that can't be detected from the outside. And then... then we'll follow the signal, watch where it goes and who takes possession of it.

With any luck, it'll lead us straight to the killer's doorstep."

Bundy's laughter echoes in my mind, a sound that is at once amused and mocking. "Well, well. It seems the world of investigation has come a long way since my time. GPS trackers, real-time surveillance... it's almost enough to make a man jealous."

I shake my head, a grim smile twisting my lips as I gather my things, my mind already racing ahead to the next phase of the plan. "The technology may have changed, Bundy, but the game remains the same. It's still a battle of wits, a test of will and determination. And I intend to come out on top, no matter what it takes."

***

The surveillance van is cramped and stuffy, the air thick with the acrid scent of coffee and stale cigarettes. I lean forward, my eyes glued to the bank of monitors that line the walls, each one displaying a different angle of the local post office where Yuri has just dropped off her letter.

Beside me, my colleagues sit hunched over their own screens, their faces tense with concentration as they watch for any sign of movement, any hint of the killer's presence. We've been here for hours, ever since Yuri left the station with the GPS-tagged envelope burning a hole in her pocket, and the tension in the air is palpable, a living thing that coils around us like a snake.

And then, suddenly, one of the monitors comes to life, a blinking red dot appearing on the screen as the tracker springs into action. "There it is," I breathe, my heart pounding with a mix of excitement and dread. "The letter's on the move."

We watch in silence as the dot moves slowly through the post office, passing from hand to hand as it makes its way through the sorting process. I can feel the anticipation building in the van, the sense that we're on the cusp of something big, something that could crack this case wide open.

And then, just as quickly as it appeared, the dot vanishes from the screen, only to reappear moments later on another monitor entirely. "It's heading to the central distribution center," one of my colleagues murmurs, his voice tight with tension. "Just like we predicted."

I nod slowly, my mind racing with the implications of what we're seeing. If the letter follows the normal distribution process, it will pass through the hands of dozens of workers, each one a potential suspect in our investigation. But if the killer is truly someone on the inside, someone with access to the mail stream.

"Looks like we're in for a long haul," one of my teammates remarks, stifling a yawn as he leans back in his chair. "These letters can take up to two days to process before they're loaded onto the trucks. We might as well get comfortable."

I nod in agreement, my eyes never leaving the screen as I watch the steady pulse of the GPS signal, a tiny blip of light in a sea of darkness. We've set up a makeshift command center in a nearby office building, a cramped and cluttered space filled with humming computers and buzzing radios.

And then, just as we're beginning to settle in, the signal moves. But not in the way we expected.

"It's on the move again," I say, my voice tight with tension as I lean forward in my seat, my eyes widening with each passing second. "But it's not heading deeper into the district. It's going..."

"South," one of my colleagues finishes, his brow furrowed in confusion.

We watch in stunned silence as the GPS signal winds its way through the streets of Seoul, moving with a speed and purpose that belies the twisted nature of its contents. And then, as it reaches the outskirts of the city, the realization hits us like a thunderbolt.

"It's heading for Busan."