Part 1: Call from the Past
I sat at the kitchen table in my tiny apartment on the outskirts of town, staring at my laptop screen, where the cursor blinked on a blank page with a stubborn persistence that reminded me of my own life—an eternal wait, interrupted by rare bursts of activity, but ultimately leading to the same emptiness. "Chapter 1: How to Tell When the Body Is Telling the Truth" — the title hung there, as if mocking me, because after fifteen years working in a morgue, I knew that dead people don't lie, they just take their time with revelations, waiting for you to learn to ask the right questions.
And here I was, Elena Voss, trying to get them to talk through words on paper. My first book on "the secrets of the body" sold poorly. I was praised for my professionalism and criticized for including too many details. But still, the income from it was enough to pay the bills and sometimes treat myself to a bottle of wine, which helped me forget about the mistake that turned my whole life upside down and put an end to my career.
It happened three years ago, on the night when I stood over the table in the morgue, exhausted after a twelve-hour shift, and concluded: natural death from a heart attack, a common occurrence for a middle-aged man whose body lay before me, pale and motionless, like a wax figure. A week later, it turned out to be murder—a drug injected into his neck with a thin needle, the mark of which was almost impossible to see, had caused the heart attack. So my report, written with a trembling hand in the early hours of the morning, gave the killer an alibi, allowing him to go free, destroying not only someone else's life, but my own as well. The mistake was followed by a scandal in the press, dismissal with a black mark on my record, and divorce from my husband, who could not and did not want to take my side. And now I sit here, writing a book to keep myself from going mad, avoiding mirrors where I see in my eyes the same emptiness as in the eyes of the dead.
The phone rang, pulling me out of my thoughts. The number on the screen was unfamiliar, but it had a local area code, which made me freeze for a moment—in moments like these, I always expected the worst: another debt collector demanding payment for loans, or worse, a journalist looking for the latest scoop on the "fallen pathologist." I answered, feeling my palms sweat.
"Dr. Voss?" The voice on the other end was male, low, with that tired intonation I recognized a mile away. It usually belongs to investigators who have reached a dead end.
"Not a doctor anymore. Who's speaking?"
"Major Yuri Kuzmin from the Investigative Committee. We need your help. Unofficially."
I laughed quietly, without joy, feeling the tension ease slightly, but a note of irony slipped into my voice that I couldn't hold back.
"Help? Find someone else who hasn't burned out at work and become a tabloid hero."
"I know about your... situation," he said, and in the pause there was something like sympathy mixed with professional detachment. "But this is not an official case. A skeleton in an abandoned garden. Old, but with details that don't add up. You could take a look. Not for free, of course.
The last words hung in the air, and I took the bait like a fish. It wasn't surprising, though — I had almost no savings left, and my new book wasn't coming together.
"Where?" I finally asked, surprised at my own words.
"The old neighborhood by the river. The garden behind the house on Central Street. Can you drive there? Or should I send a car for you?"
"No, I don't need a car. I'll come myself."
I hung up and looked at the screen. The cursor blinked, as if winking. Okay, I thought, getting up and feeling my knees ache slightly from sitting for so long — another sign that I was not getting any younger.
Part 2: Bones Don't Lie
The house I pulled up to was large and dark. It seemed uninhabited. Perhaps it was. Or maybe that impression was created by the wild vines creeping up the walls, clinging to every ledge. Whatever the case, I felt a familiar chill—the one that always came in the morgue before the first incision, when the silence became so thick you could touch it.
Kuzmin was waiting for me at the gate. Tall, over forty. He made a pleasant impression and was probably popular with women. At least, with those who liked muscular men with sad eyes.
"I'm glad you came, Doctor," he said, and there was a note of relief mixed with caution in his voice. "I didn't think you would agree."
"Money talks," I replied with a smile that I hoped was ironic.
But it came out crooked and uncertain. I was angry with myself. The last thing I needed was for this major to take pity on me like a stray dog that had been chased away from everywhere and suddenly be lured by a tasty morsel.
