The Dead Don't Lie

The first time I heard a corpse speak was in the autopsy room at the police station.

My mentor, Dr. Elias Thorne, flipped through the autopsy report. Typical suicide. Let's close the case, he said flatly.

Detective Ryan Stone, head of the investigation unit, nodded silently.

Outside the door, Sarah Davison's mother knelt, sobbing uncontrollably, almost collapsing.

Only I heard a hoarse female voice:

"I didn't kill myself."

The hemostatic forceps in my hand clattered onto the tray.

Everyone looked at me.

Dr. Thorne frowned. "Maya, you're just an intern. Can't you even maintain basic composure?"

I stared intently at the corpse's pale, blue-tinged face.

The next second, she spoke again.

"The killer is in this autopsy room."

The air instantly froze.

My gaze slowly fell on Dr. Thorne's blood-stained hands.

On my first day, my supervisor told me:

"In forensic science, the most important thing is to be calm. The dead don't lie, but the living do."

Back then, I didn't dare tell him.

The dead really do talk.

Since childhood, I've heard strange voices.

When our old cat died, I hugged it and cried, but it complained in my ear, "Stop crying. You're getting snot on my fur."

I was so scared I didn't sleep for three days.

Later, my grandmother passed away. At her funeral, everyone cried, but her body was murmuring in my ear:

"Your Aunt Cathy stole my money again. There's a savings book under the third floorboard beneath my bed. Don't let her get away with it."

I searched where she said, and sure enough, I found the savings book.

From then on, I knew I wasn't normal.

But I also knew that the dead were more honest than the living.

So, when it came time to choose a major for college, I secretly enrolled in forensic pathology, hiding it from everyone.

I thought, if I'm destined to hear these voices, then at least they should be useful.

But I never expected that on my very first day at the police station, I would hear a deceased person crying out for justice.

The woman on the autopsy table was Sarah Davison, twenty-eight years old, a product manager at an internet company.

The case was straightforward.

She was found dead in the bathtub of her rental apartment, a deep incision on her left wrist. The doors and windows were locked from the inside, the bathtub filled with a large amount of bloody water, and a knife lay nearby.

Her phone's notes app contained a suicide note:

"I'm tired. I'm sorry, Mom."

The evidence seemed complete, the logic sound.

Suicide.

But she said she didn't do it.

I stood rooted to the spot, a cold sweat breaking out on my back.

Dr. Elias Thorne glanced at me, his voice cold.

"Maya, continue recording."

Dr. Thorne was a renowned senior forensic pathologist in the department.

Forty-seven years old, with over twenty years of experience, he had handled thousands of bodies and solved countless major cases.

My university professors spoke of him with reverence.

If he declared it a suicide, almost no one would question it.

But at that moment, the woman's voice in my ear was still trembling.

"I didn't cut it."

"When I woke up, my wrist was already being held under the water."

"He was wearing gloves."

"He was smiling."

My throat tightened.

I looked down at the corpse.

Sarah Davison's face was bloodless, yet the corners of her lips seemed to have been forcefully torn open by pain, maintaining an eerie, stiff curve.

I couldn't help but ask:

"Dr. Thorne, isn't the edge of the incision on her left wrist too neat?"

Dr. Thorne was in the middle of removing his gloves.

At my words, his movements paused.

The autopsy room instantly fell silent.

Detective Ryan Stone looked up at me.

Sarah Davison's mother, who had been kept outside the door, also looked up sharply when she heard my voice.

Dr. Thorne slowly turned, his gaze fixed on my face.

"What did you say?"

I swallowed.

"I just think the direction of the incision is a little strange. If someone uses their right hand to cut their left wrist, there are usually hesitation marks, but she has none. And the wound edge is so clean, it looks like it was done in one go."

Dr. Thorne chuckled.

"Maya, this is your first day of internship."

I clutched my pen tighter.

"I know."

"Good that you know." He closed the autopsy report. "Classroom theory isn't for showing off in a real-world case."

The other assistant forensic pathologists bowed their heads, saying nothing.

Dr. Thorne continued, "There were trace amounts of blood on the webbing between the victim's right thumb and forefinger, the victim's fingerprints were on the knife handle, there were no signs of forced entry, and the suicide note was confirmed to have been typed on the victim's phone. Tell me, if it's not suicide, what is it?"

I opened my mouth.

In my ear, Sarah Davison's voice suddenly grew shrill.

"I didn't take the knife!"

"I didn't write on the phone!"

"He knew my password, he knew!"

My heart pounded faster and faster.

I couldn't say I heard a corpse talk.

No one would believe me.

They'd just think I was crazy.

Seeing my silence, a hint of mockery flickered in Dr. Thorne's eyes.

"It's good for young people to be skeptical, but skepticism needs to be based on evidence. Doubts without evidence are just grandstanding."

His words felt like a slap across my face.

My cheeks burned.

But just as he turned to leave, Sarah Davison suddenly spoke again.

"My nail."

"Look at my right middle finger."

"There's his skin there."

I sharply lowered my head.

Sarah Davison's right hand was placed by her side, fingers slightly curled.

Her nails were short, with a light pink polish, showing almost no abnormality.

Ignoring Dr. Thorne's cold expression, I put on gloves and picked up a magnifying glass.

In the nail bed of her right middle finger, there was indeed a tiny, dark reddish speck of tissue.

It was so small.

If I hadn't been looking specifically, it could easily have been overlooked as a blood clot.

My breath hitched.

"Detective Stone."

I looked up, my voice tight.

