After Hearing The Corpse Speak, I Fought For Justice

The first time I heard a corpse speak was in the department autopsy room.

My mentor glanced over the autopsy report, his voice flat. Classic suicide. Let's close the case.

The lead detective nodded in silence. Outside the door, the victim's mother was on her knees, sobbing to the point of collapse.

But I was the only one who heard a raspy, female voice whisper:

"I didn't kill myself."

The hemostatic forceps in my hand clattered onto the metal tray with a sharp clang.

Everyone in the room turned to look at me.

My mentor frowned. "Summer, you're an intern. Can't you even keep your hands steady?"

I stared at the pale, lifeless face on the table.

The next second, she spoke again.

"The killer is in this very room."

The air in the autopsy room instantly froze.

Slowly, my gaze drifted toward my mentor's blood-stained hands.

On my very first day, the director told me:

"In forensics, the most important trait is composure. Dead bodies don't lie, but the living do."

Back then, I didn't dare tell him the truth.

Dead bodies actually do speak.

Ever since I was a child, I could hear strange voices.

When I was little, our old cat died. I held him and cried, only to hear him grumble in my ear:

"Stop crying, you're getting snot all over my fur."

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

Later, when my grandmother passed away, everyone was weeping in the funeral home. My grandmother's body, however, whispered in my ear:

"Your aunt stole my gold bracelet again. There's a savings card under the third brick beneath my bed. Don't let her take it."

I went to the spot she mentioned and actually found the card.

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

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

So when it came time to choose my college major, I kept everyone in the dark and applied for forensic medicine.

I figured if I was cursed to hear these voices, I might as well make them useful.

But I never expected that on my first day at the precinct, I would hear a murder victim cry out for justice.

The woman on the autopsy table was Kate, twenty-eight, a product manager at a tech company.

The case seemed straightforward.

She was found dead in her apartment bathtub, her left wrist sliced deep. The doors and windows were locked from the inside, the tub was filled with bloody water, and a paring knife lay nearby.

A suicide note was saved in her phone:

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

Everything pointed to a clear conclusion.

Suicide.

But she said she didn't do it.

I stood frozen, a cold sweat breaking out across my back.

My mentor, Dr. Gregory, glanced at me, his voice cool.

"Summer, keep recording."

Dr. Gregory was a legendary forensic expert in the city.

He was forty-seven, had been in the field for over twenty years, conducted thousands of autopsies, and solved countless major cases.

My university professors always spoke of him with absolute reverence.

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

Yet at this moment, the female voice in my ear was trembling with terror.

"I didn't cut myself."

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

"He was wearing gloves."

"He was smiling."

My throat tightened.

I looked down at the body.

Kate's face was devoid of color, but her lips were stretched into a stiff, unnatural angle, as if they had been brutally forced into a grimace of agony.

I couldn't help but speak up.

"Dr. Gregory, isn't the cut on her left wrist a bit too clean?"

Dr. Gregory was pulling off his latex gloves.

He paused.

The autopsy room fell into a dead silence.

Detective Jones, the lead investigator, raised his eyes to look at me.

Outside the door, Kate's mother stopped crying and looked up.

Dr. Gregory turned slowly, his gaze locking onto me.

"What did you say?"

I swallowed hard.

"I just think the angle of the wound is unusual. If she used her right hand to cut her left wrist, there would typically be hesitation wounds. But she has none. The cut is so clean it looks like it was done in a single, fluid motion."

Dr. Gregory let out a soft, dismissive laugh.

"Summer, today is your first day as an intern."

I gripped my pen tightly.

"I know."

"Then act like it," he said, closing the autopsy file. "Textbook theories aren't meant for you to show off at an active crime scene."

The other assistant pathologists lowered their heads, remaining silent.

Dr. Gregory continued:

"The victim had trace amounts of blood on her right hand, her fingerprints were on the knife handle, there were no signs of forced entry, and the suicide note was confirmed to be written on her phone. Tell me, if this isn't suicide, what is it?"

I opened my mouth, but no words came out.

In my ear, Kate's voice suddenly turned shrill.

"I didn't touch that knife!"

"I didn't write that note!"

"He knew my passcode! He knew it!"

My heart hammered against my ribs.

I couldn't tell them I heard the dead speaking.

No one would believe me.

They would just lock me up in a psychiatric ward.

Seeing my silence, Dr. Gregory's eyes flickered with amusement.

