Autopsy

While Lin Rui seethed over gangsters extorting protection money from his food truck business, Linda and Peggy were worrying over the seven "fallen ones" he had sent on to the afterlife the night before.

The seven bodies had been delivered to a morgue designated by the Bronx police. Professor Winters from New York Medical College had brought several students and personally performed a preliminary examination.

Under the morgue's white lights, the bodies lay on cold tables. Some were covered with white sheets; others had been stripped of their filthy clothes, exposing emaciated, sickly bodies.

All seven bodies showed signs of malnutrition, their arms or feet covered in scars. Some were from self-harm, while others were needle marks left by drug use.

Some bodies also had wounds that had gone unhealed for a long time, now festering and stinking. Others were infested with parasites, even live maggots.

Linda had been allowed into the morgue, but she was not permitted to take photographs or ask questions. She could only stand toward the back and observe alongside her friend Peggy.

As Professor Winters examined every part of the bodies with gloved hands, Linda could not hold back her nausea and had to retreat outside.

Peggy came out with her and asked with concern, "Linda, are you all right?"

"I'm fine." Linda shook her head. "The morgue was probably just too cold. I'm shivering a little."

Peggy smiled and changed the subject. "How's your article coming along?"

"It's finished. Just a simple community news report. I can forget about The New York Times-they don't care about little stories like this. The New York Post is willing to run it, but they want me to write a feature."

"Times" and "Post"-one word apart, worlds apart.

The New York Times was a major international newspaper, while The New York Post's readership was confined to New York.

Linda gave a bitter, self-mocking smile. "Being a reporter is hard work. If you can't land front-page news, you can't make money, much less a name for yourself.

The editor thinks seven homeless people dying overnight isn't much of a story. No shoot-out, no inside dirt. Not worth wasting space on."

Peggy sighed too. "If the media doesn't report it, this will very likely get buried and treated as an isolated incident.

But I'd bet anything this isn't normal. Absolutely not."

Inside the morgue, Professor Winters was performing an autopsy, dictating the report to his assistant...

"Male decedent, emaciated build, approximately 168 cm in height, estimated antemortem weight approximately 42-48 kg. Severe malnutrition.

Skin pale to grayish-white. Extremely poor overall hygiene, with multiple areas of longstanding grime, evidence of body lice infestation, seborrhea, and chronic dermatitis.

Bilateral pinpoint pupils, approximately 1 mm in diameter. Mild cyanosis of the lips and fingertips. No obvious external injuries, no defensive wounds, no fractures, no ligature marks.

Internal examination.

Marked congestion and edema of both lungs, with increased weight: right lung approximately 780-920 g, left lung approximately 720-880 g, far exceeding normal values.

Copious pink, frothy fluid exudes from cut surfaces. Large amounts of fine, foamy secretions visible in the airways.

Brain: mildly increased brain weight, flattened gyri, mild compression of the ventricular system. Cut surfaces show diffuse cerebral edema, but no obvious herniation.

Heart...

Liver...

Kidneys...

Bladder: markedly distended, containing approximately 1,000 mL of urine, suggesting urinary retention prior to death, a characteristic sign of opioid use.

When the assistant recorded "a characteristic sign of opioid use," he gave the professor a puzzled look, as though asking whether the assessment was mistaken.

The professor shrugged. "The police called me and said the bodies could be donated to the medical college as teaching specimens. They also hoped I wouldn't cause them any trouble."

Clearly, no one cared how a few hopeless homeless people had actually died, even if their deaths were highly suspicious.

After dissecting one body, the professor left the remaining work to his students. He removed his latex gloves, washed his hands, and stepped out of the morgue, beckoning Peggy over.

"Peggy, what did you see at the scene?"

Peggy shook her head. "The scene was clean. Too clean, to be precise. The police found some street surveillance footage showing one of the deceased just before he died.

He fell facedown without warning in the early hours. No one had approached or attacked him. He just died, for no apparent reason.

What did the autopsies show?"

The professor scratched his head and gave a wry smile. "All the deceased showed signs of drug overdose. Someone most likely supplied them with low-quality drugs that caused organ failure.

Without other evidence, the police won't open a case.

I have a feeling we're dealing with an expert this time. I've seen similar lunatics who considered killing homeless people a beneficial form of social cleansing."

Linda perked up. "So this case isn't over? There's potential for an in-depth report?"

Professor Winters smiled and said with certainty, "If there's a killer behind this case, he'll keep killing. But I suspect he won't be stupid enough to keep doing it in the Bronx."

That night, Lin Rui pulled a cart carrying two insulated food containers to deliver meals backstage at the Gershwin Theatre.

Today's delivery consisted of one hundred servings of tacos, with hot sauce and guacamole.

The theatre's security guard already knew him. He pointed toward the elevator to the second floor, signaling for him to go up, but still asked, "Why are you a little late today?"

"Doesn't your show finish after ten?" Lin Rui replied.

"But we're hungry by nine." The security guard stuck out his bulging belly, casually opened an insulated container, and took a serving of tacos. One sniff, and he was full of praise.

Lin Rui thought for a moment. Figuring the guard might know a lot of people, he asked quietly, "Do you know a guy named Doyle? Medium height, South American accent..."

"Balding, short and fat." The theatre's security guard clearly knew the situation and smoothly finished Lin Rui's description. He grinned. "He threatened you for protection money, right?"

"You know him?"

"Of course." The guard curled his lip. "There's always some darkness beneath Manhattan's glitter. A few protection racketeers popping up is nothing.

Doyle's a regular here. He hides away to sleep during the day and wanders the streets in the middle of the night. He's a police informant, and he also peddles contraband at various nightlife venues.

Nobody knows whether he has a gang behind him, but he certainly likes going around scaring people and occasionally pulling tricks to rake in money."

The guard even made a point of warning him, "You Asians don't stick together, so Doyle can extort you easily. If I were you, I wouldn't mess with that bastard.

He's easy to get rid of. Just give him a little money. Don't wait until he gets angry and finds someone to deal with you. You won't be able to do business then."

As he spoke, the guard deliberately took a vicious bite of his taco, enjoying the pleasure of warning the weak to meekly accept being bullied-Asians were notoriously soft persimmons in the United States, and Chinese people were the softest persimmons of them all.

Lin Rui kept his face taut and said nothing, pulling his cart toward the backstage area.

As before, the show ended at ten fifteen, and the cast and crew removed their makeup and looked for something to fill their stomachs. Payment would take another hour or two, until the theatre manager's assistant had time.

During that wait, Lin Rui found Andrea and asked the same question. "Do you know a scumbag named Doyle? Balding, short and fat, South American accent... often sells contraband and things like that."

"Of course. That asshole's always harassing the young women at the theatre. Everyone finds him disgusting." Andrea asked, "Are you looking for him?"

With a dark expression, Lin Rui said, "Point him out to me."