The Suppressed Evidence
On Sunday morning, sunlight streamed into the balcony.
Lauren brushed the hair away from my forehead. She hesitated, then said: Is this... the ability you were talking about?
I nodded, a cigarette burning between my fingers.
She waved her hands. Wait, wait, wait—this is completely unscientific. Are you sure it's not some kind of disease?
Just as I expected—she didn't believe me.
I smiled, said nothing, took a drag, and slowly exhaled.
She tugged at her ear beside me, murmuring things like "incredible," "unbelievable," "you should see an eye doctor."
Suddenly, as if making up her mind, she thrust her hand toward me and said: Give me the cigarette.
I was taken aback. She took a fierce drag, wiped her lips, and said to me: Let's start investigating.
Smoke shot from her nostrils like an engine running at full throttle.
The investigation method was actually quite simple. I would look at the photographs with my left eye, form the lip shapes of Dr. Ashmore and Serena with my mouth, and Lauren would translate the lip-reading beside me.
She had taught herself for a week, which was hardly proficiency, so she also brought books along, frequently asking me to pause while she flipped through for comparison.
Out of the forty or so photographs, the vast majority showed Dr. Ashmore speaking.
Sometimes he would twist Serena's ear until she winced in pain. He would say: Your parents don't want you because you're incompetent. You can't do anything right. If not for me, who would feed you?
Or he would give her contradictory orders, making her steal from the other children. If she refused, he beat her. If she stole, he beat her too. Beating her while cursing: I'll chop your hands off.
She tried to get help once. She found the orphanage caretaker—the same woman who now sold vegetables outside our apartment complex. Serena grabbed the caretaker's sleeve and tried to speak, but a gentle voice came from behind her: Serena, what are you doing?
She buried her face in the caretaker's clothes, trembling. The caretaker picked her up and comforted her: Don't be afraid, the director is here. Then she placed Serena into Dr. Ashmore's arms.
That night he beat her severely and applied medicine to her wounds. Medicinal alcohol against broken skin would sting terribly. But Serena knew it was something good. She extended her hand, catching the alcohol that trickled down with her fingers, applying it to her own arms. Her eyes were careful, as if cherishing it.
One evening, he knocked frantically on the storeroom door and said to her: Serena, your parents are back. Serena ran out joyfully, but there was nothing outside. She called out: Mama, Mama, where are you? He grabbed her by the hair, leaned close to her ear, and whispered: I lied.
In the summer when she was seventeen, dappled shade shifted through the trees. She wanted to leave, even if it meant letting go of everything.
He didn't stop her: If you go, I'll just find another target. Or you could stay, grow up a little more, and become my wife.
Her whole body trembled as she threatened to report him.
He gave a mild smile and said: Have you forgotten? I'm already a psychiatrist. The document you signed last week was your psychiatric evaluation. They won't believe you—they'll just think you've lost your mind.
...
My left eye stayed active for about three minutes, so I had to keep it stimulated with cigarette smoke.
Both my eyes had grown blurry.
Lauren handed me a tissue and said: There's only one photograph left. Do you want to continue?
I shook my head. I'm at my limit. Let it rest.
Lauren looked down at the notes in her notepad and was silent for a long time.
Finally, she said: Did you really... see all of this?
I said: Yes.
She said: If the evidence is confirmed, even though the statute of limitations has passed, we could still apply to investigate his orphanage and stop his abuse of children. But...
I said: The key is the connection between Six Degrees Murder and the past.
I picked up pen and paper and wrote down roughly what each of those five people had said, alongside what Serena had experienced in her childhood.
I knew of one possibility that could prove Dr. Ashmore had committed premeditated murder.
That he had exploited Serena's childhood trauma.
Guiding those five people to awaken the deepest despair within Serena.
I discovered that I didn't even need to search hard—the words of those five people corresponded one-to-one with Dr. Ashmore's past actions.
In childhood, Dr. Ashmore repeatedly told her: You lost your parents because you're incompetent.
Then her boss threatened her: fail to meet targets, and you're fired.
Fats implied I was cheating on her, and her best friend only made things worse.
Because she was incompetent, she would lose everything.
Dr. Ashmore forced her to steal, then berated her as a thief.
When she was seventeen, she was tricked into signing a psychiatric evaluation—even if she reported him, no one would believe her.
Then the gym trainer misunderstood her as a thief and hurled insults at her.
An injustice she could never prove.
And the vegetable vendor.
I think I had misunderstood something before. What triggered Serena wasn't the line: There's been a thief in the complex.
It was: The director misses you very much.
Just like back then, when the caretaker lifted her into the director's arms with her own hands.
Ultimately, these words converged in Serena's ear, telling her: You've lost everything, no one will believe your testimony, and in the end, you have no choice but to return to Director Ashmore.
So she locked the sliding door, just as she had as a child, scattering thumbtacks around herself in futility.
The difference was—this time, she decided not to stay.
She stood on the balcony railing and spread her arms.
Until I came rushing over.
In the apartment, Lauren listened to my account without a word.
I said: Now there are only two remaining questions. Why Serena asked that math problem, and why Six Degrees Murder only involves five people.
I knew the answer had to be in that last photograph.
I activated my left eye again. Pain shot through to my skull. I pushed through and looked at that scene.
First, Dr. Ashmore took Serena to an empty corner and spoke to her.
I shaped the lip movements.
Lauren translated beside me: All these years of targeting only you—there is a reason.
I held my breath. The answer must be close.
Dr. Ashmore said one more sentence, very brief. I shaped the lip movements.
