The Dying Breath

by Ferguson, Alane

  “Come in.”

  The door creaked on its hinges as Cameryn stepped inside. “You asked to see me, Dr. Moore?”

  “I did. Sit down, Miss Mahoney,” he said, and motioned her to a brown chair with metal legs. “And shut the door.”

  His office was small, claustrophobically so. Dr. Moore sat hunched at his desk poring over an open file, his reading glasses resting on the tip of his bulbous nose. “One moment,” he said as his finger glided down the page.

  “Sure. Take your time.”

  He nodded and continued reading. The desk was buried beneath neatly stacked folders whose pages bristled with multicolored tabs. Two bookshelves took up what little floor space was left, and three more were bracketed to the walls. Each was filled with medical books and forensic journals, arranged according to height. One solitary shelf had been dedicated to plastic models of various organs: a red- and blue-veined heart sat next to a plastic eye with a removable lens.

  Directly to her right hung a painting of a meadow that looked different from the cheap art that lined the hallway walls. In this painting, grasses bent beneath an unseen wind while flowers nodded on the ends of long stalks. But the flowers weren’t the star of the scene. Colors in the painting consisted mainly of various hues of green mixed with yellows and browns. In extremely small, unobtrusive letters she made out the name Moore etched in the bottom corner.

  He shut the folder and looked up at her, his hands folding together so that his fingers intertwined.

  “This is yours?” she asked.

  “Yes. I like to paint. But I’ve always seen things differently than most. My wife prodded me to put flowers in my meadow, but I personally like the grasses. The grasses and the leaves are what I find beautiful.”

  “The leaves?”

  “Yes. In my opinion the buds get all the glory, but it’s the leaves that keep the plant alive. Rather like forensics. The surgeons on high are the roses of the medical world, but we who choose forensics make the bloom possible. Sit,” he said again, and this time she sank into the brown chair.

  “I’m not sure I understand . . .”

  “It doesn’t matter. Just the musings of an old man. We have other things to discuss today.” He took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. She’d never seen him without his glasses before. The skin around his eyes was riddled with fine wrinkles, like the cracks in a Ming vase. He was minus his white lab coat, another first. His cotton shirt was a blue checkered pattern that he’d buttoned up almost to his collar, which was crisp with starch. “Well, Miss Mahoney, here you are. And here I am. And I don’t quite know where to begin.”

  This, too, was odd. Dr. Moore, so caustic and abrupt, had always charged forth, never at a loss for words or purpose. Cameryn tried to swallow back the nervousness she was beginning to feel. She unzipped her parka and hung it on the back of the chair carefully, making sure it was centered. “You said the case involved me. The Safer case,” she prompted.

  “Yes. But before I get into the technicalities I feel I should give you a reason. One thing builds upon the other, you see. I need you to . . . understand . . . why I’m prepared to breach ethics. I’ve never done that, not in forty-one years in this macabre business. But I’m ready to do it now.”

  She felt her eyes go wide. Something was definitely wrong. “Dr. Moore—”

  “I see a bit of myself in you, Miss Mahoney. The same fire, the same passion, your willingness to fight.” He picked up the file he’d been reading, then inexplicably set it down. “Do you remember that first day when I met you?” He wasn’t talking to her, exactly. His words seemed to be aimed at the file. “I’m afraid I was a bit hard on you then. But your father said you had a gift, a gift for forensics. Patrick was right and I was wrong.”

  “You’ve taught me a lot, Dr. Moore.”

  “Have I? I’d like to think what we do is important.”

  “If it weren’t for people like you and me then the dead would die without any kind of voice. You’re the one who told me that.”

  “Precisely.” He nodded and looked at her with unwavering eyes. “All this time I’ve worked with death, around death, through death, I’ve never stopped to think about the thing itself. The fact of the matter is . . .” His voiced trailed off.

  “What is it, Dr. Moore?”

  Dr. Moore’s jowly head bowed and his eyebrows rose as he said in a flat, emotionless voice, “I have cancer, Miss Mahoney. So death has finally and inevitably come knocking, but this time it’s on my own door.”

