2pac Autopsy Photo Novels & Stories

In the picture, Pat and the boy were adults. The pictures displayed on the adjoining page featured Pat and similar faces from the previous picture. They were all dressed in black at a burial site and the guy was not in the picture. But, there was a passport of the guy clipped at the edge of the page. The picture seemed very recent and the passport was tagged RIP. It saddened Zee that the boy was gone. He seemed important to Pat.

Gunther took a remote and turned ON the TV “I know who killed Iyanu and took Victor” he said, Amanda looked at him “Who?” she asked as she walked closer to him, he pushed a button on the remote to reveal the picture of a vault, it was a black and white picture, it looked like a picture that had been taken in the 1920s, there were four men in the photograph standing in front of the vault, he pushed the remote and the picture changed to a photo of a man with bald head and beards

He knew what he was doing. The investigator dropped his suitcase on our table and brought out a couple of photos. “ Then how do you prove this?From the autopsy result ,he died the same night you claimed that he tried to molest you” He scattered the photos on the desk and I nearly threw up. “ Oh my God.” My mother gasped in horror ,her voice breaking into a sob. The blood drained from my face as I stared at the pictures. My whole body trembled as I clenched the edge of my dress more tightly.

"Thank you for your hard work detective Tina, we got this because you were prudent. Thanks once again. The autopsy result for both of the victims will be out latest tomorrow, we would know which pointer we can get from there. We are only able to figure out from this statement that Pascal Parker earned his living from an indecent way. Why would he choose to be a thug and leave no trace to his family or background?

His face was blank as usual as he lowered and reached into the dead man's pocket. He pulled out a phone and gave it to me. I unlocked the screen with a flip of my fingers. There were a couple of numbers on the phone and a few deleted messages. “Have someone go through it,” I ordered throwing the phone back at Maximus. He caught it with ease. Vance and his engineers appeared, and they gasped at the sight. “Jesus, you killed him,” Vance complained. “He shot himself,” Maximus replied. “Oh no. I knew he had a drug problem, but never expected it to be this deep,” Vance said. He looked disgusted.

Her picture was also taken at the crime scene, and yet again, there was no evidence left behind… LILY GRAHAM. 30 years old. Shot outside of Woodwick Central. Known to have a cannabis addiction. Raped and murdered. The third picture was of a Puerto Rican man, wearing black jeans paired with a black jacket. He had a tribal tattoo across his chest, and the crime scene photos showed horrific images of him lying down next to his sisters, his mother, and his father, all of them left to die in their own pool of blood. They’d left a gun in his hand to make it appear that he’d killed his whole family before killing himself, but that was just pure bullshit…

He turned it around with the video already playing. Percival had told me about what happened to Jackson and my Uncle. They were found dead after the crossfire. The video showed our people approaching a dead body in a parking lot. I gulped when the video focused on the person's face. It was Jackson with a hole in his head. His eyes were still open, and his mouth hung open.

I lifted my leg and shook him off. "You're too late," I said indifferently. I pulled up a photo on my phone and dropped it at his knees. The photo showed a tiny, undeveloped fetus, streaked with blood, lying motionless on a cold metal tray. It was our pup, the one killed by his neglect. Cassian's sobs broke off. He stared at the photo until the last of his hope crumbled, his body going slack as a low, broken howl of grief ripped from his throat.

“In my last year, I took forensics. I even showed my father’s autopsy report and pictures to my professor. You want to know what he had said?” Eddie shrugged. He wasn’t sure what the guy was getting at. Then it hit him. Eddie himself had shot MacCovey after he had died so gun powder would be on his hands that night. But the forensics guys didn’t even check his hands and nails when they had showed up.

His head was tilted slightly, his face shadowed, but I’d recognize those features anywhere. Shit, it can’t be… But it is. It’s Vito. The man we had all believed was dead. A single line of text accompanied the photo: Some ghosts refuse to stay buried. My heart pounded in my chest. The timestamp on the image was recent, taken just three days ago. The location—a port I didn’t immediately recognize—was blurred in the background, but the shipping crates bore the logo of a company long suspected of being a Les Ombres Écarlates front.