It was late at night, close to dawn. Jaeha, who had gotten into a taxi quite drunk, ruminated on Daeyoung’s words the entire way home.
“That Myeongbu place has been around so long that there are lots of strange stories. Two ghost stories and about five suicide incidents? Forget the ghosts? The suicides aren’t much to look at either.”
Daeyoung, whom he’d met at the raw fish restaurant, told him in detail about the suicide incidents. Two guys who said they’d die because their love was broken—adultery is love too—one guy who got drunk and caused a ruckus saying he’d leave this world, and two guys who failed in business and nearly dragged down other business establishments as drowning ghosts. These weren’t particularly interesting stories.
When he asked if there was anything else, this side also held firm saying they couldn’t reveal Person A unless he gave something, so he threw out a fictional character combining several people. Daeyoung quickly guessed very close to the real name within those conditions.
“I heard something, so I should keep talking, right? This is pure tabloid stuff. You know there was a fire at Myeongbu Hotel. Apparently that fire was arson. The suspect was, get this, a kid under ten years old who was staying with his uncle and set the fire. The uncle died naked in his sleep? Something like that. But there’s no way a fire incident with a fatality wouldn’t be in the records. It’s just a rumor.”
Daeyoung believed firmly that there was nothing as certain as an arson case, that it was a made-up incident—why wouldn’t it be in the newspapers or police records when it was an incident that would mobilize both the fire department and police station? But it didn’t sound that way to Jaeha’s ears. The fire wasn’t the problem.
A young boy. Arson.
What if it was Jung Kyungwoo? With the skill to swing a steel pipe at Jaeha, for whatever reason, he could easily have set a fire. The more he heard, the more certain it was Myeongbu Hotel.
The next day at work, Jaeha called Myeongbu Hotel directly. After identifying himself and vaguely saying he needed it for an investigation, he requested the name of the hotel general manager working at that time. The employee who had answered well when he’d asked before said they’d look into it and give an answer, then really did call back 20 minutes later.
—Does this have nothing to do with our hotel at all?
The middle-aged man who identified himself as the general manager confirmed again.
“Of course. I have business with someone who worked there. If necessary, I can issue a warrant.”
The grounds for issuing a warrant could be created easily enough. Could there really be not a speck of dust in a large hotel that had operated for so long?
The manager, sensing it would become very troublesome if a warrant was issued, said there was no need to go that far and gave the name and residential address of the manager at that time. Of course, he added that there was no guarantee they still lived there.
“Thank you for your cooperation.”
After hanging up, Jaeha passed the manager’s name to a prosecution investigator through Administrative Officer Lee. It wasn’t difficult to look up an address and phone number even without a warrant.
“Um, Prosecutor.”
Administrative Officer Lee, who came into the office later, approached looking troubled.
“The investigator says he can’t look it up?”
Then I’ll go find the investigator myself and ask. But Administrative Officer Lee shook her head.
“That person is deceased.”
Jaeha raised his head. Just from making eye contact, the officer added a detailed explanation.
“From stomach cancer two years ago. It’s that age, you know.”
“I see. Understood.”
Without showing disappointment outwardly, Jaeha told the officer she’d done well and to go ahead. After that, while going through the materials he’d been looking at, Jaeha suddenly picked up the intercom.
—Yes, Prosecutor.
“Myeongbu Hotel is under Jongno Police Station jurisdiction, right? Look into arson cases and child disappearance cases handled by Jongno Police Station at that time. About 3 years before and after the year I’m telling you. All of them. Don’t miss a single one.”
—Understood.
After finishing that call and working for a while, the officer came in again with a guilty expression.
“I called Jongno Station. They said the digital records from that time were lost during intranet expansion work. Document materials remain, so they told us to come directly and look for them. Should I go now?”
“No. Leave it.”
As Administrative Officer Lee was leaving, Jaeha suddenly spoke again.
“What year’s data was lost?”
The year Administrative Officer Lee answered fit exactly within the range Jaeha had expected. Even if digital records didn’t disappear easily, they sometimes vanished for absurd reasons. There was also a high possibility that someone had manipulated that absurd reason. As always, there was insufficient evidence.
When it was time to leave work, Jaeha left the district prosecutors’ office first. He planned to go directly to Jongno Station.
Since he’d contacted them in advance, the Jongno Station employee in charge of document management took Jaeha straight to the document storage. Recent documents were clean white sheets of paper, but the further inside he went, yellowed bundles of paper were piled layer upon layer inside cabinets.
“Are you looking for unsolved cases? Please tell me the year and classification.”
“Yes. Arson and kidnapping. Give me the duty logs too. The year is…”
When he specified the lost year exactly, the employee said, ‘Ah, we already pulled that one out,’ and pointed to a small space arranged in the corner of the document storage. On an old steel desk, thick bundles no less substantial than district prosecutors’ office documents were waiting for Jaeha.
“Shall I help you look?”
He could feel the desire for him to decline. Jaeha waved his hand saying he could look on his own so it was fine. Then the employee, with a noticeably brighter expression, said ‘If you have anything to ask, please ask,’ and went to do their own work.
