"I'm Charlie. Charlie Manson. Perhaps you've heard of me?"
My blood runs cold as the name registers. Charles Manson - one of the most infamous criminals in American history. My mind immediately starts recalling the details of his case:
Charles Milles Manson, born in 1934, leader of the Manson Family cult in the late 1960s. Responsible for orchestrating a series of brutal murders in 1969, including the killing of actress Sharon Tate. Though he didn't personally commit the murders, he was convicted for his role in directing his followers to carry out the killings. Manson died in prison in 2017 at the age of 83.
A wave of revulsion washes over me. Unlike the other killers who've haunted my thoughts, Manson's crimes are still fresh in the collective memory. There are people alive today - victims' family members, friends, and survivors - who are still grappling with the trauma he inflicted.
Manson's presence isn't random - he's here for the same reason Bundy and Aileen were. He's been "assigned" to help me, a twisted form of penance to "purify" his sins.
My mind drifts back to conversations with Bundy and Aileen. Their words echo in my memory: the unending pain and horror they endure, the desperate need to help enough people to earn forgiveness, the uncertainty of when or if that forgiveness will ever come. It's a hellish existence, one that part of me believes they deserve.
But Manson? The thought of offering him any chance at redemption, no matter how slim, makes my stomach churn. His crimes are too recent, the wounds he inflicted on society still too raw. He should suffer more, I think. He doesn't deserve this opportunity.
"I know why you're here," I think, directing my thoughts to Manson. "But I won't work with you. You don't deserve this chance at redemption. Not yet. Maybe not ever."
Manson's voice returns, tinged with an unexpected note of resignation. "That's not how it works, man. You think I want to be here? You think I want to play guardian angel to some cop? This is beyond you or me. There's a reason I've been assigned to you, and you need to accept that."
His words only fuel my disgust and anger. "Accept it? Your victims' families are still alive, still grieving. The pain you caused is still fresh. I won't be a part of your redemption story."
"Story?" Manson's laugh is hollow. "This ain't no story, piggy. This is cosmic justice, and neither of us gets a say in how it plays out. You think I'm happy about this? But here we are, stuck with each other."
I clench my jaw, the revulsion threatening to overwhelm me. The thought of working with Manson, of potentially helping him achieve any form of redemption, feels like a betrayal of everything I stand for.
Manson sighs, a sound that seems at odds with his manic persona. "Insult or not, it's the reality we're facing. You can fight it all you want, but I'm here. And until whatever powers that be decide otherwise, I'm staying. So you might as well get used to it."
As I sit at my desk, staring blankly at the computer screen, a disturbing thought creeps into my mind. My experiences with Bundy and Aileen flash before me - their appearances, their "help," and ultimately, their disappearances once they had played their parts in assisting me.
A chilling realization sets in: if I refuse to work with Manson, if I deny him the opportunity to fulfill whatever cosmic role he's been assigned, there's a very real possibility that he could remain in my head indefinitely. The thought of Manson's voice as a permanent fixture in my mind, his twisted perspectives constantly intruding on my thoughts, is almost too much to bear.
It's a horrifying prospect - potentially even worse than reluctantly allowing him to assist me. At least with Bundy and Aileen, there was an end in sight. But with Manson? If I completely shut him out, I might be trapping myself in an endless nightmare.
I take a deep breath, trying to calm my thoughts. I need to be strategic about this, I realize. I don't have to like it, I don't have to be happy about it, but completely blocking Manson might do more harm than good in the long run.
Without directly addressing Manson, I make a decision. I'll do my best not to rely on him. I won't seek his input, won't actively engage with him unless absolutely necessary. If he offers help, I'll consider it - grudgingly - but I won't go out of my way to facilitate his "redemption."
It's a compromise I'm not entirely comfortable with, but one that feels necessary for my own sanity. I don't need to embrace Manson's presence, don't need to forgive or forget the horrors he's responsible for. But I also can't risk trapping myself in an eternal mental prison with him.