"There's suspected skin tissue in the nail bed of the victim's right middle finger. I recommend DNA extraction."

Detective Stone walked over.

He was in his early thirties, with sharp, stern features, a notoriously dedicated workaholic in the homicide division.

He bent down for a look, his expression shifting slightly.

Dr. Thorne also walked back.

He only looked for a second, then his face darkened.

"The bathroom scene was complex; it's normal to find impurities in the nails."

I said, "But if it was suicide, why would she have scratched skin tissue?"

"Can you confirm it's skin tissue?"

"No, that's why it needs testing."

Dr. Thorne stared at me.

"Maya, do you know what you're doing right now?"

Of course, I knew.

I was questioning the conclusion of an authoritative forensic pathologist.

I was, as an intern, holding up a suicide report that was about to be officially stamped.

I also knew that if I was wrong, my internship at the police station might be over.

But Sarah Davison's voice was crying.

"Please."

"My mother only has me."

Outside the door, Sarah Davison's mother stood up, leaning against the wall, her eyes red and swollen, her voice hoarse beyond recognition.

"Officers, my daughter would never kill herself."

"Just yesterday, she told me she'd take me for a follow-up appointment at the hospital this weekend."

"She wouldn't abandon me."

In that moment, I suddenly remembered the day my grandmother was buried.

Before the coffin was closed, she had said in my ear:

"Maya, don't be afraid of the dead. The dead won't harm you."

"What's truly frightening is when the living close their mouths."

I looked up and said, word for word:

"Detective Stone, I request a re-examination."

The air in the autopsy room seemed to freeze.

Detective Stone didn't speak immediately.

Dr. Thorne's face, however, had turned incredibly grim.

He took off his glasses, slowly wiped them with a cloth, his voice eerily calm.

"You request?"

He looked at me as if I were some ridiculous joke, completely out of my depth.

"Maya, you don't have the authority to independently issue an expert opinion yet."

I said, "I know, so I'm only making a suggestion."

"A suggestion?" He sneered. "Your 'suggestion' will make the detective team restart their investigation, it will ignite unnecessary hope in the family, and it will delay a case that is already clear. Can you bear the consequences?"

My fingertips grew cold.

Detective Stone finally spoke:

"Dr. Thorne, since suspected tissue has been found, extracting and sending it for testing won't hold up the process."

Dr. Thorne's movements paused.

"Does Detective Stone also think my judgment was wrong?"

Detective Stone's expression remained unchanged.

"I only believe in evidence."

His words made the autopsy room even quieter.

Dr. Thorne stared at him for a few seconds, then suddenly chuckled.

"Fine. Since you're all so insistent, send it for testing."

He put his glasses back on, his gaze returning to me.

"But Maya, let me remind you, forensic science isn't like a detective novel. The dead don't cater to your fantasies."

I lowered my head.

Sarah Davison softly whispered in my ear:

"Thank you."

Her voice was very light, like a fading breeze.

Expedited DNA testing takes time.

Detective Stone ordered the evidence re-sealed and the case closure put on hold.

I helped the assistants tidy up the autopsy room, my mind restless.

Sarah Davison said the killer was in this autopsy room.

But at the time, besides me, Dr. Thorne, and Detective Stone, there were also two assistant forensic pathologists and a female officer recording.

Detective Stone was the homicide captain, the two assistants were under my watch the entire time, and the recorder was a female officer.

So who was "he" that Sarah Davison spoke of?

My gaze involuntarily fell on Dr. Thorne.

He was washing his hands.

Water flowed over his fingertips, carrying away faint traces of blood.

As if sensing my gaze, he suddenly looked up and met my eyes in the mirror.

In that instant, my heart gave a violent lurch.

Dr. Thorne smiled.

"Maya."

"Yes."

"Come to my office after work."

His voice was gentle.

But I inexplicably felt a chill.

At seven in the evening, only the nightlights were on in the Forensic Science Center.

I knocked on Dr. Thorne's office door.

"Come in."

The main lights in the office weren't on; only a desk lamp illuminated the room.

Dr. Thorne sat behind his desk, my internship file resting beside his hand.

He didn't invite me to sit.

"Your university grades are excellent."

I stood by the door, saying nothing.

"First in your class, perfect score in anatomy, your mentor's recommendation letter was also very strong."

He flipped through the file, his tone flat.

"Pity you're too eager."

I pursed my lips.

"Dr. Thorne, I wasn't trying to show off."

"I know." He looked up. "You want to prove yourself."

I paused, surprised.

He closed the file.

"Every year, there are interns like you. Smart, sensitive, ambitious, thinking they can change the world."

"But the Forensic Science Center isn't a school. Every single word here can affect the direction of a case, every judgment concerns both the living and the dead."

He sounded so pompous.

If Sarah Davison's voice weren't still echoing in my mind, I almost would have doubted myself.

Dr. Thorne stood up and walked towards me.

"I can overlook what happened today."

I looked up at him.

His tone softened:

"Tomorrow, you write a statement saying you lacked experience and mistakenly identified contaminants as skin tissue. Withdraw the re-examination request, and I won't let it affect your internship evaluation."

I finally understood why he had called me here.

It was pressure.

I said, "But the sample has already been sent for testing."

Dr. Thorne smiled.

"It can still be recalled."

"Why should it be recalled?"

The office was silent for two seconds.

The smile slowly faded from Dr. Thorne's face.

"Maya, don't back yourself into a corner."

My back was pressed against the door, my palms already sweating.

Just then, from a storage cabinet in the corner of the office, a faint voice suddenly emerged.