The Dying Breath

by Ferguson, Alane

  “I can help, sir,” Justin said. He took a step toward Cameryn but Dr. Moore waved him away.

  “I want to teach my protégée, Deputy, so stand down until you are called.” The doctor crossed his arms over his once-ample belly. “We never begin a second autopsy without completing the first. Why, Miss Mahoney?”

  Cameryn looked from one disemboweled body to the next, wrapped in a cotton sheet as neatly as a gift. “I don’t know.”

  Tapping his forehead with a gloved finger, Moore said, “Think. Part of your job is to examine the evidence and draw conclusions.”

  Cameryn bit the edge of her lip, straining for the right answer. Why would it make any difference? Mentally, she flipped through the pages of her forensic books, searching for an answer. “Well . . . maybe you’d have to be really careful of any kind of cross-contamination. With two bodies opened up at the same time I suppose there would be a chance that fluid from body A could get into body B, which could screw up the results. Especially if it’s a homicide.”

  Dr. Moore’s face lit up, his eyes morning bright as he peered at her over his half-moon glasses. “Precisely. When there’s any kind of a doubt as to the cause or manner of death, we go by the book. A tight ship means a controlled ship. We go one body at a time. Tools are washed, gloves changed before we begin the dance again. Constant vigilance, Miss Mahoney. Constant vigilance, every case, every time.”

  “You sound like Mad-Eye Moody,” Cameryn said.

  “Excuse me. Are you trying to be funny?” Dr. Moore lowered his chin, staring at her with eyes that had suddenly lost their warmth. Sheriff Jacobs snorted and leaned against a cabinet, whispering something to her father.

  “You know, Mad-Eye? The guy from the Harry Potter books? Never mind.” Stupid, stupid, stupid, she chided herself. Dr. Moore’s trying to treat you like a professional and you say something like that. In an effort to redirect the doctor, she said, “Um, why do you have to wash the tools—don’t you have more than one set? I mean, that would seem to make more sense, you know, so you wouldn’t have to wait in between bodies.”

  The skin on the top of Dr. Moore’s bald head rippled as the doctor raised his shaggy brows. “I’ve told you on more than one occasion that we who choose to work on the dark side of medicine suffer from ever-tightening budgets. Saws and scissors are expensive.” He held up his index finger and punched the air. “I have one diener and one set of instruments. Between autopsies everything is washed by hand. Time-consuming, yes, but the dead will be dead for a long time. They don’t seem to mind the wait.”

  By now Ben had come to Cameryn’s side, his feet moving in perfect rhythm to the music, trying, Cameryn thought, to lighten to mood. “Hey, Doc, for being an oldie, I have to say I’m down with this Seer thing. The music’s got a beat.”

  Dr. Moore acknowledged Ben by making a sound of approval deep in his throat.

  “And Cammie, groovin’ to music is the best way to get through the never-ending cleaning of the tools. That’s the diener’s job, and I’ll tell you what, I’ve had to scrub some nasty things in my time. I go through a boatload of bleach. You want me to show her how it’s done, Doc?” he asked, bobbing his head. “I’ll wash ’em now if you’d like.”

  But Dr. Moore surprised them both by saying no. “I will sterilize the equipment myself, Ben,” he said. “I’d like Miss Mahoney to watch you sew up our movie star. If she wants to go into this profession she should see every aspect of the procedure, from start to grisly finish.” Spinning on his heel, he nodded to Justin. “Deputy Crowley, you seem anxious to get in the game. Why don’t you assist me by gathering up the tools. You’ll find gloves in the cabinet directly to your left. You’ll want an apron.”

  “Of course,” Justin answered. He’d been standing with his weight on one leg, his left elbow resting against the countertop. Like a jack-in-the-box he sprang into action, taking out an apron and tying it on so fast his action seemed a blur. Cameryn heard the snap of latex as he pulled on a pair of gloves.

  “Well, all right then, Cammie,” said Ben, “it looks like today we’re all doing our jobs every which way.” He made a hook with his arm through the air. “Guess it’s just you and me and the celebrity.”

