ぞくぶつ (俗物) : 속물 — vulgar materialist
He looked at his phone screen and scoffed. He’d been waiting at a red light when, on a whim, he looked up the Japanese word Im Gyeong had thrown at him — and even after finding out, he wasn’t surprised. As if I hadn’t already known exactly what the mockery and contempt in those eyes meant.
Son of a bitch.
He cursed under his breath and angled the rearview mirror down to glance at his tie for a moment. A luxury necktie was the greatest indulgence he allowed himself. Considering what he earned, it wasn’t excessive — but considering his circumstances, it was undeniably beyond his station.
He stared at the countdown on the traffic light with a bitter expression, the numbers ticking by. His mind was restless, and today the light felt longer than ever. Just then, an elderly man pushing a small cart was making his way across the middle of the crosswalk. Worn, dirty clothing. Anyone could see at a glance — a neglected old man….
Memories of the past surfaced, and his expression hardened.
Those days — picking up discarded cardboard boxes and empty bottles left in front of shops, with small hands like fern fronds, in the dead of winter.
A horn blared from the car behind him.
Yanked out of his old memories, Heesin glared at the car through the rearview mirror.
“I’m going, I’m going. Bastard.”
He pulled forward, then watched the receding figure of the old man with his cart in the mirror. He never wanted to grow old like that. He wanted to build a warm family, have children, fulfill his role as the head of a household. I will never live the way my parents did. Never.
With that vow steeling him, he arrived at his destination: the National Forensic Service. As he stepped out of his car, someone waved from a distance. It was Detective Choi, someone he was on good terms with. He had gotten married just last month and should have been in the thick of newlywed bliss, but it seemed he spent more nights at the precinct than at home.
“You’re here, Prosecutor?”
“What’s the situation?”
“Same as what you heard. He didn’t show up for work, so the manager went to check on him and found him. No signs of forced entry, no defensive wounds — on the surface, everything looks clean. We barely managed to convince the family to allow an autopsy, but I doubt much will come out of it.”
“CCTV?”
“Spotless.”
“What about Choi Yuno?”
“I was planning to go after this. Whether he’ll agree to meet is another matter.”
They made their way into the autopsy room at the National Forensic Service, where Dr. Hwang met them. The forensic pathologist, with her salt-and-pepper bob, looked utterly worn through — the volume of autopsies piling up had clearly taken its toll. They followed her into the body storage room, and Kim Haeseong’s body was retrieved from the cold unit.
The white sheet was pulled back, and Kim Haeseong’s face came into view.
It was hard to believe this was the same man who had come to the prosecutor’s office just days ago for questioning.
“Nothing unusual externally. We’ll need the toxicology results to know for certain.”
He listened to Dr. Hwang while examining Kim Haeseong’s body carefully.
“How long for the results?”
“Who knows. About a week?”
“Is there any way to push that up?”
“You know how it is. You think we sit around doing nothing? If you’re in such a hurry, come roll up your sleeves and help.”
At Dr. Hwang’s remark, Kang Heesin’s eyes crinkled as he raised the corners of his mouth. He said, please, do me this favor — laying on the flattery in a way that didn’t suit him at all — and Dr. Hwang let out an incredulous little laugh. She chided him for growing more slippery by the day, but told him she’d get word to him in a day or two.
As they stepped out of the body storage room, Detective Choi came alongside him and lowered his voice.
“I talked myself hoarse and you didn’t give me the time of day. And now you go and charm her with that face of yours?”
“If it bothers you, you should’ve been better-looking, Detective Choi.”
“Wow—”
“Too much?”
“Since when do you read minds too?”
Even trading jokes, neither of them could bring themselves to laugh. The host who had been a key witness in the case was dead. From the moment he’d taken on this investigation, there had been no shortage of people telling him to be careful. Third-generation chaebol heirs and politicians’ children were tangled up in it — nothing good could come of a mere prosecutor poking around. Even the people above him had been discouraging it, and now, belatedly, he was second-guessing whether he should have listened.
Just then, his phone buzzed in his pocket.
<Restricted Number>
He stood there without moving, and Detective Choi, who had been walking ahead, turned back.
“Something wrong?”
“Nothing.”
They’d just hang up anyway the moment I answer. He’d thought about tracking them down and dealing with them, but at the end of the day, it was just some criminal with a grudge. His view was that the time he’d waste on someone like that was better spent catching worse people and building a real record.
If they have a clear purpose, they’ll eventually act.
It wasn’t his style to fret and tremble in advance.
He went outside and sat down on a bench, and Detective Choi immediately pulled out a cigarette and lit up. Looking for a light, he glanced at Heesin. Prosecutor — got a lighter? Heesin reached into his pocket and handed one over. He had quit smoking, but he always kept a lighter on him just in case.
Quitting had been less his own decision than Yun Sena’s. She had said she wanted to have children after they married, so she’d like him to stop. He’d accepted her wish without a second thought. But whenever he was under stress or had been drinking, the craving hit with a force he couldn’t always reason away.
He’d considered himself a person of strong willpower, yet the urge to smoke was something he often struggled to suppress. To soothe the itch, he sat rolling the lighter between his fingers, when Detective Choi started grinning at his phone, exchanging messages with someone.
“Who’s got you smiling like that?”
“My wife. She went to Japan a couple of days ago.”
“She’s a Zainichi Korean, you mentioned?”
“Yeah. Third generation, so her Korean isn’t very fluent. But there’s something really endearing about that.”
A face flashed through his mind.
…Vulgar materialist.
