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

As the feminine voice echoes in my head, she introduces herself with a chilling casualness.

"Aileen Wuornos, at your service, Detective."

My mind races, recalling the information about Aileen from my police training.

Aileen Wuornos, one of America's most notorious female serial killers. Active in Florida in the late 1980s and early 1990s, she murdered at least seven men, claiming they had tried to rape her while she was working as a prostitute. She was executed by lethal injection in 2002, maintaining to the end that her actions were self-defense.

I feel my stomach churn. "Another serial killer? And a woman this time?" I mutter, my head spinning with the implications.

Aileen's voice carries a hint of dark amusement. "Disappointed, Detective? Were you hoping for someone a little less... notorious?"

I shake my head, trying to clear my thoughts. "Why are you here? What happened to Bundy?"

"Same deal as your buddy Ted," Aileen replies. "I've been 'designated' to help you, apparently to purify my sins. Don't ask me how it works, I'm as clueless as you are on that front."

"And Bundy? Where is he?" I press, an unexpected sense of loss creeping over me.

Aileen's voice turns dismissive. "No idea. One minute I'm in whatever passes for the afterlife for folks like us, the next I'm in your head. Bundy wasn't exactly there to pass the torch."

I pause, considering. "Bundy helped with cases. Does his absence mean his sins have been forgiven?"

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Aileen lets out a harsh laugh. "Forgiven? Oh, honey, you have no idea. The kind of sins we carry... they don't just vanish. We're talking years, maybe centuries of this kind of 'community service' before we even make a dent."

I sink onto my bed, my head in my hands. Just when I thought I was free of one killer's voice, another takes its place. And this time, it's a woman with a history just as dark and complex as Bundy's.

"So," Aileen's voice cuts through my thoughts, "ready to solve some crimes, Detective? I've got to say, I'm looking forward to being on the other side of the law for once."

I look up, a mix of dread and determination settling over me. It seems my journey into the darkest corners of the human psyche is far from over. In fact, with Aileen Wuornos now residing in my head, it might have just taken an even more twisted turn.

I take a deep breath, steeling myself for the conversation ahead. "Alright, Aileen," I begin, my voice firm. "If you're going to be... here, we need to establish some ground rules. The same ones I had with Bundy."

"Shoot, Detective," Aileen responds, a hint of curiosity in her tone.

I start listing off the rules, counting them on my fingers. "One, you speak only when spoken to. No unsolicited comments or interruptions, especially when I'm working. Two, your insights are appreciated, but I make the final decisions. Three, anything involving hurting innocent people is off-limits. Four, if I need silence, you give me silence.

No exceptions."

There's a pause, and for a moment, I wonder if Aileen will protest. But then her voice comes back, surprisingly acquiescent. "Understood, Detective. I can work with those rules. Honestly, they seem pretty reasonable."

I nod, a small sense of relief washing over me. "Good. I'm glad we're on the same page."

"You know," Aileen adds, "I may be a killer, but I'm not unreasonable. I get that this is your rodeo, not mine."

I lean back, considering her words. With Bundy, I had gradually learned to compartmentalize, to block out his voice when necessary. It had taken time, but eventually, I could control when and how much I listened to him.

"I hope I can manage you the same way I did with Bundy," I mutter, half to myself.

Aileen chuckles. "Oh, I'm sure you will, Detective. Might even find it easier with me. I'm told I can be quite charming when I want to be."

I can't help but snort at that. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves, Aileen. This is still a very... unusual situation."

"Fair enough," she replies. "But hey, look on the bright side. At least you've had practice with this whole 'serial killer in your head' thing. Some people might have cracked by now."

As unsettling as the situation is, I have to admit she has a point. I've navigated this bizarre territory before. And while having Aileen Wuornos in my head presents its own unique challenges, at least I'm not starting from scratch.

"Alright," I say, standing up. "I guess we'll take this one day at a time. Just remember the rules, and we should be... fine."

As I prepare for bed, trying to process this new reality, I can't help but wonder what cases lie ahead, and how Aileen's perspective might shape my investigations. It's a disconcerting thought, but also, I realize with a start, a slightly intriguing one.

***

The small restaurant buzzes with laughter and animated chatter as my team celebrates my recent promotion. The warm glow of traditional paper lanterns casts a cozy amber light over our gathering, while the intoxicating aroma of my grandmother's famous dishes fills the air. The clinking of glasses and chopsticks against plates creates a cheerful symphony of sounds.

Inspector Han sits at the head of the table, his usual stern demeanor softened by the festive atmosphere. My grandmother bustles around, her face beaming with pride as she serves dish after dish.

"Inspector Han," she says warmly, placing a steaming plate in front of him. "I remember you from last time. You must try this, it's a special recipe."

Han nods gratefully, a rare smile crossing his face. "Thank you, ma'am. Your kindness and cooking are unmatched."

Han raises her glass. "To Detective Park! May your new position bring you all the success you deserve!"

A chorus of "Cheers!" erupts around the table, and I feel my cheeks flush with a mix of embarrassment and pride.

As we're all savoring the feast, the bell above the door chimes softly. A man steps in, his eyes widening at the sight of our boisterous group. He's thin and slightly stooped, with graying hair and a worn jacket. He hesitates for a moment, then turns to leave.

My grandmother spots him and hurries over. "Oh, please, don't go. Come in, come in!"

The man, shakes his head politely. "It's okay, I can come back tomorrow."

"Nonsense," my grandmother insists. "If you can't stay, let me prepare a takeout box for you. Just five minutes, okay?"

The man reluctantly agrees, taking a seat in a corner.

Han leans over to me, his voice low. "Isn't that the man we saw when I first came here?"

I nod. "Yes, he's a regular. Comes every day."

Han's eyes soften as he watches my grandmother fuss over the man, bringing him a steaming cup of tea and chatting animatedly. "Your grandmother has a heart of gold. Not many people would be so kind to a stranger."

I smile, a warmth spreading through my chest that has nothing to do with the soju we've been drinking. "That's just who she is. She says a restaurant isn't just about food; it's about making people feel at home."

Suddenly, Han's phone rings, its sharp tone cutting through the jovial atmosphere. He glances at the screen, his brow furrowing. "Excuse me, I need to take this," he says, stepping away from the table.

As he listens, I can see the change come over him. His jaw tightens, his eyes narrow, and his posture becomes rigid. I know that look all too well; it's the same expression he wore when we worked on the challenging drug trafficking case last month.

Han ends the call and returns to the table, his voice grave as he leans in close.

"I hate to cut the celebration short, Detective Park, but we've got a new case. It's urgent."