Angel of Death

by Ferguson, Alane

  He fell in step beside her. “After I said it, well, I started thinking. Your mother was much younger than I was when we met—did you know that?”

  “No.”

  “So I thought—when I said that about Justin, you might think I was being hypocritical.”

  “Actually, the only thing I’m thinking is that your timing sucks. This is a morgue, Dad, not a shrink’s office. We can talk later.”

  “Except with you there’s no ‘later.’ You’re going away from me, Cammie. Maybe we should just take a chance and talk, no matter where we are.”

  She stopped then, her hand touching the glass rectangle of the autopsy door. Inside she could see Dr. Moore hunched over the sink. He wore thick rubber gloves, the kind people used to wash dishes with.

  “Cammie? Is it your mother?”

  She turned. Through tight lips she asked, “Why are you doing this? We’ve never talked about Hannah before, and now it’s like you can’t stop bringing her up. I’m walking into an autopsy, Dad. Leave it alone, okay? Leave her alone!”

  Stricken, he said, “I’m sorry. I—a friend told me I should bring it up in natural conversation. About Hannah, I mean, and not make a big deal out of the subject.”

  “Your friend was wrong. I never even think of Hannah anymore. Not ever. Now let’s go in there and do our jobs, okay?”

  She smacked her palm on the swinging door and wondered at the indignation in her voice, at her dramatic flair and her father’s sheepish response. Lying, it seemed, was easy, and it was getting easier all the time. Each falsehood greased the wheel for the next.

  It wasn’t always so. Mammaw had spooned the idea of mortal and venial sins into her along with her baby food, and even now she knew exactly which commandment she was breaking—number eight: Thou shalt not bear false witness. Her grandmother had given her a bracelet where each commandment was a tiny charm. The ten trinkets chimed together with every flick of her wrist, miniature bells reminding her not to sin. But now the bracelet was too small and her questions too great.

  All this Cameryn considered, then dismissed, as she stepped through the portal.

  The Durango autopsy suite was the size of three of her high-school classrooms, but with nothing inside to break the monotony of steel and tile. No plants to add color, no wood to take out the chill—just gleaming surfaces, cold and ready. Three autopsy tables, with their drain plugs to allow seepage of body fluid, were lined up by the sink. In the rear were large, side-by-side stainless-steel doors. She remembered it from her last visit; inside the walk-in refrigerator were brains floating in formaldehyde and pieces of heart and other organs, waiting in liquid formation, like vegetables in a market stand.

  On the other end of the room was a cavernous sink, and next to it puttered Dr. Moore, his back toward them. Intent, he placed one tool, then another, on a cotton towel. Knives, saws, scissors with needle-sharp points, specimen jars—all had been laid out on the cloth in a perfect row, like piano keys. A yellow bucket had been tucked beneath the autopsy table, destined to hold leftover organs, while pruning shears, purchased at Home Depot, lay ready to bite through her teacher’s breastbone and ribs. Justin and Sheriff Jacobs were nowhere to be seen.

  “Well, well, well, if it isn’t our protégé,” Dr. Moore said, turning to face her. “We meet again.” His voice was cordial, but his face betrayed no emotion, and his eyes were hard as they examined her closely.

  “Hello, Dr. Moore.”

  “So, Patrick, you brought her back into the netherworld. ”

  “She’s still my assistant,” her father replied. “She’s proven what she can do.”

  “That assessment may be premature. But I’m nothing if not a humble man, ready to change my opinion if it’s warranted. I must admit I’m curious about you, Miss Mahoney. You seem to have intelligence. More than what is at first apparent.”

  Dr. Moore wore a plastic apron over his ample middle. He had a pugnacious face: An underbite pushed his lower jaw forward, which caused the folds of his cheeks to droop past his jawline. Beneath the thick, bullfrog neck, below the ample torso and Santa belly, two thin legs emerged, looking as though they belonged to another, more slender body.

