Diary of a Murderer Read online

  My very first memory: sitting in a basin and splashing water in the middle of the yard. I was probably taking a bath. Since I was small enough to fit in the basin, I was likely three years old then, or younger. Some woman’s face was close enough to be touching mine. Probably my mother. There were other women coming and going in the background. My mother briskly scrubbed at my body, turning me this way and that, as if I were an octopus she’d bought at the fish market. I vividly remember the moment I felt her breath against my neck, and how I frowned as sunlight pierced my eyes. Since I don’t remember my sister being there, either she wasn’t born yet or she was elsewhere. Just as my bath ended, my mother grabbed my penis and said something, but I don’t remember anything after that. Except I remember thinking: That’s strange, she pulled my penis, but why does my butt hurt? Then, last, the raucous cackling of women.

  ·

  Man is a prisoner of time. A dementia patient is someone trapped in a cell where the walls are collapsing inward. They’re moving faster and faster.

  I can’t breathe.

  ·

  The more I think about it, the visit from the Police Academy cadets makes me uneasy. Won’t they get in the way of my catching Pak Jutae?

  ·

  Eunhui didn’t come home last night. I imagined the worst and prepared myself. I made my decision and got ready to find the bastard as soon as daylight hit. Then sleep overwhelmed me. When I woke up, I saw that Eunhui must have stopped by, then left again. It was noon.

  Was she acting out?

  ·

  When I skim through my journal or listen to what I’ve recorded, I discover events there I have no memory of. It’s natural, since I’m losing my memory, but it’s weird reading about your actions, thoughts, and speech as you lose them. It’s like rereading a Russian novel that you read a long time ago. The setting is familiar, and so are the characters. But it’s all somehow new. I keep asking myself, Did it really happen?

  ·

  I asked Eunhui why she hadn’t come home the night before. She avoided looking at me and kept tucking her hair behind her ears. She does this whenever I say something she doesn’t want to hear. I see the younger Eunhui beneath that habitual gesture, that immature, naïve kid who once depended on me.

  Eunhui tried to change the subject, and said, “The past is the past.”

  “Why’re you suddenly acting out?” I asked. “Where were you last night?”

  “So what if I stayed out?” Eunhui talked back, nothing like herself.

  Her flaring up means she’d definitely been with that bastard. She no longer bothers to make up excuses; she thinks I’ll forget anyway. She doesn’t know how desperately I’m trying to hold on to my memories.

  “The bastard’s a bluebeard.”

  “A bluebeard? He doesn’t have a beard.”

  Eunhui lacks refinement.

  ·

  Why’s the bastard letting Eunhui live? Is it his way of holding her hostage? Is he keeping her near him so I can’t turn him in? If so, he could just get rid of me first. What are you waiting for, Pak Jutae?

  ·

  Eunhui’s on the phone with a friend. I crouch down, my ear to the door, and listen in. She’s fallen in love with Pak. She can’t stop talking about him. She goes on about what a wonderful person he is, how good he is to her. For the first time, I feel like I’m listening to the undiluted voice of a woman in love. Eunhui’s never lived in a typical family, since she lost her parents when she was young, then lived with me ever since. For the first time, Eunhui is lost in fantasies of having her own family. But Eunhui, why that bastard, of all men? Why, of all people, is the bastard you love fated to die at the hands of the same man who killed your parents?

  ·

  I want to kill Pak Jutae, and soon. But I keep losing track of my mind. I feel impatient. If I keep on like this, will I end up a man unable to do anything at all? I feel depressed.

  ·

  I found Detective Ahn’s business card in Eunhui’s wallet. Why is he pursuing me? To realize his final goal in life?

  ·

  Eunhui has begun outright avoiding me ever since I’d warned her about Pak, but I’m trying not to feel disappointed in her. Someday when my brain is shriveled up and I can’t remember anything, when I become totally helpless, or even when I’m dead and buried, Eunhui will, I hope, discover my journal. She’ll hear my recordings. Then she’ll learn about what kind of person I was. She’ll know what I had planned to do for her sake.

