I am a necromancer, and I absolutely love America.

After finishing her meal, Helen went back to work.

Richard has left.

He came here today just to complete the formalities and familiarize himself with the OCME environment.

During this period, he had many miscellaneous tasks to attend to.

Submitting an application for Princeton's summer program requires some materials.

We need to communicate with the principal of Francis Lewis High School.

Perhaps I'll also have to attend Mike's funeral.

In an effort to promote Michael's image and portray him as a moral exemplar, the NYPD specially chose the old St. Carlisle Church for Michael's funeral and appointed Father Calvin to preside over it.

Richard hadn't originally planned to go, but Funnon specifically reminded him that many people from OCME would be attending.

NYPD Commissioner Henry Carter will personally preside over the funeral, which Brian takes very seriously.

The NYPD and OCME have a long-standing and close relationship. All OCME members hold various levels of police officer family cards and enjoy many benefits. Now they have to stand up for the NYPD.

Moreover, as a long-time sheriff, Mike had worked with many forensic experts.

……

The night was dark.

Miles walked into the Queens Medical Examiner’s Office.

Simon was already waiting at the door.

"This way," Simon waved.

Miles nodded.

The two entered a separate dissection room.

A corpse lay on the cold operating table.

It was Marcus. His chest cavity had been cut open, most of his organs had been removed, and his body was covered in cuts.

There were no forensic assistants or morgue technicians at the scene; Simon did all the work by himself.

"Mike's body has been taken away. I've seen it; it's normal, just a close-range shooting. Hundreds of people witnessed it; there are no doubts."

Miles covered his nose as he looked at Marcus's corpse:

"Simon, say something worthwhile."

Mike's death was suspicious, and Miles couldn't understand how a gang member could dare to kill the sheriff in public.

He personally questioned the security personnel who killed Marcus at the scene, and Marcus showed obvious signs of panic after killing Mike, which seemed abnormal.

He also found out more information about Marcus through other channels. This guy was a typical underground rapper, all bark and no bite. He was arrogant on the surface but actually very timid. Logically speaking, someone like him would never dare to do something so big.

Unless someone drugged Marcus!

Considering that Brian had once asked him to sabotage Mike, Miles strongly suspected that Brian was behind it.

He tried to dig up dirt on Brian from the McMurder case and present it to Theodore as a stepping stone to advancement.

Simon put on rubber gloves:

"But this Marcus is definitely a little abnormal."

Miles was invigorated:

"Did you take drugs?"

"No, at least not excessively, not to the point of being so reckless." Simon opened his chest cavity with his fingers and said without changing his expression:

"It's testosterone levels! A normal person's testosterone level is only 35 to 40, and it can reach about 45 when they're angry, but his was a whopping 1200! He's practically a human beast. Extremely high testosterone levels would put his nerves in an abnormal state, filled with violent desires, which may be why he shot Mike in public."

"What's so abnormal about this?" Miles was disappointed.

"High testosterone levels are not the reason he shot the sheriff. And I've heard that people who work out often take steroids, which can increase testosterone."

Simon explained:

"But 1200 is too high. For a normal person, 100 is already very high. Even with drug abuse, testosterone levels of 200 to 500 are the limit, and it's not something that can be maintained for long; it can easily lead to cardiopulmonary failure. Also, it depends on body type; the stronger a person is, the stronger their endurance. Look at him, 1.76 meters tall and 65 kilograms; he clearly doesn't work out."

As a rapper, Marcus sings, dances, smokes, drinks, and partyes every night, but he never works out.

That does sound a bit strange. Miles frowned:

"Is there no other possibility?"

"Yes." Simon pointed to Marcus's genitals:

"There is another special case: if a testicular stromal tumor metastasizes malignantly, it can cause testosterone levels to spike to over 1000. So, I removed his two balls, but unfortunately everything was normal, he was very healthy, it was just that he had overused them."

Simon fiddled with the two lumps of flesh and blood, making a joke as if nothing had happened.

Miles felt nauseous:

"That means... he injected a large amount of steroids before he died, that's the only possibility left."

"Yes." Simon quickly stitched up the body and pushed it back into the morgue.

The two returned to Simon's office.

Miles immediately opened the window, took a few deep breaths of fresh air, and felt much better.

Simon concluded:

"Marcus must have injected or used an extremely high dose of steroids before he died, perhaps voluntarily, perhaps under duress. Such a large dose would kill an average person nine-tenths of the time, but Marcus survived. Perhaps he had a strong drug resistance? He was truly a gifted individual."

"Or maybe it's some kind of new drug? Perhaps it's a new drug invented by those drug addicts at the gym? Who knows? Those guys are all muscle-bound, who knows what drugs they've mixed together. We could ask a drug dealer, start with the new drugs on the street and the new drugs at the gym."

