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?
The doctor didn't move, keeping his eyes shut as he casually continued. "I've been hearing your constant scratching. It's getting quite obvious, Inspector."
The detective hesitated, still stunned by the doctor's casual revelation. His gaze fell to the table as he stepped further into the room, his mind racing.
"Wait... you knew?" the detective muttered, still trying to wrap his mind around how this conversation was going.
The doctor finally opened his eyes, a small smile playing on his lips. "Different female perfume than your wife which is usually on you, Inspector. And the constant itching of your genitals. It's not that hard to spot"
The detective groaned, rubbing his face in disbelief. "How the hell could you know all that just from... that?" His eyes narrowed, still processing what had just happened.
The doctor chuckled softly. "You'd be amazed what you can learn just by paying attention to the little things. The minor details, you know? I'm a genius, after all."
The detective stood there for a moment, digesting the information—or perhaps more accurately, trying to figure out how the hell the doctor could make such observations. But then something clicked in his mind. He stepped forward, looking a little more irked than amused now.
"Wait a second," the detective said, crossing his arms. "I changed clothes this morning and took a shower. How the hell could you know about the perfume?"
The doctor's smile widened. "Ah, it's simple really. You know, I'm quite perceptive with minor details. It's what I do. Most people don't notice the small things that scream the truth, but I'm different. It's easy for me. I'm quite the genius and top of the class and..."
The detective's face turned a little redder, a mixture of annoyance and confusion flashing across his features. "Tell me, damn it," he growled, his patience wearing thin.
"And you really can diagnose STIs just by observing? That's really impressive, even for you," the inspector said.
"well, to be honest, while I was checking forensics reports and wrote your name but it also showed associated records. You and that colleague of yours gave the sample the same day, and you both are positive," the doctor replied.The detective didn't even know whether to laugh or cry, but all he could say was, "You MF."The doctor smiled widely, clearly proud of himself. "It's all about the details, Inspector."The detective groaned again, rubbing his forehead. "Alright, alright. I get it. Now can we get back to the case?"
The doctor leaned back, taking a big bite of the burger the detective had brought, clearly enjoying the moment. "Of course, let's talk about the victim. You have got some work to do."
The report detailed his findings, which, while confirming the initial cause of death as blunt trauma to the head, painted a far more complicated picture. His observations suggested that the girl had been killed sometime between the afternoon and evening—likely elsewhere because the post mortem bruises on the body didn't matched with trauma to the head. The lack of any signs of struggle led him to believe that she had been with someone she trusted, someone she felt safe with.
The rain had poured down until midday, yet there was no visible sign of rain-related changes on her body. This suggested that the killer had waited for the rain to stop before moving the body. A particularly telling detail was the sample of mud found on her shoes. The mud wasn't from the forest where she had been discovered; it was inconsistent with the forest floor. It seemed the killer had gone to great lengths to fake the scene of death, leading him to conclude that the killer might be an amateur—possibly a first-timer trying to make the crime look like a random incident.
Another oddity: her socks still smelled freshly laundered, which indicated that she had likely worn them only moments before her death. She had not walked more than a kilometer—perhaps less. This led him to hypothesize that the body had been placed in the forest to stage the scene, again pointing to an inexperienced killer trying to create a false narrative.
But it was the toxicology results that truly changed the direction of his investigation. The initial assumption of blunt force trauma being the cause of death had been wrong. The true cause was an overdose of abortion medication—specifically lobitol, a drug known for its use in terminating pregnancies. In high doses, however, it was also highly toxic, and this was the true cause of her death.
The trauma to the head had been inflicted post-mortem, likely as a way to confuse the cause of death. As he reviewed the evidence, it became clear that the killer was most likely left-handed, judging by the angles of the shoe lace knots and the specific nature of the head wound. He also found an intriguing clue—marks on her right breast were more pronounced than on the left, which hinted that the killer was likely her lover too.
The toxicology report confirmed his suspicions, revealing an unusually high concentration of lobitol in her blood, far beyond what would be considered normal. It was clear: this case was more than just a random murder. It was a tangled web of lies, deception, and forbidden relationships, and the killer—an amateur, perhaps—had made far too many mistakes.