My father, Derek Hartman, was a DEA agent who gave his life on the front lines of the drug war. Since I was a kid, I had one dream: to restore his badge number and follow in his footsteps. When I learned my scores were good enough to get into the federal law enforcement academy, I called my mom immediately to share the news. Her response was harsh: “You? A cop? With your pathetic grades? Restore your father’s badge number. Don’t embarrass him. Get lost!” Her words hit like a sledgehammer. Devastated, I wandered home, only to be ambushed in Shadow Creek Alley by a group of thugs. “Word is your dad, Derek Hartman, was a DEA hotshot. Trained a bunch of agents and made life hell for us. Let’s talk about that, shall we?” I refused to go quietly, fighting with everything I had. But they were prepared. A knife pierced my lower back, draining me of all strength. As my consciousness faded, I thought of my mom’s last words. Mom… have I disgraced Dad? Content In the early hours of the morning, Bayport police received a report about large amounts of blood found in Shadow Creek Alley. No victim was in sight. The caller assumed it was a drunken brawl gone wrong and urged the police to find the injured person quickly. Officers arrived to find the heavy rain had washed the blood into a chaotic mess. There were no signs of a victim nearby. A thorough search of the area led them to Riverside Millworks, an abandoned factory where they discovered dismembered body parts scattered across the floor. In the autopsy room, harsh fluorescent lights flickered on. “What’s the situation with this case?” A calm, authoritative voice broke the silence as a woman in a crisp forensic uniform entered, followed by two young officers. It was Dr. Vanessa Sterling-Hartman—my mother and the most respected forensic examiner in Bayport. One of the officers said hesitantly, “Dr. Hartman, the victim’s condition is… bad. Maybe you should prepare yourself…” My mom waved them off. “I’ve seen everything there is to see. Let’s start the autopsy and solve this case quickly.” Indeed, my mother had seen it all in her two-decade career—decapitations, dismemberments, even bodies dissolved in cement. She was a consummate professional. But Mom… have you ever considered that the body on your autopsy table might be the son you’ve always ignored? Floating above, detached and invisible, I watched her work without emotion. When she unzipped the body bag, her brow furrowed deeply—not just because of the mangled remains, but because one critical part was missing. “Where’s the head?” “We searched the entire factory,” one officer stammered. “It’s likely the suspects took it.” “Fine. Let’s proceed.” She donned gloves and began sorting the remains—bones, flesh, fragments of fingers. Each piece she identified was meticulously placed in order. “The victim is male. He’s between eighteen and twenty-three, roughly five-foot-nine to six feet, based on the growth plates. Likely a student,” she narrated with clinical precision. “Judging by the condition of the cuts, the killers broke the victim’s finger bones, radius, ulna, humerus, tibia, and femur while he was still alive. Then, they dismembered the limbs. It seems they weren’t satisfied and used blunt tools—his ribs and vertebrae are almost entirely shattered.” Her grim analysis left one of the young officers pale and trembling. He clutched his stomach, barely holding back nausea. The unimaginable pain and despair the victim endured hung heavy in the room. Mom turned suddenly. “Were any weapons found at the scene?” “Yes… these,” the officer stammered, handing her photos of a rusted, bloodstained saw and a hammer caked in blood and flesh. The dull blade of the saw had been used to cut through every joint and bone. The pain it inflicted on a living person was beyond description.
Mom frowned deeply. “This isn’t random. What kind of grudge would drive someone to do this to a kid?” Even revenge killings didn’t usually escalate to this level of brutality. One of the officers responded respectfully, “Dr. Hartman, Detective Sam Boone’s preliminary investigation ruled out robbery and random violence. This is a revenge killing. The team is cross-checking recent cases of missing persons citywide.” “Good,” she replied tersely. She resumed reconstructing the remains, hoping to uncover clues. But her efforts were in vain. Even dental records—often a surefire way to identify a victim—were useless because the suspects had taken the head. Identifying a person from such a pulverized, unclothed body seemed impossible. Floating nearby, I felt a strange mix of relief and sorrow. At least Mom didn’t know it was me. If she did, she’d only call me a disappointment one last time… With a heavy sigh, she muttered, “Poor kid. Whatever grudge they had with his family, why take it out on him?” For a brief moment, her eyes shimmered with tears. This was the mom I didn’t recognize. The meticulous forensic examiner piecing together every shard of bone. The compassionate woman feels for an unknown victim. It felt so foreign. I’d always known Mom didn’t like me. I remember one rainy night when I was in elementary school. I had a fever, and Mom rushed me to the hospital, letting Dad—exhausted from days of overtime—rest at home. But she didn’t know Dad got an urgent call not long after we left. He ran out without even grabbing his gear. That same night, he was killed in a shootout with a cartel kingpin. Mom was the one who handled Dad’s autopsy. I was too young to understand death back then, but now I realize how traumatic that must have been for her. Maybe Mom blamed me. If I hadn’t fallen ill that night, Dad might still be alive. Looking at her now, I couldn’t blame her. Her focus was interrupted by a sudden ringtone. She stopped mid-motion, glaring at the two officers. “It’s not us,” they said quickly. Mom checked her phone. The call was from Rachel, my aunt. “I’m busy,” Mom answered curtly. “Vanessa, do you know where Elijah is? His phone’s off, and no one’s seen him.” “Elijah?” Mom frowned. “I don’t know. I yelled at him yesterday. He’s probably sulking in some gaming café. Leave him be.” Rachel’s voice grew concerned. “You yelled at him? Vanessa, he was so excited yesterday! His scores were good enough for the academy!” “Academy? That boy needs to get a job in IT or something. Is he becoming a cop? That would be an insult to the profession.” Her voice was as sharp as ever.
