The next morning, Hae-in wrote one sentence on the board.
ONE BOX DISAPPEARED IN 1992.
Underneath it, she wrote:
WHAT WAS INSIDE?
Kang stood beside her with two cups of coffee.
"You've been staring at that question for twenty minutes."
"I've been thinking."
"Same thing, usually."
She took the coffee.
He glanced at the board.
"Still not opening the second door?"
"No."
"Good."
Hae-in looked at him.
"You sound relieved."
"I am."
She turned back to the board.
"Don't be."
"Why?"
"Because we're going back to the beginning."
Kang looked at the list.
"1992."
"1992."
The municipal archive took three requests, two signatures, and forty minutes before they were allowed into the old procurement records.
The original order was still there.
36 ARCHIVE STORAGE BOXES.
Delivered:
35.
Hae-in read the receiving form.
One box had been marked as damaged.
The box number was handwritten.
C-17/08.
Kang pointed.
"That's the same code."
"Yes."
"Maybe the box wasn't missing."
Hae-in looked at him.
"Explain."
"Maybe it was moved."
"Where?"
He turned the page.
The receiving clerk had written:
TRANSFERRED TO SPECIAL STORAGE.
No location.
No signature.
No date.
Hae-in photographed it.
"Find the clerk."
They did.
Her name was Oh Mi-ran.
According to the personnel file, she was eighty-one and living in a care facility outside the city.
They drove there before lunch.
Oh Mi-ran remembered the detention center.
That surprised Hae-in.
She remembered the corridors.
The basement.
The old filing system.
She even remembered Han Dong-wook.
But when Hae-in mentioned the missing box, the woman's expression changed.
"You found that?"
Hae-in sat opposite her.
"You remember it?"
"I remember being told not to record it."
"By whom?"
"Mr. Han."
"Han Dong-wook?"
"Yes."
"What was in the box?"
Oh Mi-ran looked toward the window.
"I don't know."
"Then why were you told not to record it?"
"Because I saw the contents."
Kang leaned forward.
"What did you see?"
The old woman hesitated.
"Photographs."
Hae-in's pen stopped.
"How many?"
"Hundreds."
"Of whom?"
"People."
"Detainees?"
"No."
"Workers?"
"No."
"Then who?"
Oh Mi-ran shook her head.
"They weren't all the same."
Hae-in waited.
"Some were young. Some were old. Some wore prison clothes. Some didn't."
"Were they alive?"
The old woman looked at her.
"Yes."
That answer landed differently.
Hae-in lowered her pen.
"Were the photographs labeled?"
"Yes."
"With names?"
"Some."
"What else?"
"Numbers."
"Subject numbers?"
"I don't know."
"Do you remember any?"
Oh Mi-ran closed her eyes.
For a few seconds, nothing happened.
Then:
"C-01."
Hae-in looked at Kang.
"C-02."
The woman's voice became quieter.
"C-03."
"Up to what number?"
"C-17."
Hae-in leaned forward.
"What happened after C-17?"
Oh Mi-ran opened her eyes.
"Nothing."
"Nothing?"
"There were no more photographs."
Hae-in thought about the files.
The seven names.
The seven photographs.
Park Min-jae marked PM-07.
The hidden room.
The second door.
"Was there a C-08?"
"Yes."
"What was C-08?"
"I don't know."
"You saw the photograph."
"Yes."
"What did the person look like?"
Oh Mi-ran frowned.
"I don't remember."
"Why?"
The old woman looked down at her hands.
"Because the photograph was blank."
Hae-in stared at her.
"Blank?"
"A person was supposed to be there."
"But?"
"Nothing."
Kang looked confused.
"A blank photograph?"
Oh Mi-ran nodded.
"The number was there."
C-08.
"But no person."
Hae-in wrote it down.
C-01.
C-02.
C-03.
...
C-07.
C-08.
...
C-17.
She stopped.
"What happened to the box?"
Oh Mi-ran answered immediately.
"It was taken downstairs."
"By whom?"
"Han."
"Han Dong-wook?"
"Yes."
"Where?"
"The service corridor."
"Did he come back?"
"Yes."
"With the box?"
"No."
"What did he come back with?"
The old woman's face tightened.
"A different box."
Hae-in's pen stopped again.
"What was written on it?"
Oh Mi-ran looked at her.
"Nothing."
They left the care facility at two.
Neither spoke during the first few minutes of the drive.
Kang finally said,
"C-01 through C-17."
"Except C-08."
"Except C-08."
"And the seven names we've been following aren't necessarily C-01 through C-07."
"No."
Hae-in looked through the window.