  ·

  Eunhui said, “A policeman visited me at the lab today.” When I asked her who it was, Detective Ahn fit her description.

  She added, “He asked me about my mother.”

  “So what did you say?”

  “As if I know anything about her! I said I knew nothing.”

  “Why would a detective come around after all this time, asking about your mother?”

  “How would I know? I just told him to tell me if he finds out anything.”

  “And?”

  “He said he would. But something was a little off.”

  “What?”

  “You told me my mother died. But the detective said that she was declared missing. He said, as for my father, the hospital issued a death certificate so he’s officially reported dead, but my mother isn’t. She was missing for so long that she was finally declared dead. Can you tell me what happened? Something feels wrong.”

  “You said that to Detective Ahn? That something wasn’t right?”

  “Yes. He said he agreed.”

  “It’s what the orphanage director told me, that your mother was dead. So of course I always believed this.”

  “Where do you think she is now?”

  “Who knows? She might even be somewhere very nearby.”

  In our yard, for instance.

  ·

  When I replay the recorder, I discover that I’ve recently saved several songs on it. I’ve got songs by Kim Choo Ja and Cho Yong-pil. There’s Park In-soo’s “Spring Rain” as well: Spring rain, spring rain, you make me cry. Till when will you keep falling? You make me cry, spring rain.

  Why had I sung these tunes?

  I’m not sure anymore.

  Because I’m not sure, I get angry. I try to delete them, but I don’t know how to, and finally give up.

  ·

  After napping, I woke up and found Pak sitting at my bedside. He pressed firmly down on my forehead so I couldn’t get up. He said, “I know who you are.” I asked, “What do you mean, you know who I am?” He said that as soon as he’d laid eyes on me, he knew we were the same breed. And that he’d known instantly that I recognized him, too.

  I asked, “Are you going to kill me?”

  He shook his head. He said he was preparing a more amusing game, then opened the door and left. As expected, my hunch was correct. But what game was he planning?

  ·

  Shame and guilt: Shame is when you’re embarrassed for yourself. Guilt lies outside yourself, with others. Some people probably feel guilt but no shame. They fear being punished by others. Me, I feel shame but I don’t feel guilt. I’ve never feared what people think, and I’m not afraid of punishment. Still, my sense of shame is extreme. I’ve even killed someone solely out of shame—my type of person is the more dangerous kind.

  Letting Pak kill Eunhui would be a shameful thing. I’d never forgive myself.

  ·

  Over the years, I’ve saved many lives. Even if those lives belong to animals that don’t speak.

  ·

  When I come to my senses, Detective Ahn is sitting in front of me. I have absolutely no recall of when he came over and sat on the veranda and began talking. He keeps talking. It’s like watching a TV show that’s already half over.

  “. . . that store, of all places. So of course I’d go nuts. Would you—”

  I cut him off. “What store do you mean?”

  “I’m speaking of the cigarette store. The store where I said I always bought cigarettes.
”

  “What about that store?”

  Detective Ahn might look like a big bear, but his gaze is at once indifferent and sharp.

  “Your memory must really come and go. I said the murdered woman used to work there.”

  Now I know where this is heading. My eighth victim was someone folks called the “cigarette girl.” So Detective Ahn had been a regular there. But how had our conversation led to her?

  “And?”

  “She still shows up in my dreams, begging me to catch her killer.”

  I said, “Be sure to catch him.”

  Detective Ahn said, “I’m going to.”

  “But isn’t getting the serial killer who’s on the loose right now more urgent?”

  “That’s the Special Investigation Bureau’s task. As for me, since I’m just holding out till retirement, I’ll stick to my hobbies until my time’s up.”

  Detective Ahn retrieved a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and stuck one between his lips, defensively repeating, “These cigarettes, so bad for your health, are supposed to be good for Alzheimer’s.”

  I said, “I should have taken up smoking.”

  “Would you like a smoke?” he asked, offering me one.

  “I don’t know how to.”