"Very good!" Miles replied dismissively.

"That's a good direction for investigation, Simon."

He was disappointed. He had hoped to find evidence of injecting certain psychotropic drugs, but all he found was excessive testosterone levels.

What value is this!

Simon sighed and pleaded:

"Chief Constable Field, Mike and I have been friends for decades. It's really... Please help me arrest that drug-selling bastard."

"OK, don't worry, I'll put that drug dealer in jail!" Miles pulled up his collar and left quickly.

Once he got in the car, he forgot all about Simon's request.

The car was driving through New York at the end of November. The temperature had suddenly dropped in the past few days, and the wind was biting cold.

Miles was preoccupied with his own thoughts.

If we can't use Marcus to sabotage Brian, can we try a different approach?

He had known all along that Henry Carter had planted an undercover agent in the BG gang. This was a single-line contact agent, and Miles had never known who it was.

Since you don't know it, then no one else does either.

So, could we frame Marcus as an undercover agent?

In this way, the whole story changes, becoming either Henry Carter's mismanagement leading to the undercover agent killing the sheriff, or internal strife within the NYPD, with the commissioner using the undercover agent to murder the sheriff in an attempt to cover up certain truths?

Thinking about it, it still seems too difficult. Henry Carter should possess crucial evidence against the undercover agent.

Miles abandoned the plan.

Although he sided with Theodore, his ultimate goal remained the same: NYPD Commissioner Henry Carter.

If I get rid of Henry, I can climb to the chief's seat!

If we can't kill Henry, we can't let Henry have his way!

The best breakthrough right now is Mike's funeral.

Henry Karat is preparing to mold Mike into a police role model for the NYPD.

That bastard Brian also wants to take this opportunity to win back the police gang.

"I won't let you have your way!" Miles sneered.

Mike's funeral is the perfect opportunity to launch an attack!

Some important figures have already made preparations, and something will happen at the funeral that will greatly displease Henry and Brian.

That little girl named Debbie might be very sad then... but it's just an accident.

She was indeed pitiful, but nobody cared about a little girl.

Who told her to be Mike's daughter?

......

"Hey, Bro! My name is Edgar!" a young man greeted Richard.

"I am Professor Shepard's doctoral student."

Richard turned his head and saw a typical Princeton engineering student, wearing thick glasses and with dark circles under his eyes, clearly overwhelmed by academic pressure and severely lacking sleep.

He was a tall man, 1.9 meters tall, thin and frail like a bamboo pole, as if he had never eaten enough. He wore a plaid shirt with only the middle three buttons fastened, the collar loose, revealing a white undershirt underneath.

Richard politely replied:

"I'm Richard. I didn't expect you to arrive so quickly. Let's go, I already have an appointment with Principal Smith."

The two of them walked and talked.

Edgar said with a smile:

"I have never seen Professor Shepard personally process summer school enrollment for a student."

Richard asked:

"Is it rare?"

Contrary to his appearance, Edgar seemed to be a chatterbox. Edgar shrugged:

"Anyway, this is the first time I've met you. Professor Shepard values ​​you highly. Normally, the application process for Princeton's summer program takes at least four weeks, but she personally went to the principal's office and supervised Principal Ashton to expedite all the paperwork before having me deliver it. I don't know what kind of genius you are, but I know you're in trouble."

Edgar couldn't hide his schadenfreude.

"Bad luck?" Before Richard could even ask why, Edgar blurted it out himself:

"Dude, you're a genius that your advisor values. Do you know who the last genius was? That unfortunate guy who just got tenure at Harvard Medical School! My poor senior, Blake Hawthorne!"

"Hahaha! Do you know what he went through? Under his mentor, Blake had to spend at least 14 hours a day in the cell lab! 14 hours! At least! He endured that for a full 8 years!"

"If I'm not mistaken, you're going to have to endure eight incredibly dark years. Hahaha!"

Edgar couldn't help but smile smugly.

Clearly, that guy named Blake Hawthorne got a real beating from Christina.

The legend of this unfortunate man still circulates in the cell laboratory.

Richard shrugged:

"I'm only in eleventh grade, I haven't gone to college yet. Professor Shepard shouldn't give me any trouble, right?"

"What? You're only in eleventh grade? Hahaha!" Edgar laughed heartily.

"That's 10 years! You'll have to endure 10 years of hardship in the cell laboratory!"

As the most miserable ox or horse in the lab right now, the happiest thing is seeing a new ox or horse be born!

And they're even worse off than me!

---------------Edgar Rockwell Reference Image---------------