The observation sends ice through my veins, but I keep my expression neutral. "Torture?"
"Not exactly. The victim was unconscious for most of this—we found evidence of a sedative injection site on his left arm. But the killer…." Martinez pauses, choosing his words carefully. "The killer seemed determined to keep him alive as long as possible. These cuts avoid all the major arteries, all the immediately fatal areas. This person has anatomical knowledge."
Casey leans over my shoulder, her voice dropping to a whisper. "How long would Chen have survived this?"
"Hard to say definitively until we get the full autopsy results, but based on blood loss patterns? Maybe two hours. Possibly three." Martinez's tone carries professional detachment, but I can hear the underlying disturbance. Even for someone who's spent decades studying violent death, there's something particularly chilling about the calculated prolonging of suffering.
"And the sutures?" I force myself to ask.
"Amateur but deliberate. The killer used standard surgical thread, the kind available at any medical supply store. But look at the technique—" Martinez indicates the crisscrossing pattern of black thread. "These aren't functional closures. A real surgeon would use a running suture or interrupted sutures with proper spacing. This is purely aesthetic."
Aesthetic. The word echoes in my mind like a bell tolling. I know this aesthetic, remember the careful way those same hands once closed a different wound on a different body in a different lifetime. The precise spacing, the deliberate imperfection, the need to make something beautiful from something brutal.
"So we're looking for someone with medical knowledge but not formal training," Finch observes, pulling out his own notebook. "That narrows the field somewhat."
"Maybe," Martinez hedges. "Or someone who's self-taught. With internet access, you can learn basic surgical techniques without ever setting foot in a classroom. But the anatomical knowledge—that suggests either medical background or extensive study."
I find myself studying the positioning of Chen's body with growing recognition. His arms aren't just extended at right angles; they're positioned with his palms facing upward, fingersslightly curved as if he's holding something invisible. His head is tilted exactly fifteen degrees to the right, chin elevated just enough to expose the full line of his throat.
These aren't random choices. Every angle, every position serves a purpose beyond simple staging. This is ritual, ceremony, the kind of careful arrangement that speaks to deep psychological compulsion.
My heart beats frenetically. I know this ritual. I've seen this precise positioning before, in a different kitchen with different blood but the same terrifying attention to detail.
"Dr. North?" Martinez's voice seems to come from very far away. "You all right?"
"Fine," I manage, though my voice sounds strange to my own ears. "Just processing the scene. It's…comprehensive."
"That's one word for it," Finch mutters. He's studying the body with the tired eyes of someone who's seen too many crime scenes, but even his jaded perspective can't quite process what's in front of him. "Looks like someone wanted to make us remember this."
The casual observation hits me like a physical blow. Because that's exactly what this is: a message designed to be unforgettable, a calling card left by someone who knows exactly how deeply it will cut.
"The positioning is certainly deliberate," I say, fighting to keep my voice steady. "The killer spent significant time arranging the body. This isn't spontaneous violence—it's planned, ritualistic. We're dealing with someone who views murder as performance art."
"Performance for whom?" Casey asks, looking around the empty kitchen. "Chen lived alone, no regular visitors. Theneighbor found him by accident. If this was meant to be seen, the killer took a big risk that it might go undiscovered for days."
A chill runs down my spine at the question, because I suspect I know the answer. This performance wasn't meant for random discovery by concerned neighbors or responding officers. This was meant for one very specific audience member.
Me.
But suggesting that would invite questions I can't answer, suspicions I can't afford. So instead, I deflect with professional analysis, the same way I've been deflecting for nine years.
"Some killers are more concerned with the act itself than the audience," I say. "The ritual serves an internal psychological need. Discovery is secondary to completion."
"Like he's working through something," Finch muses, making notes. "Okay, so we're looking for someone with possible medical knowledge, definite anatomical understanding, and a compulsion for ceremonial behavior. That's a start."
I nod in agreement while my mind races through implications and possibilities.
The chest cavity has been sutured closed, but the stitching pattern is slightly irregular in one section. Not sloppy—nothing about this is sloppy—but intentionally varied. As if something small has been placed inside before the final closure.
My throat goes dry as the realization hits me. I know this technique, remember watching those same careful hands place objects inside body cavities before sealing them shut. Tokens, messages, small gifts meant for specific recipients.
I should suggest they check the cavity during autopsy. I should mention the irregular suturing pattern, point out the possibility of concealed evidence. It's what any competent forensic psychologist would do.
But I can't. Because asking that question would reveal too much knowledge, too much familiarity with techniques that most people—even most professionals—have never encountered. It would invite scrutiny I can't survive, questions that would unravel everything I've built since becoming Lila North.
I stay quiet and hate myself for it. Whatever message has been left inside Marcus Chen's chest will have to reveal itself during the official autopsy. I can't risk exposing myself to save time.
"We should also consider the victim selection," I say instead, grasping for safer analytical ground. "Chen was successful, lived alone, maintained predictable routines. The killer chose someone he could study, someone whose patterns he could map."
