Chapter 6: The Second Case (2)

As I enter my small, dimly lit apartment, I feel the weight of the day's events pressing down on me like a physical force. I collapse onto the couch, my mind reeling with the horrors I've witnessed and the daunting task that lies ahead.I close my eyes, trying to make sense of it all. Four women, brutally murdered by a killer who seems to leave no trace. A murderer who's been able to evade capture for over a year, taunting the police with their flawless crimes.

As I sit there, lost in thought, I suddenly feel a familiar presence in the back of my mind. It's Bundy, his voice low and almost amused.

"You know, your theory about the first victim not being the killer's actual first? That's brilliant," he says, a note of admiration in his tone. "I made the same mistake myself, when I first started out."

I sit up straighter, my heart pounding in my chest. "What do you mean?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

Bundy chuckles, a sound that sends chills down my spine. "Everyone has to start somewhere," he says. "Even a genius serial killer like myself. My first few attempts were sloppy, leaving evidence behind. It wasn't until later that I perfected my technique."

I feel a surge of revulsion at his casual tone, as if he's discussing a hobby rather than the taking of innocent lives. But I force myself to push past it, focusing on the potential insight he might offer.

"So you think the killer might have tried similar tactics before?" I ask, my mind racing with the possibilities. "Leaving evidence behind, making mistakes?"

"It's possible," Bundy says, his voice thoughtful. "A killer like this doesn't just emerge fully formed. They evolve, learning from their mistakes and honing their craft."

I nod slowly, the pieces starting to fall into place in my mind. If Bundy is right, and the killer has struck before, it could change everything about the investigation. We might be able to find evidence from earlier crimes, clues that could lead us to the murderer's identity.

But even as I feel a flicker of hope, I can't shake the unease that comes with relying on the insights of a notorious serial killer. Can I really trust anything that comes out of Bundy's mouth? Or is he simply toying with me, manipulating me for his own twisted purposes?

I take a deep breath, pushing those thoughts aside. Right now, Bundy's knowledge is the only advantage I have in this case. And if it means bringing a brutal killer to justice and saving innocent lives, then I'll take whatever help I can get.

"Alright," I say, my voice firm with determination. "Let's start from the beginning. If the killer has struck before, we need to find those earlier cases. Look for any unsolved murders or disappearances that fit the pattern."

I can feel Bundy's approval radiating through my mind, a sickening sensation that I do my best to ignore. "Very good," he purrs. "You're learning fast."

I grit my teeth, refusing to let him get under my skin. I may be working with a monster, but I won't let him turn me into one. I'll use his knowledge to catch this killer, and then I'll put Bundy back where he belongs - in the darkest recesses of my mind, never to be heard from again.

But first, I have a job to do. And I won't rest until the streets of Seoul are safe once more.

The next morning, I arrive at the police station with a renewed sense of purpose. The conversation with Bundy from the previous night still echoes in my mind, a chilling reminder of the task that lies ahead.

I settle into my desk, going through the motions of my daily duties. But even as I fill out paperwork and respond to routine calls, my thoughts are consumed by the serial killer case.

As soon as I have a free moment, I begin to gather information. I start with the most recent murder, combing through the case file for any details that might have been overlooked. But just as the officers said at the crime scene, there's frustratingly little to go on.

Undeterred, I widen my search. I begin to look through older cases, no matter how small or seemingly insignificant. Unsolved murders, missing persons reports, even simple assault cases - I pore over them all, searching for any common threads or patterns.

As the day wears on, I can feel the pieces starting to come together in my mind. A woman who was attacked in her home but managed to fight off her assailant. A college student who went missing after a night out with friends. A prostitute found dead in a seedy motel room, her murder written off as just another casualty of the trade.

On the surface, these cases seem unrelated. But as I dig deeper, I begin to see the connections. The similarities in the victims' profiles, the consistent lack of evidence at the crime scenes, the sense that the perpetrator is always one step ahead of the law.

As the sun begins to set outside the station windows, I finally sit back in my chair, a sense of grim satisfaction washing over me. I've compiled a list of a dozen cases that I believe may be connected to the serial killer, stretching back over the past five years.

It's a start, but I know there's still so much work to be done. I'll need to dig deeper into each case, searching for any scrap of evidence that might have been missed the first time around. I'll need to interview witnesses and survivors, piecing together a profile of the killer and their twisted motivations.

Late one night, I find myself hunched over my desk at the police station, surrounded by a sea of case files and scribbled notes. The bullpen is empty, the only sound the hum of the fluorescent lights overhead.

I've been working on the serial killer case for weeks now, pouring over every scrap of evidence and following up on every lead. But despite my best efforts, the killer has remained frustratingly elusive. Sёarᴄh the NôᴠelFirё.net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

As I sift through the files for what feels like the hundredth time, my eyes land on a small detail that I've previously overlooked. It's a report from a few years back, a minor assault case that was never solved.

The victim, a young woman, had been attacked in her home by a masked intruder. She'd managed to fight him off, but not before he'd left her with a broken arm and a deep gash on her cheek.

As I read through the report, a sense of déjà vu washes over me. The details of the attack are eerily similar to the more recent murders - the victim's profile, the lack of evidence at the scene, the sense that the perpetrator was toying with their prey.

I frantically flip through the other case files, my heart pounding in my chest. And there it is, buried deep within a stack of missing persons reports. Another young woman, vanished without a trace after a night out with friends. The same MO, the same eerie lack of clues.

And then, like a bolt of lightning, it hits me. The fingerprints. In every case, the killer had taken the victims' fingernails as a twisted trophy. But what if they weren't just trophies? What if they were something more?

I think back to my conversation with Bundy, about how the killer might have made mistakes in their early crimes. And suddenly, it all falls into place.

"The fingernails," I breathe, my voice trembling with excitement. "They're not just trophies. They're evidence!"