The profession that flipped through papers enough to use more thimbles and finger guards than a seamstress was precisely a prosecutor. How else could a prosecutor’s occupational diseases be not shouting but turtle neck, tunnel syndrome, and dry eyes? As a bonus, rhinitis from paper dust also circulated frequently.
He went through the arson and kidnapping sections very quickly. There were no suspicious cases. As Daeyoung had said, there were none involving Myeongbu Hotel at all.
“Hmm.”
Next, he examined the duty logs. Even though it was the era when digitization was beginning, since minor matters were mostly handwritten at that time, neat ballpoint pen writing was densely packed.
At this point, he took off his jacket and put it aside, then began searching through documents in earnest. He went through quickly, pointing at each one.
In the midst of turning pages, Jaeha stopped at a certain section.
Child disappearance report
Myeongbu Hotel
Even when he looked again with fresh eyes, it remained clearly there. After checking that date, he searched through kidnapping cases from that time again. Nothing was recorded. He went outside and called the employee again.
“Excuse me, where is the disappearance data for this year?”
The employee quickly found the data Jaeha wanted. But as half-expected, no clues existed within it. He called the employee again and showed them the duty log.
“Is the person who received the disappearance report still here?”
“Ah, this person? They retired a few years ago.”
“Do you have contact information? I want to ask about a case.”
At the prosecutor’s request—a colleague broadly speaking, a superior narrowly speaking—the employee found the contact information without much resistance.
He called right there on the spot. The connection signal continued then cut off. Jaeha copied the necessary parts from the duty log then left the police station.
When he got in his car and called again, the other party didn’t answer.
‘Did the phone number change?’
When he started the engine, Bluetooth automatically connected. Jaeha started the car and pressed the steering wheel call button once more. Just when he thought it would disconnect again, the call connected.
—Hello?
The person who answered was a young woman. The detective in charge was definitely male. Jaeha suppressed his disappointment and asked if this wasn’t the phone number of a detective who worked at Jongno Police Station.
—That’s my dad. Who is this?
He’d hardly expected this. He was lucky.
“This is Prosecutor Seo Jaeha from the Special Division of the Central District Prosecutors’ Office. I’m calling because I have questions about a case he handled in the past. Can I speak with your father?”
—Ah, that’s a bit difficult.
“Why is that?”
—My dad right now, it’s a bit hard for him to speak…
“I really need help. Please tell him I won’t cause the detective any trouble.”
—It’s not that. Um. If you really need it, I think you’ll have to come here, Prosecutor.
“Pardon?”
—My dad is being treated for a stroke.
It was bad luck. For the detective in charge, for his daughter, and for Jaeha too.
—He speaks fairly well, but it’s hard to understand over the phone.
The daughter then gave him an address. Originally working in Seoul, as his children settled in Busan one by one, the detective and his wife had been living in Busan for quite some time now. She also added that the number Jaeha knew was originally used by the detective but the daughter had inherited it.
Since she told him to come on a weekend when the family was together, Jaeha decided to visit on late Sunday afternoon. The order was to meet the detective and hear the detailed story after parting with Kyungwoo.
It wasn’t the best timing. But it wasn’t the worst either. At least he could enjoy himself with a light heart before learning about Jung Kyungwoo’s past.
*
—Executive Director, it’s a call from Professor Kim Chungkyu. Shall I connect you?
The secretary asked via intercom. Frivolous in a way that didn’t suit the title of professor. Or rather, perhaps he’d lost his sense precisely because he lived without any hardship.
“Connect it.”
After two signal tones, Kyungwoo picked up the receiver.
—Executive Director Jung.
“What’s the occasion? Calling the company this late at night.”
—I don’t know your number, you see.
“Noona would know.”
—I don’t want to bother my wife.
Two things in Professor Kim’s answer grated on him. First, the fact that he lumped ‘that’ Jung Kyungrok into a simple designation as “my wife,” and second, the fact that he thought it was fine to bother Kyungwoo.
“What do you want? I’m busy.”
—…I don’t think I heard how that nephew’s case I mentioned before turned out.
Professor Kim, whose feelings were hurt by the cold response as he let out a brief groan, still shamelessly laid out his business.
“From what I looked into, I heard it’s an indictment. He might get an actual sentence, or if he’s lucky, maybe a fine.”
—No, how can you say that after saying you’d look into it?
At the absurd reaction, Kyungwoo let out a low snort.
“So didn’t I look into it for you?”
—When I said to look into it, that’s…
He must have thought that if asked to look into it, it would be appropriately smoothed over and handled.
“I don’t know what you want. Anything beyond this, discuss with Noona.”
—If I was going to tell my wife, I would have already!
His appearance of getting angry without knowing his place was irritating.
“Then I’ll try telling Father.”
—Why would you tell your father-in-law that! Forget it. I’ll handle it myself. You just work.
*Click.*
The phone hung up. When was it that he begged with groaning sounds saying his nephew was about to be detained, and now that things aren’t going his way, he immediately shows his true colors. His shallow behavior was right on the verge of creating prejudice against the profession of professor itself.
Kyungwoo put down the receiver then picked it up again.
“Contact Noona’s mobile phone.”
—Yes, Executive Director.
A moment later, the phone rang again.
—What’s the matter?
“Professor Kim called. Just now.”
A chilly energy spread through the receiver. In the brief silence, he could feel unfathomable anger.