Insufferable bastard. Who does he think he is, calling anyone that.
He said he’d be leaving the country soon.
He only came to Korea occasionally, so with any luck, they’d never cross paths again. That was all he could hope for.
“Detective Choi. Back when you were in narcotics — you dealt with Yakuza members fairly regularly, didn’t you?”
“All the time. Why? Something you want to know?”
“…Do third-generation Yakuza know how to fight?”
The absurd question made Detective Choi’s brow furrow. He echoed back Excuse me?, and Heesin felt heat creep up his face for no good reason. He played it off — but in truth, his pride had taken a hit when the man had overpowered him and pinned his face against the sink.
“Did some Yakuza shake you down? Was that restricted number just now—?”
He waved it off, saying it was nothing, and knocked back the drink in his hand in one go. Letting that bastard keep taking up space in his head is a waste of time. And wasting time was the one thing he hated most in the world.
He wiped his mind clean of the man completely, then flicked the empty can in the direction of the trash bin. It clipped the rim and rolled away, clattering to a stop some distance away. As if the universe was telling him that was the wrong answer. His mood soured for no real reason.
He got up, walked over, picked up the can, and dropped it cleanly into the bin.
As if trying to wash away the unease quietly rising inside him.
“Oh right — can you give me Kim Haeseong’s mother’s address?”
“You’re going?”
“Have to. Wasn’t the last person he called his mother?”
“You’re not going to hear anything pleasant. Don’t bother. That’s our job anyway.”
“Whose job is whose doesn’t matter. Whoever needs it most digs the well.”
At his resolute tone, Detective Choi gave a thumbs-up.
“Prosecutor Kang really is something else. Must be because you came up through the police force. Ah — sorry. I know you don’t like hearing that.”
Saying the whole thing and then apologizing — what’s the point of that? And besides, why would he dislike it? Everyone already knew anyway. Besides, when a fellow prosecutor brought it up it rubbed him the wrong way, but hearing it from a detective felt different somehow. Is that a kind of superiority complex? Hmm, actually — that’s pretty petty of me.
He took down the address from Detective Choi and checked the location. If it really was suicide, wouldn’t there have been some kind of sign? Snow had started falling just before he set off, but he thought nothing of it. The forecast had said a light flurry at most, and he’d believed it completely.
Damn it. He cursed at the sky as snow came pouring down. Those meteorology bastards — do they actually do their jobs right? Then again, people always said the same thing about prosecutors. That prosecutors just drain the country’s tax money and never get anything done.
The sun had gone down and the sky was a dreary grey, and his resolve began to waver. Should I just go back? He debated, then parked in a secluded spot beside a mart and took the umbrella from his trunk. The narrow alley had a few storefronts lining it, but they’d been shuttered for some time, and there wasn’t a soul passing through.
Should have picked up something to drink while I was at the mart. Regretting it, he pulled up the saved address on his phone and started up through the alley. The steps, which had begun to accumulate snow, were far more slippery than expected — and after climbing them again and again, his legs had started to shake without him noticing.
He adjusted his grip on the umbrella when his phone rang.
Seeing it was his girlfriend, he made a conscious effort to inject warmth into his voice.
“Hey, Sena.”
— Where are you right now?
“Out on a site visit. What’s up? Did you call because you miss me?”
— Did you get a call from oppa?
“Oppa? Which…?”
— Im Gyeong.
Those two syllables — Im Gyeong — brought his brain to a complete halt.
“That one from Japan…”
The bastard? He left that part out.
He was still family by blood, so openly cursing him seemed like a step too far.
— Apparently Im Gyeong asked me for your contact information.
Kang Heesin stood still for a moment, looking down the hill. The world was turning entirely white, and in the distance, snow plows moved busily in the blur.
“Why does he want it?”
— He said he has something important to tell you.
“Did you give it to him?”
— Do I look stupid? I put him off with some excuse.
“Right…. Good.”
— That day — nothing actually happened between you two, did it?
Yun Sena asked in a tone that was almost casually probing.
He played it off, but he of all people — someone whose very job was reading people — couldn’t possibly miss it.
“I explained it already. He mistook me for someone and there was a minor argument.”
— Good, then.
“Sena, I’m a bit busy right now — can I call you back later?”
— Okay. It’s snowing — be careful.
“Yeah, I will.”
He ended the call and exhaled quietly. He had no idea what Im Gyeong was scheming. After pulling a stunt like that, it wasn’t as if he’d want to be on friendly terms. Or maybe he’d had a change of heart and wanted to apologize? Part of him was curious what the man would even say. If it was an apology, he had it in him to at least pretend to accept it graciously.
Then he stopped at a fork in the road. Beneath a streetlight, a cat padded past leaving small prints in the snow. Which way? He was trying to recall the address when he felt his phone buzz in his pocket.
<Restricted Number>
He stared at it for a moment, then brought the phone to his ear.
“Hello?”
Silence, as expected.
“You spineless little coward! Stop being pathetic and come find me yourself if you’ve got something to say!”
He snapped the call shut, irritation prickling through him, and kicked a stone on the ground to take the edge off. Then he turned around — and found someone standing right behind him. The man, wearing nothing but a tracksuit despite the biting cold, exhaled in visible puffs of white with every breath.
…What?
The man suddenly looked at the phone in his hand and smiled.
At the same moment, Heesin’s phone buzzed again.
<Restricted Number>
“…Oh—”
The instant he looked up, the man had already drawn a large blue-steel kitchen knife and was charging straight at him.