"It's good for young people to ask questions, but skepticism must be backed by evidence. Otherwise, it's just a desperate cry for attention."

The words felt like a slap to my face.

My cheeks burned.

But just as he turned to walk away, Kate spoke again.

"My fingernails."

"Look at my right middle finger."

"There's skin under there."

I looked down instantly.

Kate's right hand rested at her side, her fingers slightly curled.

Her nails were short, painted with a light pink polish, showing no obvious signs of struggle.

Ignoring Dr. Gregory's cold stare, I pulled on a fresh pair of gloves and picked up a magnifying glass.

Deep inside the nail bed of her right middle finger, there was a tiny, almost imperceptible speck of dark red tissue.

It was minuscule.

If I hadn't been actively looking for it, it would have been easily dismissed as dried blood.

My breath caught.

"Detective Jones," I called out, my voice tight. "There's a trace of what looks like skin tissue under the victim's right middle fingernail. I recommend we run a DNA test on it."

Detective Jones walked over.

He was in his early thirties, with sharp, serious features, known as a relentless workaholic in the homicide division.

He leaned down to look, his expression shifting.

Dr. Gregory walked back over as well.

He stared at it for a second, his expression darkening.

"A bathtub is a complex environment. It's perfectly normal for debris to get trapped under the nails."

"But if she took her own life, why would she have someone else's skin under her nail?" I countered.

"Are you certain that's skin?"

"No, which is why we need to test it."

Dr. Gregory stared at me, his eyes cold.

"Summer, do you have any idea what you're doing right now?"

Of course I knew.

I was challenging the conclusion of a highly respected forensic expert.

I was using my position as a mere intern to hold up a suicide report that was about to be officially signed off.

I also knew that if I was wrong, my career in forensics would be over before it even started.

But Kate's voice was crying in my head.

"Please."

"My mom only has me."

Outside the door, Kate's mother leaned against the wall, her eyes swollen and red.

"Detective, my daughter would never do this."

"She just told me yesterday she was going to take me to the hospital for my checkup this weekend."

"She wouldn't leave me alone."

At that moment, I remembered my grandmother's words before her casket was closed.

"Don't fear the dead, Summer. The dead won't hurt you. The ones you should fear are the living who keep their mouths shut."

I looked up, meeting their eyes.

"Detective Jones, I'd like to formally request a secondary examination."

The air in the room seemed to freeze.

Detective Jones didn't answer immediately.

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

He took off his wire-rimmed glasses and began to wipe them slowly with a cloth, his voice dangerously calm.

"You're requesting it?"

He looked at me as if I were a ridiculous joke.

"Summer, you don't even have the authority to sign off on an official opinion."

"I know, which is why I'm making a recommendation."

"A recommendation?" he sneered. "Your recommendation will force the detectives to reopen a settled case, give the family false hope, and delay an obvious conclusion. Can you take responsibility for the consequences?"

My fingers turned cold.

Detective Jones finally spoke.

"Dr. Gregory, since we found potential physical evidence, running a quick test won't disrupt our timeline."

Dr. Gregory stiffened.

"Do you think I made a mistake, Detective?"

Detective Jones's face remained neutral.

"I only follow the evidence."

The autopsy room fell silent.

Dr. Gregory stared at him for a few seconds before letting out a soft laugh.

"Very well. Since you're both so insistent, we'll run the test."

He put his glasses back on, his cold gaze landing on me.

"But let me remind you, Summer, forensics isn't a detective novel. Dead bodies don't bend to your imagination."

I lowered my head.

In my ear, Kate whispered:

"Thank you."

Her voice was incredibly faint, like a fading breeze.

Getting a rush DNA test would take some time.

Detective Jones ordered the evidence to be secured and put a hold on closing the case.

As I helped the other assistants clean up the autopsy room, an uneasy feeling lingered in my chest.

Kate had said the killer was in this room.

But at the time, the only people present were me, Dr. Gregory, Detective Jones, two assistant pathologists, and a female clerk.

Detective Jones was a homicide investigator, the two assistants had been right beside me the entire time, and the clerk was a woman.

So who was the "he" Kate referred to?

My gaze kept drifting back to Dr. Gregory.

He was washing his hands.

The stream of water washed over his fingers, carrying away a faint trace of blood.

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

My heart leaped.

Dr. Gregory offered a thin, cold smile.

"Summer."

"Yes, Dr. Gregory?"

"Come to my office after you finish up."

His voice was smooth, but it sent a chill down my spine.