  Dr. Moore took a plastic tub off a shelf and poured blue-green liquid into it. He set it into the deep metal sink and ran hot water on top, making foam. “Have her wash down the decedent,” Dr. Moore called over his shoulder. “Use a casket liner to wrap him. And remember, time is of the essence. The media vultures will discover this soon enough and then all hell will break loose.”

  “You got it—we’ll do it quick and clean,” said Ben. A row of instruments had been laid out on a blue towel. From the center he plucked a large, curved needle and began to thread it with black thread. “Wait’ll you see, Cammie, this part’s kind of fun. We’re gonna put the man back together.”

  Fun was the last word that she would use for it, Cameryn decided. Beginning at the head, Ben picked up a skullcap, still shiny with blood, and placed it back onto Brent Safer’s already hollowed-out head. “I told you before about the notch—see? I put it on the cap to make sure the bone lines up just right.” He clicked the piece of skull into place like a puzzle piece. “Now let’s give this man back his face. Watch how it’s done.”

  With strong fingers, Ben reached down and grabbed the scalp, which had been sliced from ear to ear and tucked beneath Brent Safer’s chin. Slowly, carefully, Ben unfolded the face and pulled it toward the dome of the skull. Features, still loose, realigned themselves as Ben clasped the back part of the scalp that had been doubled onto the neck until both flaps met in the middle. She stared down at him, filled with a strange kind of awe. There was the handsome face she’d seen magnified on the movie screen, his skin waxyin death. But the dead Brent Safer was less polished than his Hollywood version. His blond hair, which Cameryn realized had been highlighted, had matted to his skull. Up close she could see faint pits from acne scars, and the skin beneath his eyes was slightly wrinkled, like tissue paper smudged with blue. These imperfections must have been erased by Hollywood makeup artists.

  “He looks crooked,” Cameryn said.

  “Maybe a little,” Ben agreed. “But the funeral home’ll fix him up nice. If they do their job right then no one will ever be able to tell the man’s brain is gone.” He began to sew the scalp together with a loose suture. “See, a couple stitches on top of the scalp is all we do ’cause the mortician’s gonna take it all out anyway. They’ll fluff up his hair and you’ll never even see where I cut him. Unless it’s a bald dude. You can’t do as much with a bald dude except try to hide it with a whole lotta makeup and a big pillow. Good thing Brent Safer had so much hair.”

  “Yeah. Good thing,” she said, gently stroking the hair that made a fringe against his neck. It wasn’t until she touched him that the weight of who she was standing near washed through her. This was a man she’d seen on the big screen, his overlarge image flickering in syrupy theater light. In a strange way she felt as if she knew him. Lyric, who loved to read celebrity magazines, always shared the gossipy threads of Brent Safer’s persona, filaments of stories that were woven into a life fabric that may or may not have been true—it didn’t matter to Cameryn because it was always more interesting than her own life. This man had driven the fastest cars, dated the most beautiful entertainers in the world, sailed on yachts, and stayed at a rehab center in Utah designed just for celebrities. And yet he was reduced in death, like every other human. It somehow made her sad.

  “What happened to you?” she whispered as Ben pushed the tip of the curved needle through a top portion of the scalp. Cameryn’s gaze drifted to the actor’s hands; it startled her to realize his nails were manicured, polished as smooth as the inside of a shell. His chest, too, had been waxed so that his skin looked like marble. The soft mix of acoustical guitar and violin had changed to a vocal, and Cameryn suddenly keyed in to the words at the end of the song.

  Forever the sand slips through the glassr />
  Love is the thing that eternally lasts

  We’re fresh when we’re young

  We wither with age

  Live life without borders

  And write on your page

  She watched Ben clip the thread, unaware, it seemed, of how closely the words echoed the dead man’s life.

  ’Cause even the stars fall from the sky.

  They burn as they flame.

  They blaze as they die.

  She stroked his forearm with a gloved finger. How did you die? Did someone do this to you? Or is this something you did to yourself? For the briefest moment she closed her eyes, wishing she could hear an answer the way Lyric swore she could if she would only believe. But instead of ghostly whispers she heard the rumble of Dr. Moore instructing Justin on the disinfection properties of a cleaner called Virex and the clank of metal instruments as they dropped into the sink. No, if the dead were to speak, it would have to be through the evidence they left behind. Clues that she would need to read. She opened her eyes just as Ben finished rethreading the needle.

