The body lay on the stainless-steel autopsy table, pale and unmarked. A stark, unyielding mystery. I adjusted the overhead lamp, its cold light casting harsh shadows across the man's motionless form. Male, early forties. Athletic build. Clear skin, unbroken and free of the signs of struggle or trauma I had seen a thousand times before.
Yet I knew.
Something had killed him, and it hadn't been natural. Call it instinct, call it experience, but the dead had a way of speaking to me, even in their silence. The challenge now was to listen.
"Body temperature at intake, 22 degrees Celsius," I murmured, recalling the initial report. "Rigor mortis fully resolved. Time of death estimated at 48 hours prior to discovery."
No external signs of foul play. Not a single contusion, laceration, or puncture wound. No petechial hemorrhages in the sclera—so no sign of asphyxiation. No cyanosis around the lips or fingertips. His nails were pristine, his hands uncalloused. Whoever he was, his death had left no trace.
For a moment, I paused, allowing my gaze to roam over his body like a sculptor studying raw marble. The lack of clues wasn't just perplexing; it was intentional. Someone had worked hard to ensure this man's death would go unnoticed.
I began the internal examination with the standard Y-incision. My scalpel moved smoothly, parting skin and fascia, exposing the ribcage beneath. As I worked, I recited the steps in my mind, each as familiar as breathing.
The heart and lungs first. They sat nestled in the chest cavity, undisturbed. No fluid in the pleural spaces, no cardiac tamponade. A healthy heart, its chambers perfectly proportioned. The lungs, spongy and pink, showed no signs of edema or embolism.
Next, the abdominal cavity. I carefully peeled back the peritoneum, revealing the organs within. Liver: smooth, unremarkable. Stomach: no signs of rupture. Its contents, however, caught my attention—partially digested food, suggesting a meal consumed two hours before death.
"No poison, no struggle," I muttered. "No hemorrhages. Nothing."
I felt the faint stirrings of frustration. Every organ was intact, every tissue pristine. The blood samples, taken earlier for toxicology, might tell me more, but I couldn't shake the sense that I was overlooking something.
Then, I saw it.
Or rather, I didn't see it.
The neck. I bent closer, peering at the skin along the carotid arteries. It was smooth—unnaturally so. Too smooth. The absence of hair follicles was subtle but undeniable, the kind of detail most people wouldn't notice. But in my line of work, the absence of something could be as revealing as its presence.
A faint chemical odor reached my nose, so faint I almost dismissed it. I leaned in, taking a longer breath. Chloral hydrate? No... something sharper. Solvent-like. I retrieved a magnifying glass and examined the skin under the bright overhead light. There it was: a barely perceptible reddening near the left carotid artery. A patch no larger than a coin.
"Transdermal delivery," I whispered.
Someone had used a chemical agent—a neurotoxin, perhaps—applied directly to the skin. It would have absorbed into his bloodstream within minutes, paralyzing him without a struggle, shutting down his respiratory system as silently as a whisper. Death would have seemed natural. The perfect crime.
I straightened, the scalpel still in my hand. "You were clever," I said to the empty room. "But not clever enough."
"This is Dr. Elliot Reeve, forensic pathologist. Subject: unidentified male, approximately forty-two years old. Time of death: forty-eight hours prior to intake. Cause of death: suspected neurotoxin, administered via transdermal patch. Evidence of application site noted on left carotid artery. Initial findings indicate deliberate homicide."
I let my voice settle, then added, "This man was murdered."
Clicking off the recorder, I leaned against the counter. My thoughts tumbled forward like dominoes, one case leading into another. It always started this way: no outward signs of violence, no immediate cause of death. And yet, time after time, the truth unraveled under my scalpel.
There had been the woman whose heart had inexplicably stopped while gardening. Natural causes, they'd said. But the toxicology screen told me otherwise: aconitine, from monkshood, carefully laced into her herbal tea. Her husband had brewed it for her, and her garden was conveniently the perfect cover for the poison.
Or the man found in his car, the engine off but his lifeless body slumped over the steering wheel. Heart attack? That's what his wife wanted everyone to believe. But my examination revealed potassium chloride injections—quick, painless, and devastatingly effective.
Always the spouse. Always the ones closest to the victim. They had the motive, the access, and often, the cold calculation. Betrayal by the people you trust most is a story as old as time.
"You're good," I said softly to the corpse in front of me. "Whoever killed you wanted perfection. But no one is perfect."
I reached for my tools again. The body had more to say. It was my job to make it speak.
I reached for the bone saw next, preparing to open the cranium. The skull's clean surface gleamed under the light as I worked methodically, cutting through the calvarium with precise strokes. The sound was a low whir, barely a distraction against the hum of the vent overhead.
As I lifted the top portion of the skull away, the brain lay exposed—a masterpiece of evolution, now lifeless. No evidence of trauma. No subdural hematomas, no swelling. I carefully removed the organ, cradling its weight in my hands. About 1.4 kilograms, perfectly average.
A sectioning knife revealed no infarctions, no signs of an aneurysm or stroke. Whatever had killed him hadn't left its mark here, either.
The faint knock at the door barely registered at first. I turned my head slightly as the door opened, and Detective Jared Connelly strode in. He was broad-shouldered, with a graying beard and a perpetually rumpled trench coat. His sharp, calculating eyes betrayed the calm demeanor he tried to project.
"Doc," he said with a nod. "What do we have?"