"We're going there," he said, leading me through the garden, where the ground was damp after the night rain. There was mud underfoot, and I was glad I hadn't given in to my first impulse and decided to save my new shoes by choosing my old sneakers instead.
In the center, under an old oak tree whose roots twisted like veins under the skin, a hole had been dug. A skeleton lay in it. A female skeleton, judging by the pelvic bones and the length of the thighs. It was turned on its side, its arms folded as if in prayer. Without realizing it, I stared at it: there was something touching, almost poetic about it. And because of the flashlight beams, which cast bizarre reflections, it seemed that the bones were about to come to life, to move.
"We found it yesterday," said Kuzmin. "The builders were digging the foundation for a new house. They thought it was tree roots. They called us as soon as they realized it wasn't."
I put on gloves and moved closer, feeling an almost forgotten excitement at the proximity of death. There were small cracks on the vertebrae, not from impact, but as if from internal pressure. The condition of the skeleton reminded me of a case from my practice when a woman slowly died from poisoning by a rare toxin. Her bones were affected in almost the same way as those of the stranger lying in this pit.
"It looks like poisoning," I muttered, examining the bones, which had become as fragile as an old porcelain cup due to calcification. "Possibly heavy metals. We need a lab analysis, but it looks like chronic poisoning — the bones absorb the poison and become brittle."
The major grunted. And in that sound, I heard doubt. I wasn't offended or surprised. Investigators rarely take my word for it, and I can't insist on my conclusion until I've taken samples and done tests.
"Are you sure? I also thought something was wrong. But to diagnose chronic poisoning just by looking at the bones..."
"You probably haven't read my book," I replied sarcastically, straightening up and feeling my back ache from the uncomfortable position. "Then you would doubt me less."
He smiled more broadly, and in that smile was a mixture of skepticism and interest that reminded me of my ex-husband.
"Okay. You've convinced me."
"Have you identified her? And how did she end up here?"
"She has no ID on her. It's impossible to identify her in this condition. But we have our suspicions. The fact is, this plot of land, like the house, belongs to the Miller family. True, it's been vacant for several years. Everyone died. Well, almost everyone. Their daughter, Sarah Miller, disappeared in 2003. They suspected she ran away with her lover.
Sarah Miller. Something familiar: yes, the newspapers wrote about the rich heiress, the family scandal, and her escape, but I couldn't remember the details.
"Check the DNA. There must be other relatives left," I said, taking off my gloves and feeling my hands tremble slightly with excitement, which I hadn't felt in a long time. "We may have to exhume the parents. After all, poisoning is a family affair and a long-term one. Everyone could have been affected."
Kuzmin whistled, and the wind carried the sound away, making it almost ghostly.
"Exhumation? On what grounds?"
"On the grounds that bones don't lie," I replied. "And if I'm right, you owe me coffee. With milk, no sugar."
He laughed—briefly but sincerely—and at that moment I saw him not just as an investigator, but as a human being.
"It's a deal. But if you're wrong..."
"I know," I interrupted, feeling an old wound ache. "I've been wrong before. And it cost me everything — my career, my husband, my self-confidence — but today, looking at these bones, I'm sure I'm right."
Part 3: Shadows of the Past
When I got home, I couldn't concentrate on my book because my thoughts kept circling back to the skeleton. It reminded me of the sleepless nights after my dismissal, when I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, replaying every moment, every cut in my head, asking myself how I could have missed such an important detail.
Thoughts of the Millers wouldn't leave me: was it really Sarah? I found some old articles on the internet. So, the girl disappeared after a quarrel with her father, refusing her inheritance, her mother died of heart failure shortly thereafter, and her father died of a heart attack a year later. In these diagnoses, I also saw the classic symptoms of chronic poisoning, which masquerade as common illnesses until it is too late.
A couple of days later, Kuzmin called, and his voice sounded excited, like a hunter who had picked up a scent.
"You were right. The DNA matches. It's Sarah. And the analysis shows traces of arsenic in the bones."
"Congratulations. Coffee's on you," I replied, trying to hide the relief in my voice, because it meant that I hadn't lost my touch despite years without practice.