  “We’ve got ourselves an interesting case,” Moore said.

  “Will you be solving this one, too, Miss Mahoney?”

  “I’m here to help in any way I can,” she answered.

  “You realize it would be easier for me to take you seriously if you wore something besides a hoodie and jeans.”

  “I didn’t plan to be here today.”

  “No matter. Get your scrubs on and then come back to the table,” he ordered. “I’ve got a job for you.”

  Chastised, Cameryn went to the cabinet and opened the metal door. Inside she found more disposable booties, these pale green; a plastic apron; a hair-covering that looked like a paper shower cap; latex gloves; and a paper mask shaped like a muzzle. She tied on the apron and quickly braided her hair, shoving it inside the cap, which for some reason made her feel foolish. Tugging on the latex gloves and then the booties, she left the mask inside the cabinet. No one here seemed to use them.

  Dr. Moore looked at her feet. “Your next purchase should be morgue shoes.”

  “Morgue shoes?”

  “Those of us in the business leave a pair of shoes here, in the building. That way we don’t drag any of the decedent back into our own pristine homes.” In her direction he swiveled a foot shod in black high-tops. If there was blood on them, it didn’t show.

  “They say you’ve got a sixth sense, Miss Mahoney. Do you?”

  Cameryn shrugged modestly. “I don’t know if I’d call it a sixth sense. . . .”

  “Never devalue yourself—if you’re good, say so.”

  “I’m good,” Cameryn told him, raising her chin.

  “Perfect. So am I.” He looked at her with his small, deep-set eyes. She hoped he couldn’t hear her heart, beating inside her chest like a rabbit’s.

  Her father seemed subdued as he carefully suited up, so Cameryn thought it best to leave him alone. Justin and the sheriff stepped out of the refrigerator—what they were doing in there Cameryn couldn’t tell—and at that moment Ben wheeled in and parked the gurney parallel to an autopsy table.

  “The decedent’s been x-rayed, so we’re ready,” he announced. “Let the fireworks begin.”

  “Shall we, Miss Mahoney?” Moore asked, sweeping his arm toward the gurney.

  Ben grabbed the bag, as did Patrick. “On the count of three,” Ben said, and in a seamless motion the blue bag slipped onto the cart.

  Intent, Cameryn watched the doctor’s face as he unzipped the bag, a sound that, in the quiet of the room, seemed as loud as a dentist’s drill. Gently, Ben unwrapped the white sheet enfolding Mr. Oakes. The left fist emerged, still clutching the sheet that was no longer there, then the right, his fingers bent into the shape of an eagle’s talon. Oakes’s knees, still drawn to his chest, gave a strange impression: Cameryn realized if the body were rocked forward, Mr. Oakes could kneel on his rigor-stiffened legs.

  Moore frowned as if puzzled. “What on earth happened to this man?” He slipped on a pair of glasses, which magnified his eyes so that they were the size of silver dollars. Leaning so close Cameryn thought the tip of his nose might touch the corpse’s cheek, he said,

  “I half-expected you were exaggerating, but . . .” He put a gloved finger on Mr. Oakes’s cheek and tugged. The bottom inner lid was a grayish brown, the color of dirty water, while the tiny, spidery veins looked like bits of black thread. “It appears the eyes actually burst in their sockets.”

  “I’ve been in this business a long time, and I’ve never seen anything like it,” Ben agreed softly.

  Cameryn and her father moved closer, and Sheriff Jacobs and Justin crowded in, too. Although they remained in their street clothes, they were as close to the body as those dressed in scrubs. Their six heads practically touched as they huddled close, like beads on an abacus.

  Just
in’s hand drifted to his nose. “The smell’s worse now. What is that stench?”

  “His body is beginning to break down,” Cameryn answered. “It’s the smell of decay.”

  Dr. Moore shook his head. “No, Miss Mahoney, it’s not. I’m not sure what it is, but I’ve been around bodies in every stage of putrefaction, and this smell is clearly quite different.”