  “Okay, Cammie, now we put the guts back in. Pick up the Hefty bag and hand it to me,” he instructed. “Yeah, it’s under the table, right by your feet.”

  Cameryn did as she was told, aware that the bag contained the remains of Brent Safer’s dissected organs. It was heavier than she expected, at least fifteen pounds.

  “Got it,” said Ben as he plucked it from her hands. He set the bag into Brent Safer’s hollowed torso and topped it with the already cut breast plate. “I kind of smoosh it down so it’s all even,” Ben told her. “Now I’m ready to sew. Watch—I’ll teach you a little technique. I clamp the skin together with these towel clips. See? They’re a kind of forceps with itty-bitty teeth.” He pulled the skin from either side and pinched the edges together with scissors that bent at the end in a kind of clamp.

  “Then I baste the skin with great big baseball stitches, at least an inch apart.”

  Cameryn moved closer to Ben’s side. Standing on his right, she could hear his gentle grunts as he pushed the needle through. “Human skin is tough,” Ben said. She could see a glisten of sweat gathering at the edge of his hair. He pulled down his mask so that it dangled against his chest. “I have to toss the needle when I’m done ’cause they get dull. Same with the scalpels, well, the blades, anyway. They’re disposable.” The needle popped through the skin as Ben made his way toward the crook in the Y incision. “We still haven’t opened up Leather Ed. He’s back there in the cooler.”

  “Oh.” She felt a rabbit-kick to her heart. “Well.”

  “Yeah. I’m telling you, there’s some messed-up things going on—first Leather Ed and now these two. This is wild.”

  At this point Dr. Moore, whose hearing was better than Cameryn would have guessed, whipped around from the sink to roar, “That’s enough, Ben. There will be no discussion of that case with Miss Mahoney. Information concerning that autopsy is off-limits. You know that!”

  “Yes, sir. But seeing as Cammie’s our friend—”

  “All the more reason to keep quiet. I don’t want my work thrown out on a technicality.” Dr. Moore looked daggers at Ben, as if daring him to speak, but Ben kept on stitching, oblivious to the doctor’s cantankerous response. Although Ben meant well, Cameryn couldn’t help but feel grateful to the doctor for shutting down the conversation. A queasy feeling spread through her whenever she thought of Kyle. The constant thrum of dread quieted only when she concentrated on other things, like the death of a movie star and the mystery of the clear gel in his lungs. Focus on that, only that, she told herself, and nothing more.

  “So what happens to the junk?” she asked, pointing to the organs in the Hefty bag.

  “Huh? Oh . . . the mortician’ll take out the bag and dump a bunch of formaldehyde inside and sew it back into the torso. His work’ll be finer than mine, though—the stitches’ll be a lot closer and neater.” As he spoke he looked not at Cameryn or at his handiwork, but at the back of Dr. Moore’s head. Justin, too, had turned away from them. She heard the click of the door closing behind her father and the sheriff, who had entered the cooler where the other corpses were kept. It was then Ben made his move. “Cammie,” he said, his voice just above a whisper, “Moore’s about the rules but I say screw the law.”

  “Shhh. You’ll get fired!” Cameryn shot a look at Dr. Moore, who was now engrossed with scrubbing the Stryker bone saw, explaining the procedure to Justin, who was bent over the sink, asking questions. For a moment, at least, Ben could speak without being overheard.

  “Nah, Moore couldn’t last a day without me. Listen, we can talk all day about this famous dead guy and his jelly lungs, but I’m more worried about you. Girl, there’s a killer on your tail. One of his victims is turning blue in our cooler and I think you got the right to know whatever it is we find out.”

  “I’m not supposed to know anything,” she whispered. The sick feeling twisted in her stomach again as she pictured the body that was less than thirty yards away. A body that had something to do with her. Her mind flashed again to the note, but she shook her head, trying to force the thought away. “Ben, we need to concentrate on this case. I’ve got to leave Leather Ed alone—it’s a conflict of interest.” She picked up a sponge and mindlessly put it back down again, then did the same with a pair of forceps. How could she explain it so that Ben could understand? Examining Brent Safer made her an expert. Thinking about Leather Ed’s corpse made her a victim all over again.

