2pac Autopsy Photo Novels & Stories

I can see a sequence of images captured before and during the autopsy procedure on the very first page. Then I started to turn towards the next page and read through the exam results. On May 24, 2021, the autopsy immediately started at 6:30 A.M. The body is presented in a black body bag. The victim is appropriately dressed in a white polo shirt and navy sweatpants. Two smooth-textured silver hoop punctured earrings, 1-inch diameter, one on the left ear, one on the tongue, and one 1-inch wide silver stretchable wristband on the left wrist have been included in the jewelry. The buckle fastens a 1.5-inch-wide tan belt with green stripes around the victim's sweatpants. The belt's opposite side i

Alex nodded. Waltz then scrolled through her phone to find the picture. The corpse really was charred black, it was almost impossible to recognize him. “That’s not right.” Alex shook his head. “Not right?” Waltz turned to Alex. “Is this not Anthony Pattingson?” “No, it is him, but the cause of death isn’t electrocution.”

It wasn't a liquidation order, and it wasn't a compliance brief from Sophia Lang. It was an automated death certificate, finalized by the London metropolitan forensic desk ten minutes prior. The name on the digital registry was *Victor Hawthorne*, and the cause of death was listed as an acute, untraceable toxin detected during his morning transport from the Carlton Club. Before Elias could process the sudden, violent decapitation of his dynasty, a secondary window popped open on the screen, revealing a pre-recorded video file. The image rendered smoothly, showing Rafe Morale Blackwood sitting inside the darkened interior of an unmarked sedan, a sleek silver briefcase resting on his knees.

When he uncovered his body for us to see, we were thunderstruck. “The Angel of Death.” Giancarlo was the first to say it. He took a picture, right before the doctor stopped him in panic. “I will have to ask you to delete that.” “Of course.” Giancarlo deleted it without arguing about it. He also deleted it from the temporarily deleted folder to put the doctor’s mind at ease, but from the sidelong expression he shot at me, I knew he had sent me a copy of it. Which was great. We would need to check out what the new message meant.

Elison asked, tone clipped, already reaching to pull Azhael a step away from where he'd drifted too close to his brother. "Let's sit first," Heinz said instead of answering, patting the seat beside him with an expectant little smile. Azhael, oblivious or simply unwilling to notice the trap, moved to sit beside Heinz — only for Elison to shoulder past him and claim the spot himself. Heinz sighed, long and theatrical. "So?" Elison prompted, arms crossed. "This," Heinz said, and slid his phone across the table. The photograph on the screen stopped all conversation cold: a man's body, lifeless, marked with something deliberate carved into the skin — precise, almost artistic in its cruelty.

“Someone sent this a few hours after Carlos’ death. Untraceable address.” “Every address is traceable,” Ted bit out through his teeth as he examined the photos. They showed Carlos Anastasio, 60 years old, bald and pudgy after years of unhealthy drinking, smoking and whoring. That was the man he was sworn to protect, yet he died under his watch. Some of the images were before the murder. Picturing him in clubs, at casinos, and hotels. And then the image of the day of his death showed him getting out of his car and another one showed him walking alone to a barber’s shop. He didn’t come out of it.

Luca let go of his legs, “He’ll bleed out.” “Nah,” I said, pulling a zippo from my pocket. “Not yet.” I popped the flame and pressed it against each letter, his skin sizzled and hissed. The blood sealed but the pain, yeah, that stayed. Raphael stepped forward, raising the camera. “Make sure you get the name,” I said, grinning. Click. One photo. Rino’s underboss, hanging like pork, chest flayed open with CAPONE scorched into his flesh.

But where the fuck was Grayson? Amber got her answer soon enough in what appeared to have once been an office. The one called Morte, or so Amber guessed, was sitting in an office chair eating pizza and watching a movie on a laptop. Amber soon learned why he was called Morte, because he looked like he should have been dead. Half his fucking jaw was grossly disfigured, missing, like it’d been blown off by a shot gun blast or something. He had another bullet wound scar in his neck and a third one above his left eye. When he had his curtain of black shoulder length curls hanging down over his jaw, he almost appeared normal. He was around her father’s age give or take.

Agent Ysiah cursed a blue streak when he discovered that two of the men Gresso had killed during the fights had chips embedded in their spine. They could have detonated at any time, during the fight or the autopsy. A surgeon from the hospital was able to remove the packets without problems and they immediately delivered the evidence to their mission specialist. The complete postmortem examination of the handful of dead prisoners found to be embedded with the packet had to be done in secret.

"It was three hundred forty thousand dollars for a little girl who didn't." He turns. "You're changing me. Making me soft." "I'm making you human." "Same thing in my world." He walks past me, toward his office. "Come here." I follow him. His desk is buried under documents. Contracts. Financial statements. Security reports. The debris of a war. And one photo. The vintage print Marcus sent in the package. Patrick Bennett at the construction site. Two weeks before he died. Gabriel picks it up. He studies it with an intensity that borders on obsession.