Chapter 5: The Second Autopsy
I stared at the dead phone in my hand.
Morrison reached for it.
“Give me that.””
I pulled it away.
“Not yet.””
“Carter, we need to trace that number.””
“Then trace it. But first, I want to know why someone just admitted to killing my mother.””
Morrison looked toward the investigators.
“Secure the building. Nobody leaves with any evidence until we've documented everything.””
I turned back to him.
“You heard what he said.””
“I did.””
“Then why are you acting like this is another routine investigation?””
“Because the man on that phone may be trying to manipulate you.””
I stepped closer.
“My mother is dead. My brother is missing. Someone is stealing evidence from police facilities. How much more manipulation do you think I can take?””
Morrison's expression softened.
“I know this is personal.””
“No. You don't.””
I put the phone into an evidence bag.
“Get me the second autopsy.””
He nodded.
“I'm working on it.””
“Work faster.””
An hour later, we were back at headquarters.
The old medical examiner's office had closed several years earlier, but its records were stored in a state archive facility.
Morrison arranged emergency access.
While we waited, I sat alone in a small conference room and opened the notebook again.
Twenty-seven names.
I recognized three from old news reports.
A college student who had vanished after leaving a nightclub.
A construction worker who disappeared during a night shift.
A single mother whose car had been found abandoned beside a highway.
All three cases had been closed as voluntary disappearances.
My brother had written something beside their names.
Not voluntary.
I turned another page.
There were account numbers, dates, and initials.
One set of initials appeared repeatedly.
T.H.
Thomas Harris.
My phone rang.
It was Emily.
“Nia, are you alone?””
“I'm in a conference room. What's wrong?””
“I've been thinking about what Daniel told me.””
“Go ahead.””
“He said the department had two versions of certain reports. One official version and one that existed only in the old records system.””
“Did he explain why?””
“He said the second versions showed where people had really gone.””
My pulse quickened.
“Did he ever mention a storage room?””
“Yes. He called it the blue room.””
I frowned.
“The blue room?””
“He said it was where the department kept files that weren't supposed to exist.””
I looked at the notebook.
“Do you know where it is?””
“No. But he said something strange once. He told me that if anyone asked about the blue room, I should tell them to look beneath the oldest clock.””
I glanced at the wall clock.
“Emily, did Daniel ever explain what that meant?””
“No. Nia, there's something else.””
Her voice dropped.
“When Derek came to my apartment after Daniel disappeared, he didn't just take the laptop and notebooks.””
“What else?””
“He took a framed photograph of Daniel and Malik.””
I stopped breathing.
“Malik?””
“Yes. They were standing outside a restaurant. I didn't know they knew each other.””
“Do you still have the photograph?””
“No. But I remember the restaurant.””
“Which one?””
“The Harbor Grill. Near the river.””
I wrote it down.
“Don't go anywhere. Security is with you?””
“Yes.””
“Good. Stay there.””
I ended the call as Morrison entered the room.
He carried a thick folder.
“We have the second autopsy.””
I stood immediately.
He placed it on the table.
The report was dated two days after my mother's death.
The first examination had concluded that she died from injuries sustained in the collision.
The second examination told a different story.
There were bruises around both wrists.
A small puncture wound behind her left ear.
And traces of a sedative in her bloodstream.
I felt the room tilt.
“She was drugged.””
Morrison nodded.
“The second examiner documented signs consistent with restraint.””
I looked at the photographs.
My mother had not simply lost control of her car.
Someone had restrained her before the accident.
I turned to the final page.
There was a note.
Evidence suggests victim was alive and conscious immediately before impact.
My throat tightened.
“Who performed this examination?””
Morrison pointed to the signature.
Dr. Samuel Reed.
“Where is he now?””
“Retired. Lives outside the city.””
“Has anyone interviewed him?””
“Not recently.””
I looked at the report again.
“What happened to him after he signed this?””
Morrison turned another page.
“He resigned less than a month later.””
“Why?””
“Officially, health reasons.””
“Unofficially?””
Morrison hesitated.
