2pac Autopsy Photo Novels & Stories

The man who had died in his arms in a Bogota firefight, bleeding out while telling him to run. He opened the file. There was no text. Just a single, crystal-clear, high-resolution photograph. Richard. He was older, a network of scars covering the side of his face, his hair gray. But it was him. He was alive. He was standing, arms crossed, outside a massive, futuristic, matte-black facility that seemed to be growing out of the A****n jungle. The photo's metadata, embedded and verified, was a final, devastating blow. Timestamp: 24 hours ago.

"Is this a joke?" Lance didn't answer. Instead, he pulled out a slim black tablet and tapped the screen a few times. Then he turned it around, holding it up for everyone to see. Boom! There it was. Photo One. Karina. On a grimy club bathroom floor. Half-naked. Passed out. Her dress hiked up to her waist, thighs smeared with god-knows-what. Her purse spilled open beside her, and right there in the mess—crystal clear—was a small plastic baggie of white powder.

I paused. It was a picture of something that keenly resembles Pyra, a side profile to be specific. “Why didn’t Blackthorn share this picture with Maverick?” I questioned in confusion, staring at the clear picture. At least this picture would serve as proof that Pyra was still alive, and that might have calmed Maverick’s heart. Holding the picture carefully, I reached for my phone, scrolling through the photos I had taken weeks ago in Maverick’s office. The two photos were of the same place but taken from different angles.

“I can give it to Beta Damian. He is in a meeting right now.” Doctor Aarush smiled at me, “thank you. I am in a bit of a rush, so this really helps.” I had been trying to find a way to discover more about Mark’s murder. I know they can handle it, but I feel like I’m the only one who truly believes Asher is innocent right now. I knew I shouldn’t look, but I didn’t care. I would just look through it and then bring it to Beta Damian. The photos were disgusting. Mark’s skin was gone in a lot of places. His stomach, arms and pieces of his leg. It looked like someone stabbed him a few times. I read the notes that Doctor Aarush wrote.

of my father’s death. Instead, the screen filled with a mosaic of my own life. My breath hitched, catching in a throat that had suddenly gone bone-dry. I stumbled back, my hand flying to my mouth to stifle a cry. The monitor wasn't a ledger; it was a gallery. There was a photo of me three years ago, standing outside the bakery in Newark, dusting flour from my apron with a tired smile. There was a shot taken through a rainy window, showing me asleep on the couch in my tiny apartment, vulnerable and unaware.

I had hidden the bug I planted at Zac's place on the fourteenth floor after I removed it, destroying it before boarding a flight to return to my old home. It was dilapidated with weeds growing all around it, while the walls were lined with cobwebs. Three black-and-white photos, featuring an elderly man, an elderly woman, and a young woman, were hung on the center wall. She was twenty-five when she died, her beauty clear even in black-and-white. I cleaned everything, including the photos, and felt a huge load off my shoulders. And I smiled—the first earnest smile I had since I stabbed that crystal quartz into Zac's neck.

In it was the death certificate, the DNA report, and the autopsy photos… They were photos of my body, close-ups of the gunshot wound in my chest, and my broken fingers. His hand began to shake. “Ron?” Lisa called softly. Ron did not respond. He stared at the photos, at my dead face, at those eyes that would never open again. I saw his throat bob, as if he were swallowing something hard and jagged. “Get out,” he said hoarsely. “Ron…” “I said, get out!” Lisa flinched, then ran out of the study, crying. Ron stood there alone, holding the report, staring at it for a long, long time.

I pulled it out and tore the heavy zipper open. Inside lay a loaded, silver compact pistol—a customized Sig Sauer P365. Next to the weapon was a single, glossy 8x10 photograph. I grabbed the photo, bringing it into the bathroom’s ambient light. It wasn't a picture of our wedding. It wasn't a romantic memory. It was a high-resolution surveillance photograph taken in a rain-slicked Parisian alleyway. In the picture, Lucien was standing beneath a broken streetlamp, wearing a dark trench coat covered in blood spatters. He was looking down at a man’s body crumpled lifelessly at his feet.

Nathaniel said. Lillian looked at the pictures at those photos, the date. everything matched. Not sign of fraud. They just wanted to have Nathaniel walked over to her, his hand on her shoulder.“When you mentioned you were scared. I had to do everything in my power to make sure I tacked checked it I made sure to never let that fear in even when I'm. Never,” he said. … The documents where about Harry's. And Patrucia autopsy. “Sir, the deputy officer that cleared her refused to speak with me,”Howard Greer said.

Amy still sat looking at her. “Have any news for me?” She asked her. “Well, here's something that will get a bit closer to your investigation,” she said, bringing out something from her bag. Avery took it and looked at the paper. It was a picture of a plump man, with dirty teeth, and holding cocaine in one hand smiling at the camera. Avery looked at her picture with irritation. “Who's this?” She asked her. “That there is the leader of the Red Talcum” she said out and stood up.