  Cameryn sat frozen while cancer spiraled through the air as if it were a nebula. She breathed the word in and exhaled it and the word kept unwinding into the corners of the room. “What kind?” she asked softly.

  “Renal cell carcinoma. Kidney. It’s in my left kidney.” He sounded as though he were recounting statistics on a report. “I’ve not shared this yet with my staff so I’m asking you to keep this in confidence. Will you?”

  “Yes.” She paused. “How bad is it?”

  “Clinically, my doctor hopes it’s contained to stage two. Pathologically, well, I’ll have the final answer after my surgery, which is scheduled for next week. So you see, time has become a priority for me.”

  “I’m—I’m so sorry.”

  “Well, so am I, but there it is. I’m not dead yet,” he said, with a bit of his old bite. “However, what I said about time didn’t concern me. It concerns you.” He pushed the file to the edge of the desk and this time Cameryn could see his fingers tremble every so slightly. “Your young man came here and asked me to convince you to drop your involvement in the Kyle O’Neil case.”

  This again. Cameryn looked down at the carpet, shabby and brown. There was a frayed patch the chair wheels had worn thin.

  “Deputy Crowley is quite right to be concerned.”

  “I can handle it.”

  “Can you?” He smiled tolerantly. “You do understand that O’Neil is a psychopath.” He said this in a way that was neither a statement nor a question.

  “Yes. I know. Sheriff Jacobs told me that a long time ago.”

  “Perhaps you don’t understand what that entails. A colleague of mine in Arizona has conducted research on the psychopathic mind. He believes there may be an actual physical component to the disorder, although it’s too soon to be sure. The amygdala—that’s the emotional hub of the brain—may play a part. Or perhaps a disruption to the paralimbic region of the brain.”

  She looked at him blankly. She couldn’t seem to keep her mind on the conversation, because the thoughts of cancer and her mentor’s death drowned out the rest of his words rushing past her in a verbal wave. Instead, she had a memory. Of Dr. Moore, his eyes alight, explaining the words he’d painted on the autopsy room wall in his own delicate hand. Hic locus est ubi mors gaudet succurrere vitae. This is the place where death delights to help the living. He’d taken so much joy in teaching her, in giving to her, in saving her. Other than helping with a few forensic cases, she’d never really done much for Dr. Moore, and that made her sad.

  “. . . makes all the difference. Are you listening?”

  “I’m sorry . . . the what?”

  “Miss Mahoney, I am trying to get you to understand. A psychopath does not feel what we feel. In extreme cases, such as O’Neil’s, the person is crafty and manipulative and utterly without conscience. They are among the most dangerous of people who walk our planet. I want you to look at his handiwork.” He placed the manila file into her hands.

  She looked from him to the folder and back again. “Is this the Safer file?”

  “No. It’s not.” For a moment his fingers lingered until he slowly pulled them away. He picked up his glasses and put them on, and once again his eyes seemed overlarge for his face. Rolling his chair so close his knees touched hers, he said, “This is the file of Ed Staskiewicz. Leather Ed, I believe you called him. Open it.”

  Hadn’t everyone already told her that to become a part of Leather Ed’s case would be an ethical vio
lation? And yet here he was, handing her documents that were clearly off-limits, and she felt a new anxiety overtake her. She looked away, into the painting that had a meadow filled with grasses. That was where she wished she could be, wandering along the stalks where the steel gray of the sky met the golden tops of wheat, away from this office and away from death.

  “You think me unethical.”

  “No. No, I’m just . . . confused.”

  “This is something you must see.” With surprising gravity, Moore said, “Yesterday I would have stood my ground and followed the rules of the system. But my illness has caused me to question certain . . . things. The bigger picture, you could say.” His eyes were examining her closely. “Look at the manner of death, Miss Mahoney. Try to understand the danger.”

  Tentatively, Cameryn pulled back the manila cover. The first thing she saw were pictures of Leather Ed, still propped in the chair, recorded in color and black-and-white and snapped from every angle. She had hardly taken the time to look at him when she discovered his body in the room, but now she could examine him more closely. The fingertips had been chewed off, revealing stubs of white bone, and the lower portion of Leather Ed’s face was gone. His bottom row of teeth looked like the keys on a piano. His leather pants, taut from decomposition, had holes along the seams, and the shirt was taut across the middle.