I paused, my gloved hands resting on the edge of the table. "Homicide. Suspected neurotoxin delivered through a transdermal patch on the neck," I said, gesturing toward the faint reddening near the carotid artery.
He frowned, leaning in to inspect it for himself. "I thought so," he muttered.
I raised an eyebrow. "You're ahead of me for once. What tipped you off?"
"The wife," he said with a dry chuckle. "She's talking too much. People grieve differently, I get that. But this lady? She's overexplaining every detail of her husband's schedule, his habits, his diet. Kept saying how healthy he was, over and over again. Almost like she's trying to convince me."
I nodded. "Classic behavior. They always overcompensate. They know the truth but think they can control the narrative by oversharing."
Jared pulled out his notepad, scribbling something down. "So, she's guilty?"
"Most likely," I replied. "But she's smart. If she's using a toxin like this, she's done her homework. She's also leaving herself just enough plausible deniability. This wasn't a spur-of-the-moment act; it's calculated."
I stepped back from the table, my hands resting on my hips as I looked at the corpse. The clean perfection of the crime nagged at me, as it always did. Perpetrators like this wanted to believe they could erase all evidence, but they never did. There was always an opening. Always something they overlooked.
They're human, after all.
They underestimated the body's ability to tell its story, and they overestimated their own ability to silence it. A misplaced lie, an extra detail, or in this case, the faint chemical residue on a patch of skin. Their arrogance was their undoing.
I turned to Jared. "Push her. Not too hard, but enough to let her feel the walls closing in. Guilty people talk because they think they can outsmart you. If she planned this well, she'll be confident—until you crack that confidence. She'll slip. They always do."
Jared smirked, his pen hovering over his notepad. "You make it sound so easy."
"Not easy," I admitted. "But inevitable. People don't realize how much they give away when they think they're in control." I glanced back at the body. "Still, I'll give her credit. She knows what she's doing."
"She doesn't seem nervous," Jared said.
"She will be," I said with a faint smile. "The guiltier they are, the harder it hits when the truth starts catching up."
Jared nodded, tucking his notebook into his pocket. "I'll keep you posted."
"Do that," I said, turning back to the autopsy. There was still work to do, and I wasn't finished listening to what the body had to say.
I peeled off my gloves, tossing them into the biohazard bin. The autopsy was complete, and every angle of the victim's story had been explored. I documented every finding, noted every anomaly, and handed the detective his key to solving the puzzle. It was textbook. Flawless.
Walking out of the morgue, I spotted Detective Connelly near the far wall, his broad shoulders leaning into the conversation with an elderly woman. She clutched her handbag tightly, her gray curls bobbing as she spoke. Even from here, I could hear her voice—too steady, too rehearsed. The widow.
Jared would get her. He always did, especially with my work to guide him. I allowed myself a faint smile as I headed to my car.
The engine purred to life as I pulled onto the quiet street, the hum of the tires against the asphalt a comforting rhythm. I turned on the radio, a jazz station filling the car with smooth, soulful notes. My fingers tapped against the steering wheel as I hummed along.
The day had gone well. Everything was in its place, as it should be.
I pulled into my driveway, the headlights cutting through the darkness. The house stood pristine against the night, a picture of normalcy. I parked, turned off the engine, and stepped out, pulling on a pair of black nitrile gloves.
From the trunk, I retrieved the body. Male, mid-thirties. His lifeless form was wrapped tightly in industrial plastic sheeting, layers upon layers to ensure no fluids escaped. I hoisted him out carefully, avoiding any sudden movements. My trunk was immaculate—no hair, no fibers, no DNA. The gloves ensured no prints, no oils, no trace of me on him.
There was an art to this. A precision.
The neighborhood was silent, every window dark. I made my way to the side entrance of the house, a route I had rehearsed countless times. A single misstep, a single moment of carelessness, could unravel everything. But I wasn't careless.
I wasn't like them.
The inside of the house was immaculate, the faint scent of lavender drifting through the air. It was a calculated choice. Lavender was calming, familiar. It masked other scents effectively but didn't draw suspicion like bleach or ammonia. Of course, I had the real solution in the basement: activated carbon filters and zeolite. Both worked tirelessly to absorb odors, ensuring no hint of decomposition reached the surface.
I descended the stairs, the basement cool and sterile. At the center of the room was the culmination of my work—a pile of bodies. Seven now, with tonight's addition. Each one meticulously wrapped and stacked like cordwood. No flies, no maggots, no signs of decay.
The plastic wrap kept fluids contained, and the environment I'd cultivated—temperature-controlled, humidity-regulated, and chemically treated—ensured there was nothing for nature to claim.
I dropped the newest addition onto the pile with a dull thud. My breathing was steady, my pulse calm. There was no emotion in this. Only precision.
The bodies meant nothing to me. Strangers, every one of them. No connections. No names. Just lives that had crossed my path at the wrong time. I didn't know who they were, and I didn't care.
The act itself, though? That was where the satisfaction lay.
I pulled off my gloves, tossing them into a sealed waste bin. No trace. No evidence. Everything controlled, every variable accounted for. The thought brought a faint smirk to my lips as I surveyed the pile.
Who am I kidding?
I wasn't just good at this—I was perfect. There were no mistakes here. No loose ends. No one to point a finger at me. Every detail was precise, every step deliberate.
I was untouchable.
"This," I murmured, stepping back to admire my work, "is my perfect crime."
THE END.