By seven in the evening, the forensic center was mostly dark, save for the hallway lights.

I knocked on his door.

"Come in."

The office was dimly lit, with only a desk lamp casting a warm glow.

Dr. Gregory sat behind his desk, my internship file open in front of him.

He didn't invite me to sit.

"Your academic record is impressive."

I stood near the door, keeping quiet.

"Top of your class, perfect scores in anatomy, excellent recommendation letters from your professors."

He turned a page, his tone indifferent.

"But you're too eager."

I pressed my lips together.

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

"I know," he said, looking up. "You wanted to prove yourself."

I blinked in surprise.

He closed the folder.

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

"But this isn't a classroom. Every word we write affects the course of justice, and every decision impacts the living and the dead."

His words sounded incredibly professional.

If Kate's voice weren't still echoing in my mind, I might have actually believed him and doubted myself.

Dr. Gregory stood up and walked over to me.

"I can overlook what happened today."

I looked at him.

His tone softened.

"Tomorrow, write a brief statement explaining that your lack of experience led you to mistake a contaminant for skin tissue. We'll withdraw the test request, and I'll make sure it doesn't affect your final evaluation."

I finally understood why he called me here.

He was trying to pressure me.

"But the sample has already been sent to the lab," I said.

Dr. Gregory smiled.

"It can always be recalled."

"Why would we do that?"

Silence stretched between us for a few long seconds.

The warmth on Dr. Gregory's face faded completely.

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

My back pressed against the wooden door, my palms slick with sweat.

Just then, a faint whisper drifted from the storage cabinet in the corner of the office.

"Don't listen to him."

I snapped my head toward the corner.

A black evidence bin sat on the bottom shelf.

The label read: Kate's Case.

I heard it clearly.

It wasn't a body.

It was the evidence speaking.

To be precise, it was the blood-soaked white shirt inside the bin.

"He touched me."

"He cut off my cuff."

My skin prickled with goosebumps.

The cuff?

When Kate's blood-stained clothes were brought in, I hadn't paid close attention to the sleeves.

Dr. Gregory frowned, noticing my distraction.

"What are you looking at?"

I forced my gaze back.

"Nothing."

He stared at me, as if trying to read my thoughts.

I took a deep breath.

"I won't withdraw the request, Dr. Gregory."

His eyes turned cold as flint.

"Are you sure about that?"

"Yes."

He nodded slowly.

"Very well."

He sat back down, picked up his pen, and tapped it against my folder.

"I hope you don't regret this."

The next morning, the atmosphere at the forensic center had shifted.

In the breakroom, staff members were whispering.

"Did you hear? The new intern openly challenged Dr. Gregory yesterday."

"Is she out of her mind? Dr. Gregory has decades of experience. Who does she think she is?"

"Kids these days just want to be heroes the second they get on a case."

I stood outside with my mug, listening.

When they noticed me, they shut up immediately.

I pretended not to hear, though the words still stung.

By nine in the morning, the preliminary DNA results came back.

The tissue found under the nail did not belong to Kate.

It didn't match anyone on the scene or the initial responders either.

In the conference room, Detective Jones tossed the report onto the table.

"There was a third person on the scene."

The room fell dead silent.

Dr. Gregory's face tightened for a fraction of a second, but he quickly regained his composure.

He glanced at the report.

"It only proves she had contact with someone before her death. It doesn't prove homicide."

"Which is why we're reopening the investigation," Detective Jones replied.

Dr. Gregory nodded.

"Of course."

He agreed so quickly it made me uneasy.

Detective Jones turned to me.

"Summer, you mentioned the wound angle was off. Explain."

Everyone looked at me.

Dr. Gregory sat at the head of the table, expressionless.

I turned on the projector and enlarged the photo of Kate's wrist.

"The wound on the victim's left wrist starts on the outer side and cuts straight across, with a uniform depth. If she had done this herself with her right hand, the cut would typically start shallow, deepen in the middle, and taper off at the end."

I pulled up another slide.

"But this wound has no hesitation marks and is perfectly even, suggesting a steady hand. The person holding the blade was likely standing to her left."

Detective Jones asked, "So it's highly probable it was done by someone else?"

"Yes."

Dr. Gregory spoke up.

"Highly probable?"

He looked at me.

"Forensics doesn't deal in probabilities, Summer."

"Which is why I need to perform a follow-up examination," I said.

"On what?"

I pointed at the evidence bin.

"The victim's clothes."