Deadly Footprint

01 | Among Corpses and Organs

Wynne

I was a bit exhausted, honestly. I still hadn’t finished examining the corpse that Officer Carter had dropped off this morning. My week had been full of files to fill and cases to close; according to Officer Lee—Carter’s partner—deaths in the city had gone up by two percent. A small number, maybe, but in my world, that meant many sleepless hours.

I suspected they were hiding something from me—or at least skipping over an important part of the story.
They always do.

Anyway. I had to focus on the open body in front of me. A man, about thirty years old, heavyset, maybe ten centimeters shorter than me. His ribs were shattered. There was an internal wound on his liver, the result of blunt trauma. This had been done with something sharp—maybe a knife.

It’s tedious having to remember every detail just to write it all down later in the file. I’m not complaining… well, I am. Ironically, I like working alone, even though I know I need an assistant. But I don’t want anyone breathing down my neck or asking unnecessary questions.

The clock on the wall read three in the morning. About four and a half hours until Carter came by the Institute of Medicine to pick up the report. At this point, all I had left was to examine the head.

“Well, I hope you brushed your teeth,” I murmured to the corpse.
It’s not like they can answer, but I still remembered the awful breath of the last body. It had been unpleasant—even by my standards.

I took a deep breath and gently pried his mouth open.
Okay. I wasn’t ready for this.

“What the hell…?”

The tongue was cut off. The teeth, practically ripped out. A shiver ran down my spine. I’m not new to this—three years as a forensic doctor toughens your stomach—but this was different. This wasn’t just violence; it was a message.

It reminded me of medieval punishments: ripping out tongues and teeth to silence, to brand the condemned for life. I’d seen it before… in ancient remains, not in fresh corpses.

The air in the lab grew heavier. An emptiness in my stomach made me want to throw up. I see this kind of thing every day, but this time there was something else—some kind of intention behind the horror. I forced myself to keep looking. If I looked away, I’d miss something important.

“Who did this to you?” I whispered, not expecting an answer.

Before I could process the scene, I heard a few knocks on the door. My body tensed up on instinct; my nerves were already stretched thin.

“May I come in?” a male voice asked.

It was Carter. Always punctual, always with that tone caught between formal and weary.

“Yeah, sure,” I replied, stepping aside.

He walked in with his usual worn-out jacket and that expression I can never tell apart—guilt or exhaustion. He looked more tense than usual. I suppose a cop always does, but this time his unease was obvious.

The silence between us dragged on too long. I could hear the fluorescent light buzzing, the sink dripping, my own heart pounding in my chest.

“So… what do you need?” I finally asked. My voice came out rough. “Something new show up in the case?”

He hesitated for a second before speaking.

“Not exactly. But… there’s something strange about this body.”

A dry smile escaped me.

“You’re only noticing now?” I joked.

Carter didn’t smile. He just stepped closer, studying the steel table and the mutilated corpse.
“The guy… had no record, no close family. We found him in an abandoned building down south—no ID, no phone. But…” He paused, lowering his voice. “…the wound pattern matches three other cases.”

A chill crept up my neck.

“Three others?”

He nodded.
“All young men. All with their tongues cut out. None showing signs of robbery or assault.”

My mind started running on autopilot, assembling loose pieces of an invisible puzzle.
Cut tongue. Ripped teeth. Pierced liver. Repeated pattern.

“Do you have a suspect?” I asked.

“Not yet. But Lee thinks it might be a message—something symbolic.”

I sighed.
“Yeah, I figured that out five minutes ago,” I muttered, pulling off my gloves. “But a message for whom… or from whom—that’s the real question.”

Carter looked at me with that mix of respect and exhaustion.
“Knew you’d say that.”

I said nothing. For a moment, we just stood there, staring at the body—two pieces on the same board, caught between science and horror.

“You know what’s worst?” I finally said. “This man still had something to say. And someone made sure he never did.”

Carter gave a small nod and left without another word. The door closed behind him with a dry click.

Silence returned.

I leaned against the steel table, feeling the cold seep through my coat. The air smelled of formaldehyde and metal.
I looked at the torn gums, the missing tongue, the scattered teeth. To silence? To punish? Or to warn?

My fingers trembled for a moment before I picked up the scalpel again. I couldn’t let fear distract me—not when a truth waited beneath every layer of flesh.

I continued the autopsy.
Clean cut, wound recording, partial closure.
Mechanical ritual. Like praying, but without hope.

At four-thirty, I wrote the final note in the file:
“Lesions consistent with intentional torture. Cause of death: internal bleeding. Possible serial pattern.”

I closed the report with a click.
The sound was louder than expected.

Then I saw it—a small, almost invisible detail.
Engraved on the side of the body, just beneath the collarbone, was a symbol: the letter “Z,” carved with surgical precision.

I froze.
I hadn’t seen it before.
How did I miss it?

My heart skipped a beat.

Maybe Carter was right: this wasn’t just a murder.
It was a signature.

I turned off the lights, set the scalpel down, and stared for a few seconds at the corpse’s blurred reflection in the refrigerator glass.
The line between life and death was never thin for me. I always knew which side I was on.

But that night, for the first time, I felt that someone—somewhere—was watching me from the other side.

And maybe… they already knew my name.