It's 2 AM, the night illuminated by a full, circular moon casting silvery hues across the earth below. Sitting comfortably on a chair atop the four-story building, feet resting casually on the rooftop's edge, he slowly inhales the gentle burn of a Morgan cigarette. Exhaling white smoke, he admires the tranquil beauty of the landscape before him.A gentle breeze brushes against his face, softly playing with strands of his long dark hair. The moonlight accentuates his flawless, pale features, a beauty so striking even other men find it irresistible—ethereal, almost otherworldly.
Suddenly, a gust sweeps across, lifting dust from the ground, briefly conjuring the illusion of a graceful dancer performing before the dark mountains standing silently behind, like an audience mesmerized by the night's subtle performance.He had always cherished these full moon nights, moments when solitude felt like a comforting friend. His love for nature began with meditation fifteen years ago, after a diagnosis of depression at eighteen reshaped his perspective on life. Nature became his solace, his constant companion.Abruptly, he stands, flicking the cigarette away and crushing it underfoot with decisive precision. Stretching his lithe frame with a weary moan, he murmurs softly, "Time to work."
Descending the staircase to the fourth floor, he turns right into a dimly lit hallway. On his left side, there is nothing, while on his right, the hallway extends forward lined with four doors. He opens the first door labeled "Head of Forensics Department" and steps inside his somewhat messy office. To his left is a desk cluttered with papers, and behind it stands a chair backed by tall cupboards filled chaotically with books on forensic toxicology and medical investigation. On the wall to his right, directly facing his chair, numerous framed degrees and medals hang haphazardly, reflecting his notable achievements despite the clutter.
Sitting at his desk, he picks up the file awaiting his expert attention. His fingers lightly tap the folder as he reads:Seventeen-year-old female, daughter of a prominent local businessman. Found deceased in the forest near an isolated cabin by a wood gatherer returning in the evening. Trauma to the back of skull identified as the probable cause of death. No visible signs of struggle or defensive wounds on her body.
He sighs gently, the depth of his intellect already dissecting the minimal facts provided. Rising from his seat, he calmly exits the office, file firmly in hand. It's time to let the dead whisper their secrets, to let silence speak louder than words.Entering the cold sterility of the autopsy room across the hallway, he places the file carefully on the stainless steel table beside the examination bed. He meticulously dons protective gear, slipping on gloves, a surgical gown, and a mask, each movement practiced and deliberate. Approaching a small stereo system on a shelf, he turns on a soft opera melody, its delicate notes filling the room gently, providing a quiet yet soothing backdrop to the grim task ahead.
"Let's see what you have to tell me," he whispers softly to the lifeless form awaiting his meticulous examination.
He begins with careful observation. First, he removes her shoes, the normal feel of her feet beneath. Remarkably clean shoes, with hardly any mud, seem suspicious given yesterday's rain and the location where she was found. The shoes were branded joggers, new and expensive, a model released just this year, suggesting limited affordability. The shoelace knots seemed unusual, adding to the mystery. Examining her socks, he notes they still carry the fresh scent of recent laundering, another peculiar detail.
Taking scissors, he carefully cuts the jeans along their length, revealing unmarked legs beneath. His brow furrows slightly as he moves to her shirt, slicing through the fabric gently and revealing her abdomen. It appears slightly more distended than expected, hinting at gases forming post-mortem but unusually exaggerated. Noticing the absence of a bra, he observes the darkening of her nipples, a clear sign of hormonal changes. This, combined with the bulging abdomen, raises a suspicion in his mind—a pregnancy, possibly just a few months along.
His eyes narrow, processing this revelation as the possibility of a pregnancy adds a layer of complexity to the case. If the girl had been pregnant, the circumstances surrounding her death could be much more tangled than initially apparent.
Noticing subtle marks on her breasts, possibly indicative of intimacy, he continues his examination. He also observes her genitals—there are no signs of forceful intimacy, but clearly, she was not a virgin. Her neck and face appear untouched, and notably, there is no sign of makeup, her natural beauty left bare to the moonlight.
Turning her gently, he focuses on the trauma to her head. The wound is located oddly on the left side, with an upward slant, possibly indicating the attacker was left-handed. Each anomaly deepens his intrigue, promising a complicated and delicious case.
With careful precision, he begins the formal autopsy. Using a scalpel, he makes an incision starting just below the neck and extending down the middle of her abdomen. Removing the stomach and examining its contents yields nothing unusual. He continues, checking her intestines, noting nothing peculiar. However, upon reaching her uterus, his eyes widen slightly in astonishment. Hanging within her uterus is a small sac—evidence of a pregnancy approximately two to three months along. This discovery drastically complicates the investigation. In a town ruled by strict religious morals, physical relationships were rare and heavily stigmatized, making this finding especially significant and perplexing.
Yet, these revelations stimulate him immensely, intensifying his excitement. In his ears, the opera music's volume seems to rise, matching his exhilaration. His smile beneath the mask is so vivid it would be evident to anyone observing. He starts humming softly along with the music, thoroughly engrossed, as he carefully extracts the sac for DNA sampling, eager to uncover the hidden secrets within.
After carefully completing the autopsy, he meticulously stitched the body back together, ensuring everything was properly sealed. He filled out the required observation forms, jotting down every subtle detail and anomaly he'd noted during the procedure. Once finished, he covered the body with a clean sheet, his mind already racing ahead to the next step of his investigation.
He stepped out of the autopsy room, heading straight across the hall to the adjacent lab. The forensic lab was just in front of the second door of the autopsy room, directly across from his office. The fluorescent lights above buzzed faintly as he settled into the lab, turning his attention to the samples he'd gathered from the autopsy.
The next few hours passed in a blur of meticulous work. He spent the entire night running toxicology tests on the contents of the stomach and other bodily fluids. His mind, sharp as ever, seemed to thrive in the quiet hum of the laboratory. The strain of working through the night didn't seem to faze him—he was in his element.
By 8:00 AM, the tests were complete, and the autopsy report was ready. He stamped it with his official seal, the final touch on a case that had already begun to draw his curiosity in ways he hadn't expected. Satisfied, he dialed the number of the local inspector.
"Please collect the report from the Forensics Department reception," he instructed.
The inspector, well accustomed to his methodical approach, didn't waste time asking unnecessary questions. He would be there soon.
As the morning sunlight filtered through the office windows, he leaned back in his chair, deep in thought as to what to eat for breakfast.
The door to the office creaked open as the detective stepped in, holding a greasy burger and a side of chips in one hand. He paused for a moment, scanning the room before his eyes fell on the doctor, who was sitting back in his chair, eyes closed, clearly lost in thought.
"Got something for you," the detective said, holding up the food, his tone a little less serious than usual.
But before he could continue, the doctor's calm, measured voice interrupted, as if sensing his presence without even opening his eyes.
"Stop cheating on your wife and get your urine test for STIs," the doctor said, his voice smooth, almost absent-minded, but with a hint of knowing precision.
The detective froze mid-step, the burger almost slipping from his hand. He blinked, his jaw slackening. "What the—how the hell do you—?" he started, but then his brain caught up. He turned, realizing exactly who he was standing in front of. But even with that recognition, the detective was still stunned. How did the doctor know that?