"Could you come to the office? We found Sarah's diary, and I'd like you to read it. There are some interesting points in it."
The major's office was located in an old building. High ceilings, thick walls, a grand staircase. Inside, it smelled of coffee and paper—a familiar smell that made me feel nostalgic, mixed with bitterness. The investigator handed me a notebook with a worn cover.
"We found the diary in the house," he said, sitting down opposite me and pouring me coffee from a thermos that stood on the table, spreading an aroma too strong for such a place. "It was hidden under the floor in Sarah's room. Read it."
I opened it. Sarah's handwriting was neat but shaky, as if her hand was tired from keeping secrets. "I have constant headaches. Mom feeds me pills, but they don't help. I try to distract myself by painting. Especially since Uncle Grisha brought me some unique paints. They have an unusual pigment; they literally shimmer."
"Paint?" I asked, putting the diary aside and feeling the puzzle coming together.
"Sarah was an artist. She painted in her room. The easel and brushes are still there. But we didn't find any paint tubes. We did take scrapings from several paintings that were in the storeroom, though." By the way, Uncle Grisha is my father's brother, an antique collector, and he now owns the house with the garden and the Millers' business.
I imagined a girl at an easel, paint on her fingers, slowly seeping into her blood, into her bones, until her body began to decay from within.
"Could Uncle Grisha have been poisoning her for years? To get her out of the way of his inheritance," I said, and there was bitterness in my voice because I had seen this in the morgue: families where love was poisoned by money.
Kuzmin nodded, finishing his coffee.
"And then he decided to get rid of his brother and his wife. But that still needs to be proven.
"Check their graves. Arsenic accumulates. He could have mixed it into their food, water, wine. I describe similar cases in my book."
He looked at me with interest.
"You write about this? About such cases?"
"Yes. And about how the living ignore the signs until it's too late."
Part 4: Family Secret
The exhumation took place quietly, under the rain that poured incessantly, turning the cemetery into a swamp. The earth squelched underfoot like a living creature. The test results came back a week later: arsenic in the bones of both parents, as well as in Sarah's — traces that pointed to a slow, deliberate death.
We drove to Gregory Miller's mansion in a picturesque location surrounded by trees. The air here was thick with the smell of wet earth and old wood, with that oppressive silence that happens in places where the past has not gone away, but simply lurks. The owner of the house was already very old, but his gaze was still sharp and penetrating.
"What do you want?" he asked, without inviting us inside, a note of irritation mixed with fear that he was trying to hide slipping into his voice.
"You know about Sarah's body," Kuzmin said, showing him the warrant. "We exhumed her parents and conducted a series of tests."
John turned pale, and at that moment I saw not an old man, but a murderer.
"I don't understand," he began, but quickly fell silent and stepped aside, letting us into the house.
He broke down quickly, sinking into a chair in the living room. He confessed: he had mixed arsenic into the paint so that Sarah would pass away quietly, and then into his parents' food so that he could get his inheritance faster. Classic, but with a medical twist.
"Why?" I asked, looking at him and seeing in his face a reflection of my own mistake — the same mixture of guilt and justification.
"Because I needed money. I asked my brother, but he always refused. If he hadn't been such a miser, everything would have been different."
The major charged him and called for a patrol car. As they took him away, the rain outside the window intensified, as if nature itself wanted to erase this story.
At home, I finished writing the chapter, feeling the words flow more freely than before. "The dead don't lie, if you look closely, through the noise of the living, who hide poison in family secrets and old tubes of paint."
Kuzmin brought coffee the next day, knocking on the door with a bag in his hands.
"For the truth," he said with a smile, and there was something new in his eyes—respect mixed with interest.
"So as not to make the same mistake again," I replied, sipping my coffee. "Although, you know, Major, in our work, mistakes are like arsenic: they accumulate unnoticed, but in the end they teach you to see, and sometimes, in the fog and rain, this vision becomes clearer than in the bright light of the morgue."
He laughed, and at that moment I thought: maybe this is the beginning not only of a new chapter, but of a new life. The dead are waiting. And I am ready to listen to them.