Rachel hesitated momentarily before saying, “It’s always been Elijah’s dream. He worked so hard to get those scores. I even planned to celebrate with a big dinner—I bought so much seafood…” Vanessa’s anger flared. “I don’t care! If he applies to that academy, he can forget about calling me his mother. He can go rot wherever he wants!” She ended the call abruptly, her chest rising and falling in frustration as she stood over the autopsy table, silent for a long time. I’m sorry, Mom. I won’t apply to the academy. Please don’t be mad. It’s not worth your health. I wanted so badly to tell her that. But as a wandering spirit, I could only hover above and watch helplessly. I wanted to cry, but ghosts have no tears. By now, Mom had reassembled most of the body, but something was missing—two fingers from the right hand. She frowned, instructing the nearby officer. “The right ring finger and pinky are missing. Tell the team at the scene to look again. If they’re not found…” My spirit tensed. When I was a kid, I had teased a police dog and gotten bitten. Those two fingers had scars so deep they were unmistakable. That dog had to retire early because of me, and Mom had berated me endlessly. Had she forgotten? Of course, she forgot. She never cared about me… No! Maybe it’s better if she doesn’t remember. I can’t let her know she’s the one who lost both Dad and me. The young officer saluted. “Understood! If we can’t find the fingers, it likely means they had distinctive markings.” Mom nodded. “Exactly. Focus on people with old injuries or tattoos on their hands.” She cut off a small piece of flesh. “Run a DNA test. Cross-reference it with the database. Find any immediate relatives.” I felt a wave of panic. If they ran DNA tests, they’d figure it out quickly. Mom! Don’t do it. Don’t run the DNA! Drop this case! Please! But my pleas fell on deaf ears. She couldn’t hear me. Mom worked tirelessly in the autopsy room for hours. She had arrived early, and it was already dark again when she stepped out. “Dr. Hartman, you’ve worked so hard,” one of the officers said. Mom nodded slightly, about to head home when she saw Rachel waiting anxiously near the station entrance. “Vanessa, Elijah’s been missing for more than a day now! I talked to his friends—they haven’t seen him! I even checked all the gaming cafés near the school, but he was nowhere. What do we do?” Mom’s face tightened with annoyance. “This is just one of his tricks to get me to let him apply to the academy! It’s not going to work. As long as he stays out of trouble and follows the law, that’s good enough. He’s not cut out to be a cop!” Rachel’s eyes filled with tears. “Forget his applications! His safety is the priority right now! I just heard there’s been a big case—a boy was dismembered. Aren’t you even worried it could be Elijah?” Mom’s frustration erupted. “Stop speculating about open cases that haven’t been made public! Elijah is eighteen. He’s old enough to take care of himself. If something happens to him, it’s his fault for being careless and wondering where he shouldn’t!” Rachel froze. “I’m not trying to dig for information. I’m just… scared for him.” Mom’s gaze hardened. “If he can’t manage basic risk assessment, he has no business applying to the academy. He might as well go get a job at some office instead.”
“Vanessa Sterling-Hartman! Do you hear yourself? Elijah lost his father when he was just a kid. He’s already been through enough! Instead of breaking him down, you should be building him up. What kind of person are you?” Rachel’s voice cracked as she yelled, tears streaming down her face. “You better pray that poor boy, in this case,e isn’t Elijah. Because if it is, you’ll never forgive yourself!” Her words sent a jolt of fear through me. Does she know? But the look on Rachel’s face wasn’t one of certainty. She was bluffing to provoke Mom. And it worked. Mom’s face went pale, her voice defensive. “Impossible! I would know if it was my son! That boy is not Elijah!” Rachel clenched her fists. “If it is Elijah, you’re not getting those remains. You don’t care about him anyway. He belongs to the Hartman family!” Mom shot back, “Take him! Do you think I care? I’ve had enough of that dead weight anyway!” Rachel shook with anger. “You’re unbelievable, Vanessa! Elijah is a great kid; all he’s ever gotten from you is cruelty. You’re heartless! I can’t even look at you!” I floated above them, unsure how to feel. Rachel had always been there for me, especially after Dad’s death. Mom only cared for my basic needs, but Rachel filled in the gaps. She gave me my first razor and my first pair of boxers. When I wanted to apply to the academy, Rachel secretly paid for my tutoring sessions. From school supplies to gadgets, she covered it all. To Rachel, I was practically her son. As she stormed out of the station, I followed, hovering close. She pulled out her phone, hands trembling, and began typing a message. Curious, I leaned in to see. Elijah, things are dangerous out there. No matter how upset you are with your mom, you must come home. And if you can’t face her, come to me. I’ll pay for your college. Forget your mom—my door is always open. Please be safe. Tears welled up as I read her words. Rachel lost her brother, my dad, that night in the rain. Yet, she never let bitterness take root. She gave all her love to me instead. I’m sorry, Aunt Rachel. I’m afraid I’ll only let you down. I followed her for a while, but the further we got from the police station, the weaker I felt. My body—what was left of it—kept me tethered there. When I returned, I found Mom slumped in a chair, staring blankly ahead. One of the young officers approached her cautiously. “Dr. Hartman, you’ve been working nonstop for twenty hours. Please, get some rest.” Mom shook her head. “No. I can’t let this case go. I’ll rest here briefly, then go over the remains again.” The officer hesitated but nodded. “Alright.” I watched Mom’s exhausted body waver, torn between her dedication and limits. “The DNA results are in!” The announcement electrified the station. Even I felt a surge of unease. Mom, who had spent the last two nights at the station, rushed to the records room. “Did the database find a match? Who’s the victim?” “They’re running the comparison now. Give it a moment,” an officer replied. Everyone crowded around the screen, watching the progress bar creep forward. 75%… 88%… 95%… 100%. Every breath in the room was held as they waited for the result.
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