Diary of a Murderer

by Young-Ha Kim

  ·

  My heating bill is too high. The cost of living for everything is skyrocketing.

  ·

  I was shocked when I flipped through my notebook. The bastard was that bastard. How was this possible? I feel possessed by a ghost. The guy had calmly walked into my house. As Eunhui’s fiancé, at that. And I hadn’t even recognized him. Did he think I was acting? Or did he believe that I’d actually forgotten him?

  ·

  I’m reading a book when a note falls out of it. It’s yellowed, which means I’d probably written down the quote a long time ago:

  “And if you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss will also gaze into you.”—Nietzsche

  ·

  Mid-breakfast, I asked Eunhui, “How did you meet this Pak Jutae?”

  She said, “By chance. It was truly by chance.”

  Wisdom begins when people stop believing in the phrase “by chance,” which they use out of habit.

  ·

  Sometimes murder is the neatest solution. But not always.

  ·

  That’s right. The phone number Pak gave me. The number the bastard wrote down himself. Where did I put it?

  I look for it all day but can’t find the memo with his number. I comb through the house but find nothing. It’s getting harder and harder to find things. Had Eunhui secretly thrown it out?

  ·

  The lady at the local corner store laughed at me and said, “Your shoes are on backwards.”

  It took me a long time to understand what she meant. What does it mean, wearing your shoes backwards? Is it a figure of speech?

  ·

  After Eunhui left for work, I found a nursing home brochure on her desk.

  The ad copy was colorful and enticing, from “A Refuge for the Body and Mind” to “Hotel Facilities.” Would my mind and body really find rest there? I put the brochure back on the desk. Eunhui is dreaming of marrying the man she loves and building a home together . . . Shipping me off—the obstacle—to a retirement home . . . Were these Eunhui’s ideas, or Pak’s schemes?

  ·

  I found his phone number on Eunhui’s cell phone. I went shopping downtown, and after buying something, I asked the male clerk for help. One good thing about being old is that people assume you’re harmless. The clerk did as I’d asked and, pretending he was a deliveryman, called Pak Jutae.

  The clerk explained, “I’m calling because the address on the invoice is too blurry.”

  It looked like Pak was simply giving out his address without suspicion. After writing it down, the clerk handed it to me.

  Errand completed, the clerk beamed at me and asked, “So what happened?”

  I said, “My granddaughter ran away from home.”

  The clerk laughed. Why was he laughing? Does it mean he understands? Or is he mocking me?

  ·

  I began tailing Pak. He spends most of his days at home, then takes the jeep out at four or five p.m. He rarely goes to places like teahouses. Sometimes he stands in someone’s field or fruit orchard and looks around. It’s as if he’s in real estate and sizing up property, but then he doesn’t meet enough people for that line of work. Sometimes he goes out late at night and speeds along without a clear destination. My instincts tell me that he might not be hunting animals. If my guess is right, would this be God’s idea of a classy joke? Or God’s judgment?

  ·

  I contemplated turning Pak in to the police. What did they call it, the thing the courts give out? That’s right, a warrant. They need it to search the bastard’s house and car. But if they search and don’t find concrete evidence, they’ll release him. Then he’ll suspect me—he’s already wary and keeping an eye on me—and if the bastard is really a killer, Eunhui or I would be his next target. I see us through his eyes. A seventy-year-old man with Alzheimer’s and a fragile woman in her twenties living in isolation near a mountain. We must look like easy prey.

  ·

  I sat Eunhui down and told her about Pak Jutae. What I’d seen in his trunk when I’d rear-ended his jeep. How bright and fresh the blood had been. How he had fled. After that, how long he had kept his eye on me. If such a man ends up in front of her “by chance,” what that “chance” meant, and how much danger she was in.