  Cameryn’s eyes scanned the table where she’d found the note and she could see the outline where the note had been because the rest of the wood lay shrouded in a thin layer of dust. Next to that imprint were two plants. One had silver-green leaves while the other sported pale orange blossoms shooting from a bract—strange notes of life that flowered next to death.

  Dr. Moore tapped his knuckles against the picture. “It’s the report, not the photographs, that I want you to examine.”

  Obediently, Cameryn leafed through the rest of the materials, charts inscribed in Dr. Moore’s precise hand, as well as a sheet of paper with the weight of the organs written to the side in blue ink and carefully recorded in neat columns, with the standard outline of a man’s body that had been illustrated to reflect each injury. At the back, she found a copy of the death certificate, then the autopsy report.

  “Do you see it?” Dr. Moore pointed with his index finger. Next to the words Cause of Death was listed Asphyxia due to unknown substance.

  A sudden understanding flashed through her mind. “Are you saying—”

  “I am. Leather Ed died from the same substance in his lungs that killed Stein and Safer.”

  “But—how could Kyle get to three different men?” In a timid, breaking voice, she said, “Those other two guys were from Hollywood. Leather Ed was a recluse. Stein and Safer died in Durango, Leather Ed in Silverton. What is the connection?”

  “I don’t know. But I’m not asking you to solve this, I’m asking you to consider the danger you are in. Leather Ed died in the exact same manner as Stein and Safer. The alveoli were clogged with the identical gel. O’Neil killed all of them. He may have killed more. A high school girl, no matter how bright, should stay away.”

  Cameryn could feel it, the cracks in her composure. Fear stabbed through her. Tears welled in her eyes but she made herself blink them back until she could get her thoughts righted once again. This was no time to give in to panic. It would be exactly what Kyle would want her to do.

  “I’m not trying to be a sensationalist.” Dr. Moore took her hands into his own. “But Cameryn, you cannot dance with the devil. Kyle O’Neil is without conscience. He kills in cold blood. I’m asking you to step away from all of this.”

  “I will.”

  Dr. Moore’s brow had been furrowed but now light appeared in his eyes in rays of relief. He reached over and patted Cameryn’s arm. “I’m glad you’re listening to reason. I’ve seen the headstrong side of you so long that I assumed I’d be in for a battle.”

  “I will walk away,” she answered calmly, “as soon as Kyle O’Neil is locked up in prison. I want to read the rest of this file and then I’d like you to take me to see Leather Ed. Is his body still here?”

  Confused, Dr. Moore answered, “Yes, he’s in the cooler. But—”

  Cameryn shook her head. “I’ve got a quick call to make and then I need to go through these files. Kyle typed a message to me, Dr. Moore. He said ‘you can see my mind in what I left behind.’ There is something in here, in these files or on that body, that he left for me. This is about me.”

  “That is not why I brought you here.” Dr. Moore’s face darkened. “The threat—”

  “It doesn’t matter.” She almost laughed at the absurdity of the idea of safety. “I’ll be in danger until he is caught. Life is risky, Dr. Moore. I could get sick or get struck by a car. The truth is there is no place to hide. No one is ever really safe.”

  “But to be so incautious when the stakes are life and death—”

  “That’s just it,” Cameryn interrupted. “I don’t want to be cautious. I don’t want to be a victim anymore. Look, you’re right, I am a fighter. You fight your battle and you can watch me fight mine. And I can guarantee you something.” Now it was she who reached out to squeeze Dr. Moore’s gnarled hands.

  His voice turned suddenly husky as he asked, “What could you possibly guarantee?”

  “We’re going to win.” She pressed her thumb across the back of his hand. “Both of us. Cancer, crazy people, whatever, bring it on. Just watch what we can do.”

  Chapter Eleven

  DR. MOORE EMERGED from his office with Leather Ed’s file clutched in his hand. His lab coat hung loosely at his sides. He watching her, eagle-eyed, as she quickly snapped her BlackBerry shut. Her ’Bye hung in the air.