Lauren froze.
I said: What, is it hard to translate?
Lauren snapped out of it and said: The lip movement—it says "I love you."
I nodded.
In the image, Serena gave her response.
I carefully shaped every lip movement.
Lauren fell silent beside me for a moment, then said:
I'm sorry. I already have someone I love.
The shade shifted through the trees. Serena lifted her head and said it to Dr. Ashmore with unwavering eyes.
The image ended.
My head throbbed. It felt like my eyeball might fall out of its socket.
I covered my left eye.
No—why? Why had the trail broken again? The math problem; Six Degrees Murder, but only five people. Where was the oversight?
It took a long time before I recovered.
Lauren sat quietly, her expression seeming slightly downcast.
I said: What's wrong?
A flash of panic crossed her face as she said: Nothing. It's nothing.
I picked up the paper and hurriedly wrote down the scene I had just seen. I tried multiple times, but could never find a corresponding connection.
I said: It doesn't matter... those five points above can prove he's the killer.
Lauren interrupted me: This is just presumption of guilt.
I picked up the paper and pointed at it, saying: Sure, killing someone with just a few words is hard, but he exploited Serena's childhood trauma. These are all things he said to her back then. Look, every one of them corresponds to—
She stayed silent.
I creased the edge of the paper.
I said: You told me you would believe me.
She said: The police need concrete evidence. Ian, I can't judge someone guilty based on your words alone. You have to understand—what's written on this paper isn't even as effective as his own confession.
I lowered my head, my voice almost pleading: In the Gospel of John, chapter nine, verse twenty-five—it says: Whether he is a sinner, I do not know. But one thing I know: I was blind, and now I see.
Lauren shook her head in disappointment: I'm sorry. I'm an atheist.
I froze. A long time later, I said: Go. Don't bother with me anymore.
---
Lauren didn't take the lip-reading books and materials with her.
After Lauren left, I washed an apple, sat in the living room, and nibbled on it while flipping through those books.
Perhaps there was another possibility.
Perhaps in the last photograph, Lauren had made an error in translation.
Perhaps I could discover other oversights and find more precise connections.
Perhaps there weren't that many perhaps.
How forgetful I was, to so easily lose sight of Lauren's position.
She was a police officer. Everything she did required concrete evidence.
I flipped through the lip-reading materials over and over, practically trying to print the contents onto my brain. Yet the translated lip-reading was identical to her translation—down to the letter.
I set down the materials, rubbed my temples, and lay down among the photographs scattered across the floor.
At this point, thinking carefully—what could my left eye really do?
It could only see.
It couldn't do anything.
I didn't know who had given me this left eye.
Was it God? Or was it Serena?
But why—why couldn't I save you, and couldn't make the killer pay either?
Was this just so I could see you?
But I wanted to do so much more for you.
In the empty apartment, I lay among that stack of photographs, emitting low, shallow wails like a wounded beast.
---
I packed a small sheathed knife.
Many days later, on an afternoon, I stood on a bustling street.
Looking up, I could see the consulting room of Dr. Ashmore's psychiatric clinic behind the floor-to-ceiling windows on the fifteenth floor. By all accounts, it was a fairly large operation, equipped with a security guard and a secretary.
I pulled my hat lower, pushed through the revolving doors of the lobby, and instinctively cast a sideways glance.
My breath nearly stopped.
Lauren Vance.
Was she here to stop me?
No—she was on the other side of the revolving doors, looking as though she was leaving the building.
Her eyes were vacant, her steps unsteady. She brushed past me and walked out.
I entered the building and stood before the elevators, but couldn't resist turning back to look. Outside, she walked along the street, bumping into pedestrians without a care, her gaze seemingly fixed on the empty air ahead.
The elevator was full. Someone asked: Hey buddy, are you getting on or not?
I waved them off and ran outside, calling her name several times. She didn't respond. She got into a taxi and left.
I swore and hailed a cab, following close behind her rear door.
She returned to a residential complex—likely where she lived. I followed behind her, watched her take out her keys, open the door, and step inside.
I followed her in.
I patted her on the shoulder and said: Are you okay?
She gave me a calm glance, seemingly unfazed, and nodded.
She boiled a pot of water and poured herself a cup of tea. There was none for me. I sat beside her, at a loss.
After she finished her tea, she suddenly stood up.
I said: Lauren...
She began unbuttoning her clothes.
I quickly covered my eyes, remembered the door was still open, turned away, and sprinted to close it.
I didn't dare look back. I said: What's wrong with you?
She didn't respond. I heard her bare feet walk into the bathroom, then the bathroom door clicked shut and the shower started running.
I let out a breath.
I sat on the sofa and touched the knife at my waist. Now I was a bit calmer. Truth be told, I wasn't entirely sure I actually had the courage to kill someone. I looked around Lauren's apartment. It wasn't big, but it had all the essentials—kitchen, bedroom, living room... On the wall opposite the sofa, there was a Hello Kitty clock.
The awkward thing was the sofa, which was piled with a mountain of unwashed clothes, underwear included. I forced myself not to look in that direction. Then it struck me—did Lauren not have friends over? She just left her clothes strewn across the living room?
The clock ticked. Lauren seemed to be taking too long in the bathroom. It felt wrong to go knock, but I was worried. I cleared my throat and called out loudly: Are you okay?
No answer.
I called out: Lauren? If you're fine, say something.
Her voice drifted from the bathroom: What is one hundred sixty to the sixth power?
Her voice was entirely devoid of emotion.
In the living room, the second hand ticked.
Every hair on my body stood on end.
---