  Eunhui listened patiently, then said, “Dad, I truly have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  I tried again, but she reacted the same way. She said I was speaking so incoherently that she couldn’t understand me. I felt the way I had when I’d first learned English and rambled on in front of an American. I did my very best to speak, the other person tried hard to understand, but nothing got communicated. Eunhui only took in the fact that I intensely disliked her man. I said, “It’s not that I hate him; I’m warning you that you’re in danger. You’re dating an extremely dangerous man. Your meeting him was definitely not chance.”

  Our talk ultimately fails. Eunhui’s patience runs out, and as I become more impatient, I become even more inarticulate. As usual, language is slower than action, unclear and ambiguous. When now is the time to act.

  I hear the sound of Eunhui’s muffled weeping from her room.

  ·

  I cautiously tracked down a phone booth without surveillance cameras nearby, and from there called 112 to report Pak. I muffled the receiver with a cloth and disguised my voice. I told the police that Pak Jutae with his hunting-style jeep could be the serial killer they were looking for. At first, the operator didn’t understand me.

  I tried to slowly, clearly describe Pak’s jeep. This time the operator seemed to get it, but did not take me very seriously. He asked me to identify myself. I said I couldn’t—I was worried about my safety. He asked me why I thought Pak Jutae was the killer. I answered, “You should have the car examined. I saw blood coming out of it.”

  ·

  I definitely entered the room to do something, but since I can’t for the life of me remember what that something is, I stand around absent-mindedly for a while. It’s as if the God who’d been masterminding me had let go of the controls. I stand there blankly, not knowing what to do. What happens if I forget like this again just as I catch Pak?

  ·

  The news says that a suspected serial killer had been held and interrogated by the police, then released without charge. Why had the police let Pak go? Had they really not found anything? Times have changed, but they’ve remained incompetent.

  Will I have to deal with him myself? Is there really no other way?

  ·

  For the first time in my life, I began considering murder out of necessity. If a man whose hobby was collecting high-end audio gear had to buy an amp for a work event, he would probably feel the way I did.

  ·

  I’ve decided on a final goal before I die. To kill Pak Jutae. Before I forget who he is.

  ·

  I once heard about an American struck by lightning who became a musical genius overnight. He began playing the piano though he’d never had lessons, manically composed music, and later became an orchestra conductor. As for me, after damaging my head in a car accident, I lost all interest in murder and ended up becoming like everyone else. I lived like that for over twenty years, but now I’m preparing for a murder, not because I want to but because I have to. God is commanding me to make banal my sacred misdeeds.

  ·

  The doctor said that dementia patients struggle with multitasking. If you put a teapot on the gas range and then start doing something else, nine out of ten times you’ll end up burning the pot. He said that even washing dishes and doing laundry at the same time could become difficult. For women, one of the first activities they have to give up is cooking. Cooking, surprisingly, requires a systematic completion of several tasks at the same time.

  The doctor advised, “It’s best to simplify every aspect of your life and develop the habit of doing one thing at a time.”

  I decided to follow the doctor’s advice. For the time being, I have to focus with all that’s
left of my abilities. The bastard can’t be taken lightly. He’s young, strong, and armed. He’s also a good talker who’s charmed Eunhui into marriage in no time. He’ll have two goals for approaching her. The first, to get a better look at me. The second, to kill her. If he needs to, he’ll probably wipe me out, too. But the bastard already knows that I have Alzheimer’s. If he decides he doesn’t need to kill me, he won’t overextend himself. It’s Eunhui he’s lusting for, not me. I have to get rid of him before that happens. The news reports make me think that the bastard kidnaps young women, brutally tortures them, and kills them.

  After twenty-five years, I’ve returned to the work I am best at. But now I’m too old for it. One improvement on the past is that I no longer need to secure an escape route. You could say that the sum of hunting is in the pursuit and capture. In contrast, what’s most important in murder isn’t to seize the desired object, but to safely escape. It’s important to catch, but you can’t be caught yourself. This time will be different. I’m going to give everything I have to catch the bastard. This time the goal isn’t murder, but the hunt.

