Lee Geun-an, the notorious former police inspector known as the "torture technician" of South Korea’s military dictatorship era, died on March 25, 2026, at a care hospital in Seoul, aged 88. His death, reported by Gyeonggi Ilbo and confirmed by Good Morning Chungcheong, closes one of the darkest chapters in the nation’s modern history—a chapter marked by state-sanctioned brutality, controversial reckonings, and unresolved wounds for countless victims of political repression.
Lee’s final years were marked by declining health and solitude. According to Good Morning Chungcheong, he had been living alone in Seoul before his condition worsened, leading to his admission to a care facility where he ultimately passed away. Yet, even in his final days, the shadow of his past loomed large and, for many, unforgiven.
During the 1970s and 1980s, Lee served as a counterintelligence investigator for the National Police under South Korea’s authoritarian regime. As reported by Wikitree, he became infamous for leading investigations into pro-democracy activists and employing methods of torture—most notoriously electric shocks and other brutal acts—to extract confessions, many of which were later proven false or coerced. His nickname, the "torture technician," was not a term of endearment but a grim testament to his role in some of the era’s worst human rights abuses.
Among the many public security cases Lee was involved in, the torture of Kim Geun-tae, a prominent democracy activist and later a government minister, stands out as a defining episode of state violence. This incident became one of the three most egregious human rights violations of the 1980s, alongside the death of Park Jong-chul under torture and the sexual torture of Kwon In-sook. The story of Kim Geun-tae’s ordeal was later adapted into the film Namyeong-dong 1985, further cementing Lee’s infamy in South Korean memory.
Lee’s methods left deep scars, not just on individuals but on the nation’s psyche. According to Wikitree, victims described him as a physically imposing man—over 90 kilograms, broad-shouldered, with piercing eyes and large, rough hands. These descriptions, combined with survivor testimonies and court findings, painted a picture of a man who wielded both physical and institutional power with chilling effect.
Despite the brutality, Lee was once celebrated by the regime. In 1981, he received a commendation from the Minister of Home Affairs for his "service" during the so-called Seoul National University Murim case, one of several high-profile security incidents in which he played a leading role. Yet, as democracy took hold after the pivotal June 29 Declaration of 1987, the tide turned decisively against those who had enforced the dictatorship’s will.
With the advent of democratization and efforts to confront the nation’s past, Lee found himself on the run. In 1988, he was placed on a wanted list for his role in torture and illegal detentions. For twelve years, he evaded capture, living as a fugitive until surrendering in 1999. The Supreme Court later convicted him of torture and unlawful imprisonment, sentencing him to seven years in prison and stripping him of his civil rights for an equal period.
Yet, even as courts and truth commissions revisited the cases he touched, the full extent of the damage came to light. As Good Morning Chungcheong highlighted, several of the public security cases Lee handled—including the infamous Gimje family spy ring case—were found, upon retrial, to have relied on confessions extracted under torture. In these cases, courts overturned previous convictions and ordered the state to compensate victims, with Lee personally liable for a portion of the damages.
South Korea’s Truth and Reconciliation Commission, in its second phase, also concluded that Lee had been responsible for prolonged illegal detentions and severe human rights violations in incidents like the Seoul National University Murim case. The commission recommended an official state apology, underscoring the enduring need for accountability and healing.
After his release from prison, Lee attempted to reinvent himself. He converted to Protestant Christianity and became a pastor, publicly claiming to repent for his past through testimonies and sermons. However, his purported remorse was met with deep skepticism from victims and civil society. As Wikitree and Good Morning Chungcheong both reported, Lee’s apologies often rang hollow or were contradicted by his own words. In his autobiography, he wrote, “Arresting spies and ideological criminals was an act of patriotism,” a statement that reignited public anger and debate over the sincerity of his repentance.
Lee’s conduct in public and private remained contentious to the end. According to Good Morning Chungcheong, he once recounted, during a church sermon, how he had frightened Kim Geun-tae with a battery during an interrogation, mocking the former activist’s reaction. Such remarks led to his expulsion from the clergy and further undermined claims of genuine contrition. Even close to death, Lee reportedly maintained that, were he to relive those years, he would make the same choices—a stance that left many feeling that justice and reconciliation were still out of reach.
The controversy over Lee’s legacy is not merely personal but emblematic of South Korea’s ongoing struggle to confront its authoritarian past. While some on the right have argued that figures like Lee were acting in defense of national security during a time of Cold War tensions, critics from across the political spectrum insist that no rationale can justify torture, fabrication of evidence, or the trampling of human rights. The demand for full accountability and sincere atonement remains strong among survivors, their families, and younger generations determined not to forget the lessons of history.
The impact of Lee’s actions extended far beyond the individuals he interrogated. Kim Geun-tae, for example, suffered lasting physical and psychological harm from his ordeal, eventually dying in 2011 at the age of 64 due to complications related to torture. The ripple effects of such abuses, as recognized by courts and truth commissions, continue to shape public discourse on justice, memory, and the responsibilities of the state.
Lee Geun-an’s passing may close a chapter, but the debates he leaves behind are far from settled. For those who suffered under his hand, and for a society still wrestling with the ghosts of its authoritarian era, the questions of truth, justice, and reconciliation remain as urgent as ever.