Detective Diary: the Murderer Is My Yesterday

I heard the corpse speak. Not an illusion. It's the kind of "hearing" that every forensic doctor will tell you quietly, but no one dares to admit it - the words are scraped out of the corrupted vocal cords, clinging to the breath of death. The first corpse language was that rainy night twenty-three years ago. The second sentence is about the young girl on the autopsy table this morning.