Attending ex-girlfriend's wedding, arresting the groom's officer on the spot

The final skull dissection revealed no abnormalities. The brain tissue weighed 1350g, with meningeal vascular congestion but no hemorrhage, and no damage to the brain parenchyma. While Zhang Kai was suturing the body, Xiao Lin suddenly remembered something: "Still no clue about the deceased's identity? The clothing tags were torn off, and there were no identification documents on the body." Zhang Kai nodded, his gaze falling on an old scar on the corpse's left forearm: "This scar is linear, 5cm long, with clean edges, like it was formed during surgery or by a sharp instrument. Perhaps it could serve as a marker for identification."

When the body was placed in the refrigerated cabinet, Zhang Kai's autopsy report was already in its preliminary stages: "The deceased died from acute hemorrhagic necrotizing pancreatitis. The chords on the neck were restraint injuries that formed during or after death. The time of death was around 8 p.m. on May 15. The last meal was around 4 p.m. on May 15, and the food was a high-fat mixed diet."

While sorting through the evidence, Xiaolin discovered a small amount of soil under the deceased's fingernails, mixed with trace amounts of engine oil—consistent with the composition of the soil near the fishing port. "Could this be related to the suspect?" she asked. Zhang Kai, gazing at the darkening sky outside the window, replied, "Send the soil samples for composition analysis. Also, investigate missing persons who have sought medical attention or died in the past three days due to acute pancreatitis, focusing on men with experience in the fishing or construction industries and those with scars on their left forearms."

The smell of disinfectant in the autopsy room gradually overpowered the stench of decay. Zhang Kai removed his gloves, the coolness lingering on his fingertips. The life huddled in the Wangjiagou cellar had finally revealed the truth of its death under the scalpel—not a violent attack, but a sudden illness that had been deliberately strangled by someone with ulterior motives, dragged into the dark cellar, becoming an accidental victim. And his name remained hidden in the scar on his left forearm, waiting to be recognized.

During the autopsy, Zhang Hui and his team were investigating the identity of the deceased.

In the information analysis room, Zhang Hui crumpled the packaging of his third instant coffee into a ball, his knuckles turning white from the force. The ball traced an arc before landing precisely in a trash can three meters away with a soft "thud." The missing persons information on the screen resembled an endless, murky river; names, ages, and characteristics floated and sank in the blue light. The 1,273 records had been filtered down to the 918th. The scratching of the mouse wheel was particularly jarring in the quiet room, making one's temples throb.

“Boss, it’s almost eleven o’clock,” trainee officer Xiao Zhou abruptly took off his glasses, wiping the oily residue from the lenses with the corner of his shirt, his knuckles circling his aching temples. “We’ve been sitting here since three in the afternoon, not moving an inch except to go to the toilet. My eyes are practically crossed.” He pointed to the entry on the screen, “Wang Lei, male, 32 years old, left forearm scar,” the mouse cursor hovering over the photo. “Look at this one, the scar in the photo is clearly on the outside of the arm, but the deceased’s is on the inside. And this system still classifies him as a suspected case, so we have to rule him out.” He slammed the mouse down on the “rule out” button. The confirmation box that popped up on the screen looked like a grinning, mocking face. Frustrated, Xiao Zhou scraped the dust off the edge of the screen with his fingernail.

Zhang Hui's fingertips hovered over the keyboard, the cigarette butts in the ashtray piled up like a small volcano, the longest one sticking up, its ash teetering precariously. "Check the database again," his voice was hoarse, a mixture of instant coffee and nicotine, each word like sandpaper grinding in his throat, "Male, 30-35 years old, 165-170cm tall, 5cm linear scar on the inner left forearm, wearing dark blue overalls, recent activity record at a fishing port." These keywords flashed a ghastly white light in the search box at the top of the screen, like an unsolvable code, trapping him in this quagmire of data.

Veteran detective Li Bing suddenly slammed his laptop shut, the chair legs scraping against the terrazzo floor with a screeching sound that startled the pothos leaves on the windowsill. "This job is even more grueling than staking out," he said, tugging at his sweat-soaked, wrinkled collar. A sour, musty smell of sweat mixed with the aroma of Master Kong braised beef noodles filled the air conditioning. "Last week, investigating Sun Biao's case, at least we had a clue about the dental clinic—the photos and medical records were all clear. Now, all we have is a blurry scar and a tattered pair of overalls; there's no distinguishing feature. It's like searching for a needle in a haystack." He pointed to the "Zhao Wei" entry on the screen. The man in the photo grinned, revealing a gold tooth. "Look at this one, a truck driver, 168cm tall, 33 years old—everything matches, but he has a big black mole on his right ear, and the deceased's ears are bald, so we have to rule that out too."

Suddenly, Xiao Zhou started pounding on the table like he'd been injected with adrenaline, almost making the keyboard jump. "Hey, this 'Qian Ming' looks a bit like him! 33 years old, a porter at the fishing port, with a burn scar on his left forearm. He went missing last Wednesday, and his family reported it missing." He zoomed in on the photo until it filled the entire screen; the shape of the scar was distorted in the blurry pixels, like an ugly worm. Zhang Hui leaned forward, his nose almost touching the screen, his fingertip pointing to the end of the scar. "No, burn scars have irregular, jagged edges and pigmentation. The deceased's scar is a neat, linear one, with smooth edges, more like a scalpel cut or something sharp." He pulled up Qian Ming's household registration photo, zooming in to the maximum magnification. "And this person has double eyelids with upturned corners, while the deceased has single eyelids and deeper eye sockets."

The excluded items piled up like a gray mountain in the system, each one like a spark that had briefly ignited a fleeting hope in everyone's eyes. Li Bing lit a cigarette in the moonlight outside the window. The lighter clicked three times before it lit, the orange flame flickering on his stubble-covered face, illuminating the weariness in his wrinkles. "I just find it strange. This person has no relatives or friends? No one reported him missing for three days?" He exhaled a smoke ring, the smoke swirling in the blue light. "Even if he was a migrant worker, he must have some fellow villagers or coworkers, right?" Zhang Hui flipped through the deceased's clothing list, the mouse hovering over the words "dark blue work clothes, the label inside the collar is worn": "Look at these work clothes, faded from washing and patched, the cuffs are frayed, he didn't live a very comfortable life. Maybe he just arrived here not long ago and hasn't had time to make friends yet."

At one o'clock in the morning, the information system suddenly popped up a notification box, and twenty-three suspected matches flooded in like a swarm of fish, finally stirring the deathly silence in the analysis room. Xiao Zhou's eyes lit up instantly, and most of his drowsiness vanished: "The system used a weighted selection based on three dimensions: scars, age, and height, and the match rate is over 80%." (End of Chapter)