Dressed in full protective gear, including goggles and respiratory masks, Jack and Clay stepped into the morgue.
Compared to corpses that were severely decomposed or reduced to skeletons, bodies in the early bloating phase—like Jessica Townsend's—were often more psychologically challenging to handle.
Lying on the autopsy table, Jessica Townsend no longer bore any resemblance to the vibrant, flirtatious blonde from the club surveillance footage.
Her body was covered in deep purple-red livor mortis and a greenish-black web of decomposing veins. Her face, once beautiful, was now disfigured beyond recognition—countless knife wounds had left the skin peeled back, exposing darkened muscle tissue and fascia. The lower jawbone was partially visible beneath the torn flesh.
Ironically, the body was less horrifying than when it had been initially discovered. The forensic team had already cleaned away bodily fluids, released trapped decomposition gases, and preserved it in cold storage.
Jack flipped through the autopsy report provided by the Korean Forensic Medical Institute, remaining silent as he waited for Clay to complete his examination.
"So, what's your conclusion? Cause of death?" Jack asked, his voice calm.
Even through the respiratory mask, a faint, unpleasant odor lingered.
Clay, despite his experience as a battlefield soldier, found himself struggling against an instinctive, deep-seated nausea. Dealing with a body that had been sealed in a plastic bag for three days in warm temperatures was enough to trigger a primal disgust encoded in human genetics. His throat kept making unconscious swallowing motions.
"If you can't handle it, step out for a moment. Just don't throw up inside your mask—that'll haunt your nightmares tonight," Jack warned.
Seeing Clay remain silent for too long, Jack knew he had reached his limit. He gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder, letting him leave while he finished up the examination himself.
After thoroughly washing up—three times—Jack stepped into the hallway, finding Clay still leaning against the wall, his face pale.
As Jack approached, Clay looked up, his expression dark with restrained anger. "The wounds on her face… they were made before she died, weren't they?"
One of the most telling differences between antemortem and postmortem injuries was how the wounds appeared. Cuts inflicted before death had distinctive gaping edges due to tissue reaction, whereas postmortem wounds lacked this response.
Even though Jessica's body had already decayed significantly, close examination still revealed the subtle curling of the wound edges—clear evidence of antemortem trauma.
"Yeah. Cause of death was exsanguination. The killer slashed her throat last," Jack confirmed, satisfied with Clay's progress.
Clay took the menthol balm Jack handed him, applying it to his temples and the philtrum under his nose. The cooling sensation instantly cleared his head, bringing back some color to his face.
Then he frowned. "But I didn't find any restraint marks on her wrists or ankles—no bruising, no skin abrasions."
"Massive doses of anesthetic," Jack said, tapping his own shoulder. "There's an injection mark here. It was clean and precise—meaning the killer drugged her after subduing her."
"So we're probably dealing with a physically strong male," Clay reasoned. "Which means that prosecutor might actually be right—our main suspect should be the white guy from the club."
Although he said this, his tone carried uncertainty—he wasn't entirely convinced.
"Maybe," Jack said, but he wasn't fully convinced either. "That guy in the club was way too aggressive. And…"
Jack instinctively glanced back toward the morgue.
"Don't you think there are too many cuts on her face?" he mused. "If this were an impulsive crime—someone lashing out in anger at her looks—"
Jack mimed smashing a head against the wall.
"—beating her face in would've been way more satisfying than methodically slicing it up. And since she was drugged, she barely felt the pain. That means this wasn't about physical torture—it was about psychological torment."
Clay imagined being semi-conscious, watching as someone methodically carved into his face. He shuddered involuntarily.
"So you still think it's a serial killer?" he asked.
Jack had already resigned himself to the reality that none of his cases would ever be simple. (After all, the readers wouldn't be happy otherwise.)
"The wounds are weird. Some of the cuts are symmetrical—like the ones around the eyes and cheeks," Jack explained. "Unfortunately, September temperatures here are still warm, and being wrapped in plastic sped up decomposition. We've already lost a lot of potential forensic details."
"If Temperance Brennan and her forensic anthropology team were here, they could boil the bones and examine the knife marks in detail," he added.
"But one thing's for sure—this process took time. A lot of time. And no normal person would do something like this."
As they stepped outside the forensic institute, the warmth of the sun washed over them, banishing the lingering chill. Clay exhaled sharply, feeling like he had finally returned to the land of the living.
"Or maybe Jessica just had really bad luck and had a psychotic ex-boyfriend," he muttered.
Jack, seeing that Clay had mostly recovered, tossed him the car keys.
"Either way, we're heading to her workplace next."
—
Unlike what Jack had initially imagined, "Morning Light Academy" had zero religious affiliation. It was simply an employment agency—helping cash-strapped Americans secure work visas and jobs as English teachers in foreign countries.
Just like in Jack's previous world, English proficiency was seen as essential for getting a good job in Korea. Private English academies—akin to "New Oriental" in China—were everywhere.
Young Americans like Jessica, who wanted to fund their post-graduation world tours, were the perfect source of cheap teaching labor.
The person greeting them was the agency's local director—an older Korean woman in her fifties with an extremely artificial face, covered in high-tech cosmetic enhancements.
For some reason, Jack couldn't shake the thought of South Korea's newly elected president and his ex-hostess wife.
The woman introduced herself as "Mrs. Thomas"—taking her husband's surname. When she saw two exceptionally handsome foreign men enter her office, her already stiff face almost cracked from the force of her enthusiastic smile.7
Jack could practically see the Botox struggling to hold everything in place.
"Sorry to disappoint, Mrs. Thomas, but we're not here to apply for jobs," Jack said, pulling out his FBI badge.
Her face froze. "Oh—oh my, I—wait. FBI? As in… the FBI? From America?"
Jack resisted the urge to sigh. "Yes. That FBI. We're here regarding Jessica Townsend's murder."
The woman's cheerful expression quickly turned to one of poorly concealed panic. "Ah. Oh. Yes, I heard about that. It's tragic! But I assure you, her death has nothing to do with our agency."
Jack gave her a sharp look.
"So, should I take that to mean you're personally vouching for all employees under your agency's name?"
His tone turned icy, intentionally pressuring her.
Going through official Korean channels for a search warrant would be a bureaucratic nightmare.
But since she operated an international employment agency, flashing an FBI badge and bluffing might be the fastest way to get what they needed.
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