Among a group of policemen, my husband got out of a car carrying a toolbox. He walked through the crowd and entered the cordon.
Maxwell, the youngest and most promising forensic doctor in the city, had assisted the police in solving several major cases.
The judgment the forensic doctors made on the crime scene would affect the initial direction of the investigation.
So, he often analyzed the evidence on the spot.
He asked as he put on his gloves, "Did anyone else move the suitcase?"
A gust of wind blew over from the shore, and the smell in the air was revolting. Several policemen couldn't help retching and even didn't dare to look at my body.
After confirming that nobody had moved it, Maxwell bent down and waved his hand to drive the flies away.
Seeing the shabby blue coat, he paused for a while. Later, his brows furrowed.
I was afraid that he would recognize me.
After all, the coat was a birthday present he bought me last year.
Unfortunately, he just frowned, unzipped my clothes, and then put his hands on my abdomen.
"The intestines are filled with gas."
Judging by my dress, Maxwell roughly determined the time of my death.
"She has been dead for five to ten days."