Chapter 3 - The Missing Identification Band
I froze, blinking through my tears as the weight of the officer’s question finally registered in my brain.
“I... I didn't sign it,” I stammered, shaking my head. “The paperwork was rushed through. The funeral home said everything was cleared by the coroner’s office because of the severity of the crash impact. They told me it was standard procedure for closed-casket transport.”
The officer narrowed his eyes, pulling a small notebook from his breast pocket. He flipped it open and clicked a ballpoint pen. “Standard procedure requires a mandatory forty-eight-hour waiting period for accidental deaths involving traffic fatalities, especially when an autopsy hasn't been fully completed by a state forensic examiner. Who pushed to accelerate this schedule?”
Before I could answer, a sudden, sharp scraping sound echoed across the marble floor.
We all turned.
Gustavo was backing away slowly toward the heavy glass exit doors, his jacket half-zipped, his eyes darting frantically toward the parking lot where the ambulance's emergency lights flashed red and blue against the concrete.
The police officer noticed him instantly. He raised his voice, cutting cleanly through the murmur of the chapel.
“Excuse me, sir! Where do you think you’re going?”
Gustavo flinched violently, freezing mid-stride like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming truck. He forced a stiff, nervous smile, his hands trembling visibly inside his coat pockets. “I... I just need some air. This whole thing is too much. My sister... it’s overwhelming. I’m going outside to wait by my car.”
“No,” the officer said, stepping directly into his path, blocking the exit with an unyielding posture. “You stay right here. Nobody leaves this building until we clarify who signed the waiver forms.”
As Gustavo swallowed hard and took a reluctant step backward, something small, white, and thin slipped out from beneath the long sleeve of Ana’s white burial dress as the paramedics lifted her stretcher toward the exit.
It fluttered softly through the air and landed with a quiet tap right at my feet.
I looked down.
It was a small, plastic hospital identification wristband, slightly crumpled and stained around the edges.
Instinctively, I bent down and picked it up between my fingers. I turned it over, expecting to see Ana Clara’s name, date of birth, and hospital admission details stamped across the surface.
Instead, my blood ran instantly cold.
The name printed on the band wasn't Ana Clara.
Neither was the patient number, nor the medical ward code. It belonged to an entirely different individual—a private clinic patient registered under a restricted psychiatric and metabolic research ward across town.
Before I could process the surreal discovery, the police officer stepped over, gently taking the plastic band from my trembling fingers. He examined the barcode and the printed text, his expression hardening into absolute suspicion.
“Where did this come from?” he demanded, looking around the room.
Before anyone could answer, one of the paramedics paused by the open coffin, holding a small object he had found nestled discreetly inside the velvet lining where Ana’s head had rested.
“Officer, you need to see this,” the paramedic called out, holding up a small, clear medical glass vial with a rubber stopper. “I found this tucked under the floral arrangement inside the casket. It looks like a sedative or a metabolic depressant.”
The officer walked over, taking the vial from the paramedic’s gloved hand. He inspected the label. Part of it had been hastily peeled off, but enough numbers remained visible to trace its origin.
Across the room, Gustavo’s face drained of every remaining drop of color. He looked like a corpse himself—eyes wide with absolute terror, his knees buckling slightly as he leaned back against the wall to keep from collapsing.
The officer looked up from the vial, turning his gaze slowly from the glass container to Gustavo’s trembling form.
“Do you recognize this medication?” the officer asked, his voice low and razor-sharp.
Gustavo opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He swallowed hard, shaking his head frantically. “No. I... I’ve never seen that in my life. It’s insane. Someone planted that!”
The entire chapel was buried in an agonizing, suffocating silence. You could hear the distant, muffled wail of the ambulance engine idling outside, waiting to rush my wife and my unborn son to the hospital.
Then, a voice broke the quiet. It wasn't mine.
May you like
My mother-in-law slowly lowered her hands from her face. She stopped praying. She stood up from her chair, her eyes fixed entirely on her own son with a look of profound, devastating horror.
“Gustavo,” she whispered, her voice cracking with a sorrow deeper than any grief I had ever heard. “That specific vial... that’s from your private pharmaceutical clinic.”
