Chapter 6: The Final Autopsy

After a long wait, he replied: “Doesn’t matter anymore. Orders from up top. Close the case. Just issue the ID report.”

It was abrupt, and I felt the old frustration rise. I had other suspicions—what if the dental X-rays were fake? Cole didn’t have to bring them himself.

Just then, my phone buzzed. It was Cole. “Check the bag. There’s a piece of paper in there.”

I emptied the envelope, the paper crinkling under my gloves. Sure enough, a folded note with hurried handwriting—another clue, maybe the last one I’d get.

In a perfect world, this case would’ve exploded—24-hour news coverage, true crime podcasts, #WhitakerConspiracy trending on Twitter. But in real life, things just… fizzled. The case was closed, swept under the rug.

My ID report went unchallenged. Charles Whitaker was officially dead. As I always say, sometimes the symbol has to die so the machinery can keep rolling.

Thompson, too, closed the file and moved on. I could see the strain on his face, the weight of bureaucracy pressing down. Everything looked right on paper. Leonard Price jumped to his death—terminal cancer, a tragic end. Charles Whitaker died in a fire—faulty wiring, an accident. The insurance paid out, Carter’s smile faded. The Whitaker brothers inherited the company. In the U.S., probate courts can move fast with the right paperwork.

But I knew that skeleton wasn’t Charles Whitaker. Dental X-rays can be forged, especially by someone with money and a motive. Maybe someone else sold his father, just like Michael did.

Michael, for his part, landed on his feet. His father gone, debts erased, maybe a little cash in hand. He vanished, probably chasing a fresh start in some other state. That’s the American way—reinvent yourself and never look back.

Two months later, I was boxing up my office—photos, degrees, that old mug from my residency. Thompson dropped by, two coffees in hand, both from the greasy spoon down the block. We sat among the cardboard boxes, swapping stories, the Whitaker case hanging between us like smoke.

I asked, “So, what really happened? Why did the case get shut down so fast?”

Thompson just grinned, swirling his diner coffee. “Orders from above. Can’t fight city hall.”

So, someone powerful was pulling the strings. I should’ve seen it coming. Everything moved too quickly, too cleanly.

Thompson looked at me over his cup. “What about you? Why transfer now? You always said you’d never leave.”

I just smiled, keeping my secret. The note Cole gave me was the last puzzle piece—the dental X-rays were bogus, the skeleton wasn’t Whitaker. But I hadn’t broken the law—Cole had. He forged the evidence; I just followed the paper trail.

Thompson read my silence. “Remember why I wanted this done by the book?”

I nodded. Charles was his mentor, the sons were trouble. Thompson had raged about them, and I’d bent the rules to help him—drawing blood without a commission, taking risks for a friend.

I let him talk, sipping my coffee. He eyed me, a wry smile on his face. “You think inheriting a hundred-million-dollar company is a blessing?”

I shrugged. “Who wouldn’t want that kind of windfall?”

“What if there’s debt?”

I thought back to my college law class. “Heirs are responsible for debts, but only up to the value of the estate. If the debts are bigger than the assets, they can walk away.”

“What if they sign before they know the debts? Big companies hide a lot of skeletons. And a two-million-dollar insurance policy makes folks move fast.”

I paused, the realization dawning. Suddenly, I saw the whole picture. I finally asked, “Where’s Charles Whitaker?”

Thompson smiled, eyes glinting. “Abroad. New name, new life, money tucked away offshore. He’s living out his retirement, free and clear.”

I nodded, feeling a mix of awe and resignation. Sometimes, the game is rigged from the start.

A year later, I was settled at my new job. I saw the headline on my phone over a cup of Starbucks: Whitaker Realty bankrupt. Grant and Cole arrested for fraud, their Ponzi scheme finally exposed. The courts seized everything. That was the father’s revenge—cold, calculated, and absolute.

But sometimes, I still wonder if Charles Whitaker is out there, watching the world he built burn, and smiling to himself in the sun.