  When hunting, the first step is to find the prey’s territory. Second is to scout a good location and stake it out. Third, not to miss a single chance to capture it. If you fail, return to step one.

  ·

  Now that I have decided to catch Pak Jutae, my appetite has suddenly returned. I sleep well and feel good. I’m starting to get confused about whether I’m doing it for Eunhui’s sake or for mine.

  ·

  Pak lives on the first and basement floors of a two-story house. If you follow a small field to the back, it leads to a building that used to be a cowshed. The jeep’s nose is rammed into the back of the shed, and its rear juts out. Without pushing the door open and walking into the yard, it’s hard to see anything. A cleverly placed barrier of bush clover almost perfectly blocks the house from view. This kind of house may protect your privacy, but it’s fatally weak against trespassers, because if someone breaks in, it’s impossible to know what’s happening inside. So that means Pak is fearless about outside enemies. The house quietly betrays his thoughts: I can take care of my own property. The only thing I care about is staying out of sight.

  A granny well over seventy lives on the second floor. What is her connection to Pak? Was she renting, or were they related? In any case, she probably wouldn’t get in the way. She has a stoop and has trouble moving.

  I’m tired. I’m calling it a day.

  ·

  Eunhui was getting ready for work when I saw that her neck was bruised. It’s the kind of mark left after someone’s choked you. I ask Eunhui about it. She automatically pulls in her neck as if trying to get rid of it altogether. I press on and ask her if that Pak bastard did this to her.

  She says, “Please don’t call anyone you want a bastard, Dad.”

  “Then what happened to your neck?”

  Eunhui tells me that I went into her bedroom and tried to choke her. I can’t believe her and I can’t not believe her. Everything about me is like this now.

  “Why did you do it?” she says. “Dad, you’re not that kind of person. It was like you went insane. You nearly killed me.”

  “A lie. You’re lying.”

  “Why would I lie? Please, please accept the facts. Dad, you’ve got Alzheimer’s!”

  Eunhui throws the word “Alzheimer’s” at me like a hammer. I suddenly feel drained. I have no memory of it, not even as vague traces of a dream. I feel lost. If I’d really done this to her, it’s a miracle she is still alive, since I have powerful arms. I beg Eunhui to forgive me. I also tell her to always lock her door before bed. After blowing her nose and wiping her tears, she snatches the nursing home pamphlet I’d seen the other day from a drawer. I ignore it, but she doesn’t give in.

  “Dad, it’s too much for me. And for your sake, you should be at the home anyway. What if something happens when I’m not here?”

  I understand. Who wants to die choking in their sleep?

  “All right,” I say. “I’ll take a look.”

  According to the law, Eunhui can have me locked up in a mental hospital without my consent. If you make a call, an ambulance arrives and stocky men put you in a straitjacket and throw you in an isolation ward. That’s it. Unless the family gives permission for your release, you can be locked up forever. I’d heard of cases in which family members, unhappy with their inheritance, banded together, forced their drunk father into a mental hospital, and started negotiating. I’d already been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, so Eunhui could easily get rid of me. Right this minute if she wanted to.

  A nursing home would be better than a mental hospital, but I don’t want to go anywhere just yet. Either way, I don’t have much time left as a free man.

  “Let’s go for a visit.” Eunhui spoke fervently as she held my hand. “Just have a look, that’s all.”

  I gave in and agreed. Only after Eunhui left for work, I remembered: I had choked Eunhui’s mother to death.

  ·

  I bought a voice recorder people use to study languages and hung it around my neck by a cord. No matter how simple the task, I record it before I do something. Afterward, I do it. Midway, if I forget what I’m doing, I press Replay. I’ll listen to what I’ve just recorded and try it again.

