2pac Autopsy Photo Novels & Stories

The man had been so dangerous that Papa Lucas himself had once been forced to take personal command of the territorial war to hunt him down and end his life. “Back then, Papa believed he'd truly died in that ammunition warehouse explosion, Samuel. But apparently fate had other plans. Damn it—he's been alive this whole time, hiding that ruined face of his underground.” Papa Lucas's voice was heavy, straining to hold back a surge of fury. I didn't answer right away. An overwhelming curiosity had my fingers moving quickly to open the brown folder. My eyes narrowed sharply the instant a large photograph slid out. It was Bianca Perez, seated in a deliberately provocative pose across the lap of a

“There’s more.” Of course there was. “There always is,” I muttered. He pulled out a file. Two photos. He handed them to me. My breath suspended. The first—A boy. Ten… maybe eleven. Lying on the floor. A bullet between his closed eyes. Tear tracks still drying on his cheeks. I swallowed hard. It was horrible to see a young life snuffed out like that. Then I looked at the second. The same boy. Now on a morgue slab. But he was shirtless now with just a white sheet pulled over up to his waist. My eyes locked onto his chest. And everything else disappeared.

The man shook his head and spat blood on the ground again. "I don't think he remembers anything " Paco commented. "Look! He was drugged too" Paco added pointing at the blue veins at his elbow. Zayn took out a stick of cigar from his pockets he lit one and puffed out the smoke running his hands through his hair like her normally did. He put the stick on the mouth and watched the man puffed out the smoke . One thing was certain the man was going to die he couldn't necessarily survive the drugs and beatings he had gotten .

“Truth doesn’t keep anyone alive. It just decides who kills you.” The detectives didn’t flinch. They’d heard worse. The tall one opened the folder at last. Inside were photos—grainy surveillance shots, crime scene images, and one that made Rico’s stomach twist. It was him, walking beside Kroos years ago, a cigarette dangling from his mouth, eyes younger, harder, unbroken by hiding.

Sitting at his desk, he inserted the USB Alden had given him and began reviewing its contents. Maximus’s eyes filled with tears as he saw the photographs of Peter’s remains. They were nothing but charred scraps of flesh. There wasn’t even a body—much of it had been lost when the car exploded and tumbled into the ravine. For the first time, Maximus understood why there was a strong suspicion that his brother’s death hadn’t been an accident. The video that broke his heart showed Marcus Bartz identifying Peter’s remains. The video had audio, and Maximus clearly heard Marcus say something that would echo in his mind and heart:

Lucas tried to pull my attention, but I ignored him. I brought my cell phone and scrolled through the gallery in search of the photo that was sent to me a few weeks after the death of my father. After an autopsy was run on him, it was confirmed that he was poisoned to death. So I took it in to investigate the matter to find the culprit, but I never found her even after the hacker sent me the photo of the culprit. The way my gaze affixed on the phone screen made Lucas reach closer to see what was going on, and when he saw the photo in my phone gallery, his eyes flew wide.

The moment recent one was almost hilarious. “The autopsy results came back. We also have visuals,” the same short policeman slapped the photos on the foot of the bed. He spreads them out. “We have reasons to believe Mr Henry Sirenio was abducted and tortured,” Miles’ brows raised in mock surprise. I fought to keep my face cool. “Could this be the same people?” “You’re asking the wrong person,” Miles says, eyeing the photos with a bored expression. “Mr Sirenio-“

"Both Chucho and Capo are dead." He slides his phone onto the desk and I catch it before it can slide away. I pick it and begin to scroll through the pictures. There are ten pictures in all. Five are of the man called Chucho. One when he was alive and tied to a chair, two with a plastic bag over his head, and two after he was dead. The remaining five are of Capo. All taken when he was placed on a stake, crucifixion-style, his bowels gutted and his innards spilling out.

I flipped through a few documents until I saw my mom's case file. There were two pictures inside, one of my mom smiling back at me, her eyes the same shade of hazel as mine. The other photo was taken during her autopsy, and it made my stomach churn. I quickly closed the file, not wanting Adrian to see how affected I was. "Let's take a break," Adrian said suddenly, "I know a great coffee shop nearby. We can grab a drink and clear our heads for a bit." I hesitated for a moment, but the thought of getting out of the stuffy penthouse was too tempting to resist.

He opened it. The first photograph hit him like a gut punch. There was Paolo, eyes vacant, mouth slack, three neat bullet holes in his head. His white dress shirt soaked through with blood, dark red and almost black in the dim forest light. His body was slumped against a tree, head tilted to the side in a grotesque, unnatural angle. Gone was the arrogant power Paolo had always wielded. He looked… small. Dead. Luca’s stomach churned. The next photo showed the scene from farther back, a man crouched on the ground, body crumpled, blood on the grass.