“I guess I better get started,” she said.
Alex nodded and quietly watched. Pen in hand and notebook open.
Molly stood over Henry Byron’s body, the soft click of the scalpel against the tray the only sound in the room. Thefluorescent lights overhead cast a cold, clinical glow over the scene.
Her team was already at work, meticulously gathering their evidence. A forensic pathologist, Dr. Thomas Hughes, prepared the necessary tools while two assistants took detailed photographs of every part of Henry’s body.
Molly began with a careful external examination, noting the evidence of trauma. “Alex, notice the stark pallor of his skin, the contusions around his wrists, evidence of restraint.”
Alex knew it wasn’t the surface injuries she was looking for—it was what lay beneath, what had led to his death. Her incision was deliberate, slow, as she opened Henry’s chest cavity. The lack of resistance told Alex everything he needed to know.
Molly spoke into her microphone that recorded every autopsy. “The body has been severely compromised. His heart is small, underdeveloped, and the color shows the organ failed long before it stopped beating.
“The lungs are showing signs of extreme pneumonia. The tissue is consolidated, inflamed, and filled with an excessive amount of purulent fluid.” She documented the findings carefully.
“There is the marked absence of any significant clotting factors in Henry’s blood. His blood is thin, watery, and is failing to coagulate when I apply pressure to the vessels. There is evidence of invasive procedures on his body.
“Multiple puncture marks are visible along the vertebrae, evidence of repeated invasive spinal procedures. Invasive brain exams have been performed on him. I note the telltale scarring of repeated craniotomies.” She carefully lifted the skull. “Dear God.” She almost dropped it.
Alex could see her legs wobble. “Molly, are you alright?”
“There is unmistakable evidence of electroshock therapy. There are multiple burn marks on the brain, signs of deliberate and repeated electrical pulses.”
She paused for a moment. “This is a systematic, calculated program of experimentation. His entire body is a roadmap of abuse—dehydration, bloodletting, brain damage, chemical manipulation.”
“Molly,” Dr. Hughes called quietly, drawing her attention back. “You’ll want to see this.”
She walked over to where he stood beside the liver, holding a tissue sample. “Liver function is shot,” he said. “And there’s a high concentration of toxins present. We’ll need to run a full toxicology panel, but I suspect we’ll find traces of sedatives, chemical agents—maybe even neurotoxins. It’s a hell of a mix.”
Molly nodded. "Do a full blood panel, screen for heavy metals, organophosphates, anything we might’ve missed. This man was poisoned long before he died. We’ll need everything—blood cultures, toxicology, microbiology. Test for every conceivable substance. I want the full autopsy report to be a foundation for the investigation. We’ll need to know exactly what they did to him.”
She turned back to Henry’s body, still, silent under the bright lights. Alex continued to write down the conclusions of the preliminary findings, already planning his next steps.
“Molly,” Dr. Hughes said as he reviewed the charts, “I’ve never seen anything like this. Whoever did this… they need to pay for it.”
Alex’s expression hardened, her eyes narrowing. “Oh, they will.”
Nineteen
The South Dakota State Penitentiarystood like a concrete scar against the sky—long, brutal lines of fencing layered with coils of razor wire. Watchtowers loomed above the perimeter, each window black and still, giving nothing back. There were no trees. No softness. Just pavement, chain-link, and stone.
Charlotte eased the SUV through the checkpoint, heart pounding. She expected questions, resistance, a phone call to confirm their visit. Instead, the guard inside the gatehouse glanced at a clipboard and gave a small nod. “You’re cleared. Park in the first visitor lot.”
That quick? Her stomach sank. Alex?
They drove in silence.
As she pulled into the cracked parking lot, the place settled heavier. The sky felt closer here. The air colder. Like the world itself was holding its breath.
Graham sat beside her, his jaw tight as she turned off the engine. “You ready for this?”
“No,” she said, opening the door.
Inside, the air changed. The sterile, dry tang of floor wax and faint bleach hit her nose. Cold fluorescent lights hummed above rows of bolted-down chairs. The concrete walls had beenpainted off-white sometime in the last decade, but the age still bled through. They gave their names. Presented IDs.
The woman behind the glass barely looked up. “Please wait.”
Charlotte paced slowly, arms folded, eyes tracking the narrow corridor that led deeper into the prison. Every step beyond that desk would take her closer to a past she had locked away for three decades.