  Plunk, plunk, plunk—with a sure hand Ben punctured the skin, leaving a trail of Frankenstein-looking stitches up Brent Safer’s chest. Ben eyed Dr. Moore and bent closer still. “All right, have it your way,” he murmured. “Remember, all you got to do is ask.”

  “What are you two whispering about?” Dr. Moore demanded. His fists, balled up, were planted on his hips. Water and blood had sprayed against his apron in a psychedelic pattern of red. He eyed them suspiciously.

  “Nothing,” she answered, too loud. She felt like she was back in junior high, caught passing notes. It was hard to meet his gaze, but she forced herself to, and then, using her cheeriest voice, she said, “Ben was explaining how he worked in a funeral home. It’s amazing. He knows all the angles.”

  “Yeah, that’s right,” Ben agreed. “See, I was telling Cammie how I used to work there before I started in this crazy business. Now Cammie, check out that bucket by the sink. I want you to put in about a cup of ProForce floor cleaner in the bucket, fill it with water, and grab a Scotch-Brite sponge, and then I want you to scrub this man down. We got to get all the blood off him.”

  “You clean the bodies with floor cleaner?” she asked, genuinely surprised.

  “Uh-huh,” Ben replied, and now the familiar smile was back. “It cuts the grease. Fat from the body makes everything kinda slick. After you scrub, I’ll show you how to rinse ’em with a hose. I got my own diener hose while the doc’s got his. Equal opportunity cleaning.”

  “Yes, yes, the system is wonderful,” Dr. Moore said, seemingly satisfied. “A little less chatter and a little more speed, Ben. We’ve got a decedent waiting.”

  Cameryn released a breath, happy she’d smoothed over the rough patch. Stepping away from Brent Safer’s remains, she was heading for the yellow plastic bucket when she felt her BlackBerry hum in her pocket. Curious, she pulled it out and looked at the screen, holding it gingerly in her gloved hand. It showed a local number she didn’t recognize.

  “Hello?” she said. She could hear breathing on the other end, low and rasping. “Hello?”

  No answer.

  Justin, alert to the sound of her voice, whirled around to look at her.

  “Hello?” she asked again.

  “Who is it?” Justin demanded.

  Cameryn shrugged in reply. She pressed her phone more tightly to her ear. The breathing was still there, but louder. “Who is this?”

  “There are no calls in the autopsy suite,” Dr. Moore barked. “Tell your little friend you
’re working and hang up.”

  And then a voice began to speak to her, disembodied and strangely sweet, a lover’s voice, crooning in her ear.

  “You shouldn’t be in the morgue, Cammie.” There was a tsking sound, three short beats, like the tick of a clock. “What about my note? You’re a naughty girl.” The breathing began again, in and out, like a bellows.

  Cameryn felt her body go rigid, the phone now ice in her hand. Her heart began to beat wildly while her mind registered the voice that she never wanted to hear again.

  “I’ve missed you, my Angel of Death. We belong together. And we will be, very soon. I promise you that.”

  Justin, sensing what was happening, darted toward her while Cameryn wheeled, dark spots appearing in front of her eyes. Somehow her body had stopped breathing. There were popping noises behind her temples as darkness moved toward her.

  “Because you are my anam cara. You always have been.”

  A click, and then the line went dead as her world turned black.

  Chapter Six

  “I’LL THINK SHE’S finally coming around. Look at her eyelids—they’re moving.” The voice belonged to Justin. Through her lashes Cameryn could see his face above her, swimming into focus as she tried to adjust her mind. Point by point she could feel sensation return: rough fabric beneath her hands, the buzz of fluorescent lights, the quiet murmur of men’s voices crowding overhead. Like puzzle pieces she put the perceptions together. She was in the lobby, laid out on the institutional-style sofa as though she were a corpse on an autopsy table. Light pooled along the top of Dr. Moore’s head, his jowls more pronounced as he leaned over her, his blood-spattered apron inches away from her face. Behind him stood Ben and the sheriff. Her father and Justin were kneeling beside her head. Blinking, she pulled herself up to her elbows while the men hovered in a circle overhead, cutting off the light.