  The cigarette smoke slowly rose up one of the veranda’s wooden columns.

  “Don’t say you’ve never lit up before,” Ahn said. “Anyway, your dog seems to like people. What’s his name?”

  He made a clucking sound to attract the dog. From a fixed, safe distance, the yellow-haired mutt wagged his tail.

  “He’s not ours,” I said. “I should close the front gate or something—everyone keeps coming and going as they please.”

  “But the dog was here last time, too. He’s not yours?”

  “I’m telling you, he showed up one day and keeps hanging around. Scram!”

  “Leave him alone—he’s a tame one. But what’s that in his mouth?”

  “A cow bone. The neighbor down the road is always making beef-bone soup, so he would’ve gotten it from there. It smells foul. How can a person live day and night on beef-bone soup alone?” As an afterthought, I added casually, “So, after all this time, why hasn’t the criminal you’ve been pursuing not been hauled in? Maybe it’s because he’s already dead.”

  “That’s possible. But he wouldn’t have lived in peace. Even my sleep is uneasy, so there’s no way a guy who’s killed so many could sleep like a baby. If he’s dead, he would have caught every nasty disease out there first and suffered. Don’t they say that stress is the source of all illnesses?”

  “Do you think it would influence dementia, too?”

  His eyes became alert. “What? Murder?”

  I gestured dismissively. “No, I mean stress.”

  “There’s probably some connection.”

  “What person doesn’t have stress? That’s life’s . . .”

  I couldn’t remember what was next, so I sat there dumbly. Detective Ahn said carefully, “Tonic?”

  “That’s it. Isn’t it the fuel of life?”

  We laughed on and on for no reason. The mutt crouched and barked at us.

  ·

  Everything’s starting to get mixed up. I think I’ve jotted something down, but when I check, there’s nothing there. Things I’m sure are on my recorder, I find written down instead. And the opposite happens, too. Memory, records, delusions—I can’t separate them anymore. The doctor said I should listen to music. I followed his advice and began listening to classical at home. Who knows if it’ll help. He also wrote me a new prescription.

  ·

  Within days, my condition improved. Was it because of the new meds? I felt better and wanted to go out. My confidence returned. My muddled head was clearer, and my memory seemed to be improving. My doctor and Eunhui agreed with me. The doctor explained that dementia often accompanies depression in old age, and that the depression can make the dementia worse. So if you treat the depression, dementia seems to slow its progress or at least temporarily improve.

  For the first time in ages, my confidence soars. I feel capable of doing everything. While my mind’s alert, I’ve got to do what I’ve been putting off.

  ·

  They found another female body. Like the others, it was in a ditch on a country road. The victim’s bindings and the location where she was dumped matched the other murders. The police increased the number of checkpoints and now crowd around them like a pack of wild dogs.

  ·

  It suddenly occurred to me: I might be jealous of Pak.

  ·

  Now and then I think, If I’m caught, they can’t actually punish me. It’s strange. I should be happy about it, but I’m not. Instead, it feels as if I’ve been abandoned by the human race. I don’t know philosophy. There’s a beast inside me. A beast doesn’t have a moral code. I don’t have any morals, but why do I feel this way? Maybe because I’m old. Maybe only luck has kept me from getting caught. But why do I feel so unhappy? And what exactly is happiness? Feeling alive—isn’t that happiness? Wasn’t I happiest when day after day I was thinking about murder or planning one? Back then I was as taut as a stringed instrument. Then as now, I’ve lived only for the present. There’s been no past and there’s no future.

  A few years ago at the dentist’s, I found a book with the title Finding Flow: The Psychology of Engagement with Everyday Life and skimmed through it. The author emphasized the importance of immersion, the joy it brings you. Look here, Mr. Author, when I was young, older people got worried when a kid became obsessed with something. They would call him single-minded. Back then, only the crazy ones had that kind of focus. If you knew how engrossed I was way back when I was killing, and how enjoyable it was, if you knew how dangerous obsession is, you’d shut up. Immersion is dangerous. And therefore, enjoyable.

