In the underground autopsy room of the Graycliff County Hospital, a oppressive atmosphere hung in the air, a mixture of formalin and the stench of stale blood.
Forensic pathologist Dr. Miller stared blankly at the incredibly complex chromatographic analysis charts on his computer screen. His eyes were bloodshot from working through the night. As a forensic pathologist who had worked in this remote town for twenty years, he had handled countless cases of logging accidents or deaths caused by drunken brawls, but Julian Carter's body was the most bizarre mystery he had ever encountered.
With a click, the heavy lead door was pushed open. Sheriff Brody walked in, bringing with him the chill of the outside air, still clutching the leather diary he had found in Julian's office.
"The results are in?" Brody's voice was terribly hoarse, as if it had been sanded on sandpaper.
"It's out. But I must say, Sheriff, if you try to close this case, the judge might think we're making up science fiction." Dr. Miller pointed to a steep peak curve on the screen, his tone revealing profound confusion. "We detected extremely high concentrations of psilocybin in Julian's lung tissue and blood samples." Brody frowned. "A hallucinogen?"
"Yes, the main component of what's commonly known as 'magic mushrooms.'" Miller stood up and walked to the dissected, mangled corpse. "But it's not just hallucinations. Julian's alveoli contained an astonishing number of spores, indicating that he didn't accidentally ingest them, but rather inhaled a large number of hallucinogenic fungal spores, pulverized into particles, at close range in a very short period of time." Brody looked out the window at the fog-shrouded redwood forest, the image of Rowan observing spore firing under a microscope flashing through his mind.
"What would be the consequences of this dosage?"
"Extremely devastating consequences." Miller picked up a report, his voice echoing in the cold autopsy room. "Within thirty seconds of inhalation, his central nervous system would experience a complete and utter collapse. His sense of space would vanish, his sense of time would be distorted; he would see walls bleeding, see the forest screaming. More importantly, psilocybin causes extreme muscle incoordination and loss of consciousness."
Miller paused, pointing to Julian's eerie smile in the photograph of the body.
"That's why he fell into the mine with a maniacal laugh. At that moment, a nuclear explosion of dopamine and serotonin was erupting in his brain. He didn't even know he was falling; he might have felt like he was flying above the forest canopy, or embracing some kind of miracle." Brody felt an extremely cold chill rise up his spine.
He remembered the premeditated murder diary. Julian went to the North Slope with a Remington shotgun, believing himself to be a hunter at the top of the food chain; but unbeknownst to him, the woman who had mastered the laws of the microscopic world had already prepared a dazzling, deadly "chemical funeral" for him the moment he stepped onto the edge of the greenhouse.
"Can this be considered murder?" Brody asked in a low voice.
"From a medical perspective, it's extremely precise poisoning. Someone precisely calculated the angle and concentration of spore release," Miller said, looking at Brody. "But it's difficult to convict. Who can prove that the woman released the spores? Who can prove that this wasn't an accidental outbreak of fungi caused by heavy rain? After all, this stuff is everywhere in the valleys of the North Slope." Brody didn't answer. He pulled the sterile evidence bag from his trench coat pocket; inside was Julian's diary.
"What if we add this motive?"
[The same day, 10:00 AM] The corridor of the county courthouse was packed with local reporters and workers from the Carter Lumber Mill. The air was tense, like a string about to snap.
Attorney Tom sat at the defense table, his hands trembling slightly from Parkinson's. He looked at Rowan, who was being led in. She was still wearing that orange prison uniform, but her previously ashen face showed a strange, subtle ripple when she heard the words "toxicology report."
It was a cold, almost cruel satisfaction, akin to that of the Creator seeing their work interpreted.
"Rise." Judge Watson strode to the bench with an air of authority. He was a typical old-fashioned elite, convinced that the statutes of the law could measure all the world's evils.
"Prosecutor, please present your new evidence." Prosecutor Reed stood up, a fiercely aggressive young man whose eyes now gleamed with unwavering determination. He slammed the heavy toxicology report violently against the jury bar.
"Ladies and gentlemen. We had always thought this was an accident, or some kind of primitive violent conflict. But this toxicology report from Dr. Miller tells us a truly horrifying truth." Reed turned his head, pointing his index finger sharply at the indifferent Rowan.
"The woman sitting before you is not some savage who hides in the forest eating rotten leaves. She is an extremely cruel and extremely stealthy chemical killer! She took advantage of Julian Carter's lack of knowledge about plants, detonating a cloud of hallucinogenic spores that had been accumulating on a stormy night. She not only killed Julian, she also stripped him of his dignity as a human being, plunging him into an abyss of no return with an utterly absurd death!" A suppressed gasp echoed in the courtroom.
Reed didn't stop. He expertly opened Julian's diary and began reciting Julian's frantic ramblings before his death, attempting to portray Julian as a hero forced into danger to save the family business, and Rowan as a demon guarding his territory, forbidding any intrusion by civilization.
"She not only possessed the ability to kill, but she also had an extremely clear intent to kill! She wanted to use methods that even forensic experts couldn't detect to carry out a perfect execution, escaping legal punishment!"
Attorney Tom sighed and stood up heavily.
"Objection. All the prosecution's inferences are based on conjecture. The North Slope is a primeval forest, where there is naturally a large amount of fungus. Under the influence of heavy rain and low pressure, a fungal outbreak is a natural phenomenon. My client simply does not have the industrial capacity to manufacture such a 'chemical bomb.'"
"She doesn't need industrial capacity, Attorney Tom!" Reed retorted sharply. "She only needs a borrowed pair of eyes—that microscope that was found, belonging to Mr. Elias!"
At that moment, Elias, sitting at the back of the gallery, turned deathly pale. Sheriff Brody turned and stared intently at Elias. He saw the abyss-like guilt in Elias's eyes.
At that moment, Brody finally realized the core of this tragedy's vicious cycle: Julian brought plunder and greed (the diary); Elias brought the vision of civilization (the microscope); and Rowan, with this "vision," transformed natural self-defense into an execution incomprehensible to humans.
The courtroom clamor continued, the language of law pale in comparison to the spores' trajectory. Rowan, however, simply looked down at the tiny, utterly dried red clay clinging to her fingertips, a desolate smile playing on her lips—a smile no one in the room could decipher.
In her world, the verdict had already ended that rainy night. Julian Carter had rotted in the red clay, becoming nourishment for some kind of fungus. This, in itself, was the most utterly just law.
And these humans in suits, holding papers, were merely attempting to condemn a sunset.