The moment I spoke, a few officers surged forward and pinned my shoulders down.
"Who allowed you past the tape?" the female officer snapped coldly.
"No one," I replied. "I just saw him make a mistake and couldn't help but speak up."
"What a joke!" scoffed the forensic examiner. "Me? Mistaken? I'm the most experienced forensic pathologist in the bureau. You've got some nerve, kid. I've seen your kind before—read a few Sherlock Holmes stories and suddenly think you're the next big thing. Let him speak, Little Tao. I want to hear what pearls of wisdom he thinks he's got."
"Forensic Qin, we've got better things to do," the female officer said curtly.
"It won't take long," Qin replied, sneering. "Alright, kid. I'll give you a chance. Tell me how this victim was murdered. But you better think twice—interfering with an active investigation gets you a detention order. Apologize now and I might forget your insolence."
I chuckled inwardly. Me, insolent? Let's see who apologizes to whom.
"What if I'm right?"
Qin laughed. "That's impossible!"
"I mean, what if I just get lucky?"
"Fine. If you're right, I'll quit the case and let you take over. Happy now?" Qin smirked, joined by the chuckles of surrounding officers, their eyes gleaming with amusement at the impending spectacle.
"Qin!" the female officer warned quietly.
He waved her off. Clearly, his rank outweighed hers.
"Alright then, go on, kid."
I approached the locust tree where the victim had supposedly hanged himself. He'd stacked a pile of stones beneath to reach the branch—but beside the stones, on the grassy patch, was an easy-to-miss indentation.
I pointed. "See this dent? It shows someone else stacked those stones and helped him up. Ever heard of a suicide where the victim needs a hand? That's murder."
Qin burst into laughter. "That's your smoking gun? That's the footprint left by the janitor who found the body. She lowered him down. Case closed."
I shook my head. "That's not a footprint."
Qin faltered. The female officer shot him a puzzled look.
"Ah yes," he said. "I left that mark myself when I set my toolkit down. What's the big deal?"
Liar. He was scrambling.
But the officer believed him. Her momentary doubt faded. After all, Qin was the bureau's Chief Medical Examiner—a title earned after twenty years of autopsies.
To them, a dent in the grass wasn't worth noting. But to me, it was glaring. When I trained with Grandfather, he made me drink a bitter decoction called Bright-Eye Powder for 49 days. It contained datura and wolfberry—dilating pupils to absorb light. Forty-nine days symbolized the 'Seven Times Seven' purification ritual.
Then, I went blind.
Grandfather said not to be afraid—my eyes were adjusting.
Three days later, I could see again.
But everything looked different.
A sesame seed looked as big as a millstone. I could trace blood vessels from skin tone shifts. I saw bees' wings flap in slow motion. My eyes were too sensitive—I had to stay in a dark room for weeks. Even a match flame felt like needles in my pupils.
Grandfather was training me.
It took months, but I learned to control it. He called it the Eyes of the Nether—exclusive to the Song family. A gift for those who judge the dead. As The Washing Away of Wrongs wrote: "尸斑透肤三寸者,必系扼杀"—Petechiae deeper than three cun indicate strangulation.
With them, I could tell exactly what had pressed that grass. A different weight, angle, or motion left entirely unique breaks in the blades. These ones were wilting—chlorophyll degradation patterns proving the pressure occurred 8 to 10 hours ago.
That matched the real time of death.
From the body's livor mortis, rigor, and pupil dilation, I knew he'd died around then.
But Qin said it had been over ten hours.
Not even worth correcting him.
Too bad only I could see it.
"Enough," the female officer said. "We've wasted enough time. Get him out of here."
"Wait! There's a palm print on the victim. You all missed it."
That stopped her.
She signaled the officers to hold off. Qin snorted. "Nonsense. I already scanned him with UV. No fingerprints."
"I said palm print. Not fingerprint. Any pressure leaves a mark—on wood, stone, even skin. Once dead, the body's just an object. A corpse speaks through wounds—the ultimate witness."
Qin barked a laugh. "You high? Calling a corpse an object? My instruments found nothing. You think your naked eyes can do better?"
"If I make it appear, what then?" I smiled confidently.
"Impossible! My imported scanner cost tens of thousands!"
"Your German UV scanner detects 300–400nm wavelengths. But cadaver palm prints imprint at 550nm—beyond its range. Sometimes, a piece of paper works better."
The female officer eyed me curiously. "What's your major, kid?"
"Doesn't matter. I'm not a forensics student. I'm just better than him." I nodded at Qin.
That lit his fuse. "Let him try! I've been doing this longer than he's been alive. If he finds anything, I'll resign on the spot!"
"Qin, let's not..." the officer hesitated.
"No. I want to shut this punk up once and for all."
He plopped onto the ground.
"You sure about that?" I asked.
"Damn right. But if you fail, you'll be charged with obstruction. Does the bureau know its Chief Examiner bets his badge on a student?"
"Fine by me."
The female officer sighed. "Kid, you've wasted enough time. If you don't prove something, we'll detain you. You're in college, right? One record and your future's shot."
"I know."
I wasn't bluffing. Maybe I couldn't see the mark yet. But unless the killer made the body float, there had to be one.
That's deduction.
"What tools do you need?" she asked.
"None."
I looked beyond the tape. Dali stood nervously outside.
"Dali! Come here!"
He ducked under the tape, nodding sheepishly at the officers. Then tugged my sleeve.
"Yangzi, are you nuts? Flirting with jail time? You even ask if that cop lady's single?"
I rolled my eyes. "Get my red oil-paper umbrella from my closet. Back row. Don't touch anything else."
"Why do you need that?"
"Just bring it. The vermilion-dyed umbrella filters sunlight to 590nm—revealing subcutaneous hemorrhages invisible to UV lamps."
"Fine. Wait here."
He ran off.
Qin lit a cigarette. The ash trembled, staining his collar. "Let's see your magic trick."
"Oh, you will," I said, raising my head high. Dali would return with the blade of truth.
Its bamboo ribs would cast prison-bar shadows on Qin's face.
Time to turn the tide.