  I say, “I’ll go to the bathroom and pee,” then go to the bathroom. I say, “I’m going to boil water and make coffee,” and go boil the water. The person I was a few minutes ago gives orders to the person I’ll be a few minutes later. Like this, the person I am is endlessly divided. Even when I’m zoning out, I’ll see the recorder and automatically press the Replay button. I’m not in desperate need of it yet, but I’m preparing for the worst. I have to tirelessly repeat for my body to remember.

  ·

  I tried talking to Eunhui again, but she just cried quietly as I spoke. Why was she crying? All I did was warn her of the danger she was in, so why does she look so aggrieved? I was only worried about her. I have no way of understanding such complex emotions. Was it sadness, or anger, or grief? I couldn’t tell. Her eyes wet with tears, she pleaded, “Please don’t talk that way about Jutae anymore. It hurts to listen to it. He’s a good man. Calling the man I’m to marry a serial killer—aren’t you taking it too far? How can you suspect a person like that without evidence?” In any case, she finally fully comprehends my point. That alone is a relief. At least I’ve succeeded in planting doubt about the bastard in her heart. What destroyed the ever-victorious Othello was Iago’s seed of doubt.

  “You’re not even my real father!” she said again, and fled to her room. She’s right, but I feel gravely insulted.

  ·

  I’m lying down when I hear footsteps coming toward my house. Five young folks in uniform. At first I thought they were the police.

  “Hello,” they said. There were three men, two women. I asked who they were, and they said they were students from the Police Academy.

  I invited them inside and asked, “What’s this about?”

  They said they were in the middle of a group project. Their assignment was to select and investigate old unsolved cases. They showed me a few articles they had photocopied. They were all about murders I’d committed. It was kind of amazing to me that events from decades ago still came back so vividly.

  One of them said, “Our group suspects that these murders are connected—the work of a serial killer. Though no one thought of it that way back then.”

  The police cadets rattled on excitedly. The girls were pretty and the boys, handsome. Even in the middle of discussing serial murder, they would burst out laughing for no reason. These kids, they think playing FBI is fun.

  I said, “I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about. Why have you showed up at my house making a racket?”

  Instead of an answer, a new character appeared as if out of a scene in a play. A man around his mid-fifties. The students stood up and saluted him.

  He said, “It’s all right. Sit down.”<
br />
  The new character was Detective Ahn. He introduced himself and handed me his business card. He said he couldn’t just send the students out alone, so he had accompanied them. He sat behind them, appearing indifferent, but his gaze cast about the corners of the house out of professional habit.

  When he said, “Carry on,” the students became more insistent, their faces newly flushed with determination.

  One said, “We drew lines connecting the locations of these cases. Here, please have a look.”

  The lines they’d made on the map formed an octagon, and the village I lived in was at the center. A female student with a small face and a high-bridged nose, her eyes shining with excitement, shoved the map at me.

  She said, “We believe that if the criminal exists, he’d be in this area . . .”

  My neighborhood.

  “. . . based on what we’ve deduced. Though of course there’s no chance he’d still be living here.”

  A hasty conclusion. Detective Ahn, who’d been drowsing, suddenly straightened and frowned at the students.

  I murmured, “In our neighborhood.”

  “Sir, you’ve lived here the whole time, so we wondered if you ever saw anyone suspicious back then.”

  I said, “Back then, there were a lot of spies. Since the neighborhood’s close to the North, a lot of them did come over. If a friend we spent time with disappeared for a few days, we’d say, ‘Uncle must have come.’ Uncle from the North, we meant. No one said as much, but everyone knew what was going on. Outsiders hiking in the area were often stopped and interrogated as potential spies.”

  A tall male student became impatient and interrupted. “We’re not looking for spies.”

  I raised my hand and stopped him. “What I’m saying is that if someone looked suspicious, they would’ve already been arrested twice over. I mean, people became rich overnight back then by turning spies in and collecting the reward money.”

  The lanky male student said, “So you’re saying that the criminal would be one of those arrested as a spy and then released. But how do we find out?”