Speak for the Silent

On my first day at work, the director imparted to me one valuable piece of advice, saying, "The most important quality for a forensic pathologist is staying calm. Corpses can't lie, but the living do."

Back then, I did not dare to correct him despite knowing better. I knew the truth, and that was that corpses really could talk.

I'd been able to hear strange voices around me ever since I was little.

When our old cat died, I held its cooling carcass in my arms and cried. Then, I heard it grumble in my ear, "Stop crying. You're getting snot all over my fur."

I was so terrified that I couldn't sleep a wink for three days straight.

When my grandmother passed away, I could hear her body muttering in my ear as clear as day even under all that crying everyone else was doing in the funeral hall.

"Your aunt stole my gold bracelet again. There's a bankbook under the third brick beneath the bed. Don't let her get her hands on it."

I searched exactly where she told me to and actually found the bankbook.

From that day on, I knew that there was something really wrong with me. However, I also learned that the dead were far more honest than the living.

So, I secretly chose forensic pathology without telling anyone when the time for me to apply for college came and went.

I figured that if I was destined to hear these voices, I might as well put them to good use.

What I did not expect was to hear a dead woman insist that she hadn't killed herself on my very first day interning at the city police department.

The woman on the autopsy table was Sherry Mann. She was a 28-year-old product manager working at a tech company.

The case looked simple enough.

She had been found dead in the bathtub of her rental apartment. There was a deep cut on her left wrist. The doors and windows had been locked from the inside. The tub was filled with bloody water, and a fruit knife lay nearby.

There was also a note saved in her phone. "I'm tired. I'm sorry, Mom."

The evidence seemed clear-cut. Everything fit the bill. It looked like a classic suicide, but she just said it wasn't.

I stood frozen as a cold sweat broke out across my back.

My supervising pathologist, Lucian Vance, shot me a glance as he remarked flatly. "Summer, pay attention and keep taking notes."

Lucian was one of the city's most respected forensic pathologists.

He was 47 years old and had worked in the field for more than 20 years. Naturally, he had examined thousands of bodies and helped solve countless major cases. Even my professors spoke of him with unmistakable respect.

Thus, almost no one questioned him if he ruled a death a suicide. Yet, the trembling female voice in my ear refused to stop whispering.

"I didn't cut myself. When I woke up, someone was forcing my wrist into the water. He was wearing gloves. He was smiling."

My throat tightened as I lowered my eyes to the body.

The color had long since drained from Sherry's face. Yet, the corners of her mouth looked as though they'd been violently torn apart by pain, frozen in a grotesque curve.

Eventually, I couldn't stop myself as I blurted, "Mr. Vance, isn't the edge of the wound on her left wrist a little too clean?"

Lucian was taking off his gloves. His hands stopped upon hearing my question.

The autopsy room fell silent.

The captain of the homicide unit, Julian Slate, looked up at me.

Sherry's mother had been stopped outside the door. When she heard my voice, she suddenly looked up as well.

Lucian slowly turned to face me. "What did you just say?"

I swallowed the lump in my throat. "I just think the direction of the wound is a little strange. There should be hesitation marks if she'd used her right hand to cut her left wrist. She doesn't have any of those.

"Plus, the wound edges are so clean that it's as if it was done in a single, smooth motion."

Lucian smiled, but it wasn't pretty. "Summer, today's your first day as an intern."

I tightened my grip on my pen. "I know."

"Good." He closed the autopsy report with a snap. "What you learn in textbooks isn't meant for showing off in the field."

The assistant forensic pathologists beside us lowered their heads. No one spoke in my defense.

Lucian continued, "The victim's right thumb web has trace amounts of blood on it. Her fingerprints are on the knife handle. There were no signs of forced entry at the scene, and the suicide note was confirmed to have been written on the victim's own phone.

"Tell me, if this wasn't suicide, then what else could it be?"

I opened my mouth.

Sherry's voice suddenly became sharp. "I didn't hold that knife! I didn't write that note either! He knew my passcode. He knew!"

My heart started pounding faster and faster.

I could not tell them I could hear the dead speaking. No one would believe me. They would only think I was insane.

A trace of mockery appeared in Lucian's eyes when he saw that I had fallen silent. "It's a good thing for young people to ask questions. But doubts have to be backed by evidence. Without evidence, your line of questioning is nothing more than grandstanding."

His words landed across my face like a slap. My cheeks burned in humiliation.

However, Sherry spoke up once more just as he turned to leave.