"Which means we don't know what those numbers represent."
Kang nodded.
"But Park Min-jae was PM-07."
"That may be a separate numbering system."
"Or the same one."
Hae-in didn't answer.
Her phone rang.
Unknown number.
She answered.
"Seo Hae-in."
Static.
Then a man's voice.
"Stop looking for the box."
Her expression didn't change.
Kang turned down the radio.
"Who are you?"
"You already know."
"No, I don't."
"You've met me."
Hae-in looked at Kang.
The voice continued.
"You just don't know when."
The call ended.
Kang stared at her.
"Trace it."
He contacted the telecom unit.
Hae-in saved the number.
Then noticed something.
The last four digits were:
1708.
She looked at the number again.
C-17.
Room 08.
The same numbers.
She didn't say anything.
At the office, they checked every known contact connected to the case.
Nothing.
No matching number.
No registered subscriber.
No useful trace.
Kang returned with another document.
"We found the transfer records."
Hae-in looked up.
"For the box?"
"Yes."
"Where did it go?"
He put the paper down.
"Not downstairs."
She read it.
The missing box had been transferred to a location outside the detention center.
CENTRAL DISTRICT COURTHOUSE — ARCHIVE SUBLEVEL B.
Hae-in looked at him.
"The courthouse."
"The same courthouse where the original hearing was held."
"And where someone recently requested everything related to Lee Ji-hoon."
Kang nodded.
They stared at each other.
Then Hae-in stood.
The courthouse archive was nearly empty by six.
The clerk recognized them.
"You're back."
"We need Sublevel B."
"That archive is closed."
Hae-in showed her identification.
"It's now part of an active investigation."
The clerk hesitated.
Then unlocked the elevator.
The basement level was older than the rest of the building.
The lights flickered when the elevator doors opened.
Rows of storage shelves stretched into the distance.
Hae-in checked the old transfer record.
SECTION B-17.
They found it.
A metal cabinet.
Locked.
The key from the detention center didn't fit.
Kang examined the lock.
"Recent."
"Meaning?"
"Someone replaced it."
Hae-in stepped back.
"Call forensics."
Before he could move, they heard something.
A drawer closing.
At the end of the aisle.
Kang drew his weapon.
"Hae-in."
She nodded.
They moved slowly between the shelves.
The sound came again.
Metal against metal.
Someone was searching the archive.
They reached the end.
Nothing.
Only a small service door.
Open.
Kang checked the corridor beyond it.
Empty.
Hae-in looked down.
A sheet of paper lay on the floor.
She picked it up.
It was a photocopy of the old receiving form.
The one for the missing box.
Someone had circled:
C-17/08
Underneath, in black ink:
YOU KEEP LOOKING AT THE BOX.
A second line had been written beneath it.
LOOK AT WHO SIGNED FOR IT.
Hae-in turned the page over.
A name.
Not Han Dong-wook.
Not the receiving clerk.
Not anyone they had seen before.
SEO JIN-WOO
Hae-in went completely still.
Kang noticed.
"You know him?"
She looked at the name.
Her father's name.
Her father had signed for the missing box.
The date beside his signature was:
18 APRIL 1992.
One day after Lee Ji-hoon's incident.
One day after the box had supposedly disappeared.
Kang looked at her.
"Hae-in."
She didn't answer.
There was something written beneath the signature.
A note in her father's handwriting.
Only six words.
I DIDN'T KNOW WHAT I WAS CARRYING.
Hae-in stared at it.
Then another sound came from deeper in the archive.
A drawer opening.
This time, they both heard it.
Kang moved first.
They ran toward the sound.
At the end of the aisle stood a man in a gray coat.
His back was turned.
He held a file.
"Halt!"
The man ran.
Kang chased him.
Hae-in followed.
The man pushed through a service door and disappeared into the stairwell.
Kang reached the door seconds later.
Empty.
Three floors of stairs.
No footsteps.
No opening doors.
Nothing.
Hae-in reached him.
"What did he take?"
Kang looked down at the floor.
A single photograph lay there.
He picked it up.
The photograph showed the detention center in 1992.
Three men stood outside Cell Seventeen.
Han Dong-wook.
Seo Jin-woo.
And a third man.
The same man who had appeared in the old maintenance photographs.
The one who hadn't seemed to age.
On the back was a date.
18 APRIL 1992.
And beneath it:
THE BOX WAS NEVER THE SECRET.
Hae-in turned the photograph over again.
A second line was written beneath the first.
YOUR FATHER WAS.
She stared at the photograph.
For the first time, the mystery wasn't simply asking what her father had discovered.
It was asking what he had been before he discovered it.