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墨書 Inktalez
As of now, the number of suicides in Baili Village has reached three. According to the City Coroner's examination, all were confirmed as suicides. The first victim drowned, having submerged their face in a basin; they would not have died had they simply lifted their head. There were no signs of subcutaneous bleeding on the neck or head, indicating that no one had controlled the deceased. The coroner's findings were clear: this was indeed a suicide. The second victim hanged themselves from a door frame, with only a single ligature mark on the neck, and the direction of force was perpendicular to the frame, ruling out the possibility of being murdered and staged as a suicide scene. Now, we faced the third victim.
When we arrived at the scene, it was in disarray, and the smell of something burnt wafted through the air. A darkened house stood before us, its interior obscured. The body had already been removed by officers from the local police station. They were currently questioning witnesses about the situation.
Juan Juan walked over to the body with her kit in hand. I followed closely behind, and a foul odor hit me, reminiscent of what my junior high school teacher described as burnt feathers. The entire body had been charred beyond recognition, exposing cracked muscle tissue beneath the burned skin, with some areas still showing traces of blood. The eyes had nearly shriveled into mere points, leaving dark sockets behind. The body was curled up in a grotesque manner, an utterly shocking sight.
In some Western countries, pain is rated on a scale of ten, with ten being the least painful—like someone giving you a hard kiss on the cheek—and one being excruciatingly painful—like being burned alive. Such a death is incredibly torturous and prolonged; if given a choice, I would prefer to drink cyanide.
Juan Juan began a preliminary examination of the corpse. She pried open the mouth with her tools and carefully inspected the oral and nasal cavities. Then she turned the body over as if searching for something specific before finally speaking: "The deceased was indeed burned alive; there are black marks in the mouth and nose, and upon examining the body, there are no other fatal injuries present. The fire started at his legs and gradually spread throughout his body."
As she spoke, Juan Juan rummaged through her kit for something and continued: "There are traces of gasoline found on the body. Whether this was a suicide or homicide requires further investigation; we will need to conduct a thorough autopsy at either the precinct or the morgue to determine more."
We nodded in agreement. There was no autopsy room at our precinct; colleagues from the morgue were responsible for transporting the body back for further examination. We surveyed our surroundings—the entire house had been nearly destroyed by fire; roof tiles lay scattered on the ground, exposing bare beams that resembled human ribs. Meanwhile, officers from the Fire Department were checking for any potential sources that could ignite another fire. A crowd gathered outside the police tape murmured among themselves.
"Two hours ago, we received reports of a fire at a farmhouse in Baili Village," one officer explained to me. "It was reported that someone was still inside when we arrived. We immediately notified the Fire Department and called for an ambulance. It wasn't until just now that they managed to extinguish the flames, but unfortunately, that person had already perished. Our precinct is aware that such unusual deaths are taken seriously by city officials, so we informed the Police Department."
After gathering some basic information and recording witness statements from villagers, I reviewed my notes carefully to piece together what had happened. Not long ago, a fire broke out at the deceased's home; villagers rushed to fetch water in buckets to extinguish it. However, many witnessed that despite being engulfed in flames, the deceased continued to pour something onto themselves—each splash causing the fire to intensify. It became clear that what they were pouring was gasoline.
The fire spread rapidly with the wind; it was impossible for villagers alone to extinguish it. Even when the Fire Department arrived, it took considerable effort to bring it under control. This undoubtedly pointed towards another suicide case. The scene was chaotic; any evidence had been consumed by flames. I couldn't help but admire the deceased's willpower—despite being on fire, they remained silent and seemingly indifferent to their intense suffering.
Indifferent? The pressing question now was why this individual exhibited such bizarre behavior. Furrowing my brow, I said: " Juan Juan, conduct comprehensive autopsies on all three bodies and check for any signs of poisoning."
I knew that mushrooms were one of the local delicacies here; locals referred to them as "junzi." Many varieties can induce hallucinations—stories abound online about people seeing tiny figures surrounding them or experiencing nightmarish visions after watching horror films—though these hallucinations are usually mild enough that timely medical attention resolves any issues without lasting harm. But what if these hallucinations were severe? Could they lead someone to take their own life?
I shared my thoughts with Director Wang, who nodded and said, "It's possible, but those highly toxic mushrooms should be recognized by the locals; they wouldn't use them for food, right? And why specifically the people from Baili Village? That doesn't quite add up. However, a thorough autopsy is still necessary. I hope we can find something useful from it."