“His house was searched. He reported missing documents. Two weeks afterward, he withdrew every complaint he'd filed.””
I closed the folder.
“Find him.””
Morrison nodded and made a call.
I returned to the notebook.
At the back, hidden inside the cover, I found a folded receipt.
Harbor Grill.
November 18, 2018.
10:42 p.m.
The same night my mother died.
On the reverse side was a short handwritten message.
The original evidence is with the person who survived the crash.
I read it aloud.
Morrison looked up.
“What crash?””
“My mother's accident.””
He stared at the receipt.
“Your mother was the only person listed in the vehicle.””
“Then why does this say someone survived?””
Neither of us spoke.
I remembered the accident report.
A single vehicle.
A tree.
A wet road.
A deceased driver.
No other occupants.
But the second autopsy had mentioned restraint.
I picked up the folder again.
“What if there was another person in the car?””
Morrison frowned.
“That would have been documented.””
“Unless someone removed the information.””
I grabbed my phone and called the state medical archive.
After several minutes, a clerk confirmed that an original ambulance dispatch record existed under the same incident number.
It had never been included in the police report.
I requested a copy.
When the document arrived electronically, I opened it.
The first line listed my mother's name.
The second line listed an unidentified male.
Status: transported alive.
Destination: County General Hospital.
I stared at the screen.
“Who was the second person?””
Morrison leaned over my shoulder.
The name field was blank.
But the attending paramedic's note contained a detail.
Male patient approximately 25–30 years old. Conscious upon arrival. Repeatedly asked whether the woman had survived.
I felt my knees weaken.
My mother had not been alone.
Someone had survived that night.
Someone had been in the car.
Someone knew what happened.
Then I saw the hospital destination.
County General.
I remembered something Malik had told me years ago.
He had once said that after our mother's funeral, he visited the hospital to retrieve her belongings.
I had assumed he meant her personal effects.
Now I wondered whether he had been looking for the survivor.
Morrison picked up his phone.
“I'm requesting the original hospital admission record.””
Before he could finish, his phone rang.
He answered.
“Yes?””
His face changed.
“What do you mean he's already there?””
I looked at him.
“Who?””
Morrison listened for a few seconds.
Then he slowly lowered the phone.
“Dr. Samuel Reed.””
“What about him?””
“He was found dead this morning.””
My stomach dropped.
“Where?””
“In his home.””
“Who found him?””
“His housekeeper.””
“Cause of death?””
Morrison looked down.
“An apparent suicide.””
I shook my head.
“No.””
“Carter—”
“No. The man who performed my mother's second autopsy died hours after we requested his records?””
Morrison didn't answer.
I grabbed my coat.
“I'm going there.””
“You can't.””
“Watch me.””
“It's an active crime scene.””
“Then I'll wait outside.””
Morrison stepped into my path.
“Listen to me. You're not thinking clearly.””
I looked him straight in the eyes.
“My mother was restrained before she died. Someone concealed her autopsy. Someone threatened Emily. Someone has my brother.””
My voice cracked.
“And now the only doctor who could explain what happened is dead.””
Morrison stepped aside.
“An investigator will take you.””
We arrived at Reed's house forty minutes later.
A patrol car blocked the driveway.
Crime scene tape stretched across the front porch.
A uniformed officer approached us.
“Deputy Chief Morrison?””
“Yes.””
“The medical examiner is inside.””
I looked past him.
The front door was open.
On the hallway wall hung an old clock with a blue face.
The minute hand was missing.
I stared at it.
The blue room.
The oldest clock.
I walked toward it.
“Detective!”” Morrison called.
I ignored him.
Beneath the clock was a narrow wooden panel.
I pressed the edge.
It moved.
Behind it was a small metal compartment.
Inside lay a photograph.
My mother.
A younger Captain Harris.
And a third person whose face had been scratched out.
On the back, in Dr. Reed's handwriting, were the words:
The survivor is not who you think.
Then I heard a voice behind me.
“Step away from that compartment, Detective.””
I turned.
A uniformed officer stood in the doorway.
May you like
It was Derek.
And he was holding a gun.
