After I Died, My Boyfriend was Busy Taking Care of the Murderer

When Arthur mentioned me, the anger and disgust in his eyes were unmistakable.

Before Caleb could say anything else, Arthur had already turned and entered the forensic lab.

While seventy-two hours might not be considered a challenge for Arthur, as he pieced together the clues, his frown deepened.

Both ring fingers were missing, and the remaining fingers had no usable fingerprints. Arthur sighed deeply at the corpse.

"The victim was approximately twenty-three to twenty-eight years old, female. There are multiple sharp force injuries throughout the body, about one hundred and eight minor wounds. The fatal wounds were two severe blows to the heart.

"Of all the body parts collected, two ring fingers are missing. The remaining fingers have residual highly corrosive liquid, making fingerprint identification difficult."

Caleb's brows furrowed. "This is absolutely inhumane! Such brutality! I swear I'll bring them to justice myself."

Arthur's face was filled with exhaustion as he added, "The method of killing is similar to ancient torture. Based on the condition of the wounds, it can be inferred that the perpetrator acted while the victim was conscious. It's equivalent to being flayed alive."

Upon hearing this, Caleb immediately rushed out of the forensic lab, ordering the officers to intensify the search and not let any suspect go quickly.

Such a dehumanizing method, coupled with the knowledge of how to delay police investigation, suggests the perpetrator likely has a criminal record.

The method even bears a striking resemblance to a case in Butterworth twenty years ago.

Arthur was indeed a professional in this regard.

From day to night, I went from struggling to despair. A rag was stuffed in my mouth, and wounds were continuously carved into my body. The pain washed over me as she wielded a craft knife, moving across my body like she was sculpting a piece of material.

With each cut, she would spray chili water on it, making me writhe in agony.

To delay the police, she put my hands into a smoking liquid. The intense burning sensation caused me to faint.

But she wasn't satisfied. She had someone splash me with cold water to wake me up and continue to torture me in different ways, but I still stared at her intently.

She ordered someone to strike my heart with a stone hammer, laughing eerily.

Only when she found that I was motionless and no longer breathing did she stop.

She then placed me on a rolling operating table.

I was in so much pain, so much pain...

Arthur frowned and picked up my hand to examine it closely.

My heart skipped a beat.

Did he recognize it?

On my eighteenth birthday, he gave me a bracelet.

It had both of our initials engraved on it.

He put it on my wrist.

My heart sank again.

How could he possibly recognize it?

That bracelet had been ripped off long ago. She said I didn't deserve it.

Now, aside from the prominent cuts on the wrists, there was nothing else to be seen.

This horrific method of operation led Arthur to the archives.

He skillfully found the file from twenty years ago among the shelves of case files.

[The Butterworth 8.16 Case.]

The previous group of perpetrators had been caught red-handed a month after the incident.

And my parents had sacrificed their lives in that arrest operation.

By the time their teammates arrived at the scene, my parents were already lying in a pool of blood, their bodies covered in countless minor cuts, fatal wounds, and blunt force trauma.