There was nothing more to discover at the scene, so we left the officers to handle the aftermath and headed to the morgue's autopsy room. I watched as Juan Juan methodically dissected each body. The process was slow and continued into the night. It seemed our plan to search for the Ma Family Father and Son would have to pause, so I called Director Wang to arrange for the other team to investigate. Outside, it was pitch black, and in the autopsy room, it was just Juan Juan and me. I felt an eerie chill; for some reason, I recalled a news story I had seen about a man who had an affair, and his medical student girlfriend stabbed him thirty-two times, avoiding all vital organs...
At that moment, Juan Juan was clearing out the contents of a deceased person's stomach and sealing them in plastic bags. She looked up at me and said, "I just performed a complete autopsy on three bodies. Aside from the previously mentioned cause of death, I found no other wounds. One person had a fracture from many years ago. The findings still indicate suicide. There are remnants of food in their stomachs, but we can't identify what it is here; we'll need to send it to the Provincial Capital for testing. We should have results in a day or two."
I nodded and replied, "Thank you for your hard work. Mary went to buy some food; you should wash up and get ready to eat."
Juan Juan shook her head and said, "You go ahead; I still need to stitch up the bodies."
"Just a little longer," I said with concern. As soon as I spoke those words, I felt a genuine pain in my heart, an inexplicable sensation that made me think I might die. I was shocked internally—was what that girl said true? Had I really been cursed? From now on, could I only like her and no one else?
"Whatever you do, you must see it through to the end. Besides, in our line of work, dissecting a body without stitching it back up is the greatest disrespect to the deceased. The dead deserve respect; regardless of how we lived our lives, we all end up like these bodies—lying on cold tables, our lives flashing by in an instant—whether rich or poor, powerful or insignificant—all that effort ultimately leads us here," Juan Juan spoke through her mask. Her words were not very clear, but I understood every word as she stitched up the body while softly speaking as if addressing me, herself, or even the lifeless form lying on that cold table: "So there are many things in life that we must cherish."
In the face of life and death, nothing else matters—a sentiment deeply felt by those of us who deal with corpses regularly. Strangely enough, my heart began to calm down; that painful feeling vanished without a trace. If curses truly worked, there wouldn't be so many lovesick men and women in this world. Warmth filled my heart as I watched Juan Juan stitch up the body slowly; I wondered if this could be considered a romance between a detective and a forensic pathologist.
After what felt like an eternity, Juan Juan finally finished stitching up the body. After thoroughly washing her hands, we stepped out of the autopsy room together. Mary and Yan Junde should be waiting for us in the front hall. A gentle breeze lifted Juan Juan's hair tips under the starlight; she looked stunningly beautiful—so much so that I filtered out the sounds of wailing from the nearby crematorium. In the face of life and death, nothing else matters; it's a reminder for everyone to cherish what they have.
As we entered the hall through the back door without spotting Yan Junde or Mary yet, a group of people approached us quickly. Before I could ask anything, they rushed toward us with hostile intent. Confused, I pulled Juan Juan back and said urgently, "Stay behind me!"
Just as my words fell from my lips, several individuals charged forward shouting, "Don't move! Comply! Police!"
"Police?" I replied incredulously. "Are you kidding me? I'm also a police officer."
Several people stepped forward, attempting to restrain me, but I wasn't an easy target. I had some skills in grappling myself, having trained in Sanda, though I couldn't compare to Yan Junde. Still, I couldn't afford to lose here. After a few exchanges, I found myself completely restrained. Alas, two fists were no match for four hands; it was truly embarrassing in front of Juan Juan.
At that moment, Yan Junde and Mary walked in from outside. They immediately spotted me being held down. Without a second thought, Yan Junde threw the food he was holding onto the ground and, almost in the blink of an eye, drew his gun and flashed his police badge, saying, "Police! Let him go!" Among the Special Investigation Team, only Yan Junde was equipped with a firearm and handcuffs at all times; who would have thought it would come in handy now?
The people opposite also revealed their police badges and said, "We are police too!"
Yan Junde took a closer look and confirmed their identities. He asked in confusion, "Then why are you arresting him? Don't you know he's the head of the Special Investigation Team?"
"The head of the Special Investigation Team?" The officer looked at me in surprise and then said, "We suspect you are involved in a murder case."
"Murder case?" We exclaimed in unison.
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