As I drive back to my work, I steel myself for what's to come. It won't be easy, balancing my disgust for Manson with the potential need to allow his input. But I'm determined to maintain control, to use this situation to my advantage without compromising my principles or disrespecting the victims of his crimes.
***
As I step into the office, the usual buzz of activity is noticeably subdued. Inspector Han's absence is palpable, his empty desk a stark reminder of recent events. The news of his suspension due to his actions in taking over Sung's case has clearly spread through the department like wildfire.
I make my way to my desk, acutely aware of the shift in atmosphere. The usual greetings and casual conversations are conspicuously absent. Instead, I'm met with averted gazes and sudden silences. It's as if I've become a pariah overnight.
Officer Kim, usually friendly and chatty, suddenly becomes engrossed in paperwork as I pass by. Detective Park, who often seeks my input on cases, pointedly turns away to engage in conversation with another colleague. The message is clear - I'm being isolated.
The realization hits me hard, but it's not unexpected. I understand exactly what's happening. In their eyes, I'm the reason Han is facing disciplinary action. And in a way, they're not wrong.
Han did take over Sung's case using his connections, primarily to protect me. It was a decision born out of the trust we'd built, a trust that now seems to have backfired spectacularly. But to many in the team, especially those who've never fully accepted me, this looks like a betrayal.
I can almost hear their unspoken thoughts: "This is what happens when you bring in an outsider." After all, I'm the only one here who didn't go through the traditional route of the Korean National Police University. My unconventional hiring has always been a point of contention, a fact that's now being thrown into sharp relief.
As I settle at my desk, the weight of their judgment bears down on me. The trust I've worked so hard to build seems to have evaporated overnight. I'm back to being the outsider, the one who doesn't quite fit in, the one who's now seen as a threat to their own.
The irony isn't lost on me. In trying to solve one case, to uncover the truth, I've inadvertently caused ripples that threaten to upend the entire team dynamic. Han's suspension is just the beginning - the fallout from this could have long-lasting implications for all of us.
The office suddenly bursts into activity as a call comes in. A new case – a missing 10-year-old girl. The tension in the air is obvious as everyone quickly gathers their things and heads towards the briefing room.
I notice that no one bothers to inform me or invite me to join, but I follow anyway, determined to stay involved. As I enter the room, Senior Detective Seo is already mid-briefing.
"The child has been missing for approximately 27 hours now," Seo states, his voice grave.
Without hesitation, I interject, "What's so special about this case that we're launching an investigation now? Usually, we wait 72 hours after the initial report."
he room falls silent, and all eyes turn to me. Senior Detective Seo's face tightens with discomfort before he responds, "The area where the child went missing is known to be unsafe. The local police have requested our urgent attention due to the potential risks involved."
I nod, processing the information. The briefing continues, but I can feel the tension my question has created.
As the meeting wraps up and people start to file out, Senior Detective Seo approaches me. His expression is a mix of reluctance and determination.
"I've got a job for you," he says, not quite meeting my eyes. He hands me a stack of discs. "These are the CCTV recordings from the area. We need you to go through them, look for any signs of the girl or suspicious activity."
The message couldn't be clearer. They're sidelining me, assigning me a task usually reserved for junior officers. They don't want me taking an important role in this investigation.
For a moment, I consider protesting, pointing out that my skills could be better utilized elsewhere. But I swallow my pride and nod, taking the discs without complaint.
"I'll get right on it," I say, my voice neutral.
As I settle at my desk and begin the tedious task of reviewing hours of footage, I can't help but reflect on my situation. This isolation, this subtle form of punishment – it's all something I've experienced before and, truthfully, expected to face again.
I got lucky with Han's support, but now that he's gone, I'm back to square one. I have to earn my place, prove my worth all over again. It's frustrating, but not insurmountable.
As I focus on the grainy CCTV footage, searching for any clue that might help find this missing child, I remind myself why I'm here. It's not about recognition or being part of the inner circle. It's about solving cases, helping people, making a difference.