  I don’t remember any of the last twenty-five years I’ve spent not hurting a soul. The boring daily life was followed by more of the same. I’ve lived far too long as this wrong person.

  I want to become obsessed again.

  ·

  After my car accident, I suffered from severe delirium. It was so bad that the nurses bound me to the bedpost. Since my body was tied up, my mind fluttered away. I dreamed a lot. One eerily vivid dream still stays with me as if it had actually happened. In the dream I am a company man and have three kids. The two older ones are daughters, and the youngest is a son. I take the packed lunch my wife made and head to work at what looks like a government building. The sweet boredom of a stable life where everything is known. Not once in my life have I felt this.

  After I eat lunch with my colleagues, play a bit of pool, and return to the office, a female colleague tells me that my wife called. On the phone she screamed, “Darling, darling, darling!” And the phone cuts off just as she says, “Please save me!” While speeding home I try to speak but can’t. When I open the door, I see my wife and three children laid out in a row. At that moment, the police rush in and handcuff me. “What is this?” I say. “I sped home in order to catch myself?”

  Once the delirium passes, I feel bereft whenever I recall the dream. But what had I lost? The brief taste of ordinary life that I’d been exiled from? My wife and kids? Grieving for something that was never mine didn’t make sense. It was probably just hallucinations from the anesthetic. So does that mean my brain can’t tell the difference? But my relief the moment the dream-police handcuff me is something to chew on. It’s what a person would feel when, after a long journey in which he saw everything the world had to offer, he returns to his old, run-down house. I don’t belong to the world of packed lunches and the office, but to the one of blood and handcuffs.

  ·

  There isn’t much I do well. I excel at only one thing, but it’s the kind I can’t brag about. Think of the countless people who end up in the grave proud of something they can never share with others.

  ·

  Is there anything more ironic than forgetting to take the meds I
need to slow the decline of my cognitive skills? I put dots on the calendar to remind myself to take my pills, but sometimes I forget what the dots mean and stand staring blankly at the calendar.

  I remember a bad joke I heard ages ago. A father tells his son to get some candles when the electricity suddenly goes out.

  The son says, “Dad, it’s so dark. There’s no way I’ll be able to find the candles.”

  His father says, “You fool, just turn on the lights and look for them.”

  My relationship with meds goes something like this joke: I need a decent memory to take the pills, but since that’s what I don’t have, I can’t remember to take them.

  ·

  People want to understand evil. A pointless desire. Evil is like a rainbow. It retreats at the same pace as your approach. Evil is evil because you can’t understand it. In medieval Europe, weren’t sodomy and homosexuality also sins?

  ·

  Composers probably leave their musical scores behind so that others can play them again in the distant future. When a musical motif comes to a composer, his head must explode in fireworks. In this state, it can’t be easy for him to calmly retrieve paper and jot notes down. There’s a hint of comedy in the calm of meticulously writing down notations such as con fuoco—like fire, with passion. But inside every artist’s inner world there is a place for the stifled office clerk. I guess it’s necessary. That’s how the score, and the composer, will be passed down the generations.

  Some composers probably don’t leave any written musical scores behind. In the same way, there were likely some powerful martial arts masters who only used their skills to protect themselves and died without passing down their secrets. And the poems I wrote with my victims’ blood, my poems that forensics officers call the scene of the crime, are buried in the cabinets of the police station.

  ·

  I keep thinking about future memories, since the future is the very thing I’m trying hard not to forget. I’m fine forgetting the past when I once killed dozens of people. I’ve lived for decades with no connection to murder. So it’s a good thing. But I can’t forget the future—namely, my plan. The plan: to kill Pak Jutae. If I forget this future, Eunhui will meet a grisly death at his hands. But my Alzheimer’s-diseased brain is doing the opposite: it preserves my oldest memories most vividly, and stubbornly refuses to record the future. It’s as if my brain is repeatedly warning me that I don’t have a future. But when I think about it, I realize that without a future, the past might have no meaning either.