Two uniformed officers arrived within six minutes, their radios crackling with static that cut through the hushed atmosphere of the maternity ward. Following closely behind them was a woman in a trench coat who introduced herself as Detective Laura Sanchez.

Sanchez was a woman in her mid-forties with sharp, intelligent eyes that missed nothing. She didn’t look like someone who tolerated hysteria. She ushered us into a small, empty family consultation room at the end of the hall and closed the blinds.

“Mr. Carter,” she said, her pen hovering over a notepad. “You made a very serious claim on the dispatch recording. You claimed to identify a newborn based on a deceased John Doe from two months ago?”

Daniel sat on the edge of the vinyl chair, his leg bouncing nervously. “I know how it sounds, Detective. I know. But I have a photographic memory. It’s why I was hired for the county security audit. I remember faces. I remember details.”

“Tell me about the scar,” Sanchez said.

“Left eyebrow. Crescent shape. About a centimeter long. It looked like a healed cut, maybe accidental forceps trauma or something in utero. The baby in the morgue—John Doe #44—had it. The baby in my sister-in-law’s room has the exact same mark.”

Sanchez lowered her notepad. “John Doe #44 was a tragic case. We never found the parents. But Mr. Carter, the odds of two unrelated infants having the exact same distinct scar are astronomical.”