  “I gave you a moment of privacy, just as you asked,” he said. “So tell me, Miss Mahoney, whom did you call?”

  She shook her head.

  “You aren’t going to tell me?” His eyebrows rose up into his forehead, causing the skin to pleat.

  Cameryn, who had been leaning against the wall, hopped forward. “Not yet. I want to see how it plays out. I left a message.”

  “So you’re saying you prefer to remain mysterious.” The deep grooves on either side of his mouth reached all the way down to his jawbone, which gave the impression of a perpetual frown. “After your little pep talk I thought we were on the same team. No matter.” He waved her protests away. “You asked to see the remains of Leather Ed. Against my better judgment, I’m prepared to comply. But make no mistake; I will keep you on a tight leash. Shall we?” He swept his hand toward the hallway and she understood the unspoken message immediately. Whatever vulnerability he’d shared with her was to be kept private, and he wanted no dramatics as they stepped back into the real world. He was once again the commander of his ship. And yet . . . something had changed. She could see it in his eyes. A single emotional thread stretched between Dr. Moore and Cameryn, a sentimental filament that bound them, one to another. He cared about her, no matter what his gruff exterior showed.

  “Follow me, Miss Mahoney,” he said with a brisk nod. Walking at a hurried pace he escorted Cameryn through the autopsy suite, flipping on a bank of lights. It was the first time she’d seen it empty. Ben, she guessed, must be in the histology lab with her father, and it surprised her to see how still the place looked, like a carnival where all the rides had shut down. The cavernous sinks were empty, the gurneys were gone, the floor had been mopped clean, all the tools whisked away and countertops laid bare. Dr. Moore’s shoes squeaked against the tile as he walked, while Cameryn heard her own staccato rhythm, amplified because she wore no booties to muffle the sound.

  “Have you been in the cooler?” the doctor asked.

  “Yes. Once.”

  He pivoted on one foot and began walking backwards, as graceful as a dancer. “You may want to reconsider going in there. Do you remember the decedent was in full decomp?”

  “I remember,” she said, shuddering at the memory.

  “Yes, well, the dog, of course, damaged the facial ti
ssue and outer extremities. It was the lungs that told the story. I don’t know what you expect to find on his remains.”

  “I’m not sure, either,” Cameryn replied. “When is he going to be released to a funeral home?”

  “I have no idea. So far we’ve got no next of kin.” With impeccable timing, Dr. Moore spun forward again and placed his palm against the handle of the door. “And here we are.”

  Moore pulled on the metal lever and ushered her inside. Cold air, heavy with the stench, hit her full in the face, and she tried for a moment to hold her breath. Cupping her hand over her nose she walked on, her eyes filming as the smell rolled over her. Dr. Moore flipped on the lights, which came on one row at a time, like those in a stadium.

  She tried not to register the bodies resting on shelves like packages of meat in a deli. There were seven of them in total. Six decedents rested on stainless steel shelves stacked against the wall, but the seventh and farthest away still lay on a metal gurney. White cotton sheets had been placed over each body, including the head, but the feet remained exposed. Each decedent wore a toe tag. She followed Dr. Moore past a body whose toenails were painted a seashell pink. Another set of feet belonged to a man whose nails were as thick as a rhino’s hide.

  “Are Safer and Stein here?” she whispered. Clearing her throat she repeated the question, louder this time. There was no need to speak softly when everyone who might listen in on her conversation was dead.

  “No, they’re long gone. Their publicists couldn’t get them out fast enough. Vultures.” Dr. Moore spat the word. “I’ve been holding off the media by telling them the tests results haven’t come in yet, but my phone hasn’t stopped ringing—everybody wants to score the juicy details. I despise celebrity deaths.”

  “People go wild when someone famous dies, but no one cares about Leather Ed. But life is still . . . life,” she said.

  “Oh, I remember the heady days of youth, when I was an idealist, too,” Dr. Moore answered her. “I’ve learned through the years that life is not fair. He’s at the end, the one on the autopsy tray.”