  Cameryn blushed at her mistake, but no one seemed to pay it any mind.

  Under the glow of the fluorescent lights, the sockets still gleamed, but the gel on the cheeks had dried and the cornea had withered like a dehydrated leaf. She registered her teacher’s near nakedness. He wore only boxer shorts, white with blue stripes, and for some reason the intimacy of knowing the kind of underwear her former teacher wore made her uncomfortable. She had to remind herself that he wasn’t really here. He was nothing more than a husk, as empty as a shell on the shore. But she couldn’t help feeling his vulnerability on this cold metal table, where dignity, like clothing, was stripped away one piece at a time.

  Sheriff Jacobs scratched his neck. “So what’s the verdict, Doc? Do you think this is a homicide?”

  “I couldn’t possibly make that determination yet,” Dr. Moore snapped. “The vitreous is dry,” he said, turning back to the remains. “Strange. Very, very strange. Let’s get some photographs. Miss Mahoney, you’re up.”

  Cameryn snapped picture after picture while Ben took fingernail scrapings, everything done by the book. Eyebrow and head hairs were plucked and placed into tissue, then into coin envelopes, which were sealed, then signed. A twelve-inch Q-tip was slipped down Oakes’s throat, the contents smeared onto a slide. Finally, they rolled the body on one side, then the other, as Ben tugged the bag and sheet free. Her father shielded her view while Dr. Moore yanked off the boxer shorts, made more difficult due to the angle of the legs.

  “It’s all right now,” he whispered into her hair. She saw that one of the men had draped a washcloth discreetly over her teacher’s groin. And then came the crunching sound, like knuckles being cracked, and she watched in horrified fascination as Ben pushed all his weight against her teacher’s stiff arms.

  “What are you doing?” she cried.

  “Gotta break rigor so we can cut him open,” he huffed.

  “Man, he’s tight.” One by one, Ben worked on pushing the limbs down, each of which drifted back to position the minute he moved on. Finally, he said, “I think that’s as good as we’re gonna get him.”

  The autopsy knife glittered in reply as Moore said, “Let’s see what’s inside.” His voice shifted suddenly, becoming more clinical, Cameryn suspected, for her benefit. “As you know, Miss Mahoney, we start with the classic ’Y’ incision.” With the razor-sharp blade he whipped the knife, starting from her teacher’s right shoulder and slicing to the small bump on the end of the rib cage. Next came the left shoulder. Moore cut to the rib cage and all the way down to the pubic bone as he flayed her teacher open. A smell rose from the insides, and Cameryn, her hand cupping her nose, was sorry she’d left the mask behind. Dr. Moore stopped, astonished.

  His hands trembling, Dr. Moore said hoarsely, “Look at the flesh.”

  Five heads craned in. Sheriff Jacobs and Justin pinched their noses, while Patrick and Ben kept their hands at their sides.

  “What is it, Doc?” Sheriff Jacobs asked.

  With the tip of his knife, Dr. Moore cut back the fat from the flesh. “My God,” he said. “This man was cooked alive! ”

  Chapter Seven

  FOR A MOMENT no one moved. Cameryn looked on, dazed, at the flesh exposed over the rib cage. It was dark brown at the top of the "Y” incision, less so at the groin. Dr. Moore retracted the skin at the top of the Y and folded the flesh up and over Brad Oakes’s face. The fat looked different, too: Instead of bright yellow, it had turned a sickly gray-brown.

  “Look at the muscle here. Are you people sure he wasn’t in a fire?” Dr. Moore demanded.

  “He wasn’t in any fire that we could see,” Patrick replied.

  Sheriff Jacobs agreed. “I was in that room, Doc, and there wasn’t no fire in there. The bedding wasn’t singed in any way. Neither was the mattress or the nightstand or anything around the guy.”

  “Besides, if he was in a fire, wouldn’t the skin itself be burned?” Cameryn asked.

  “Normally, if there was sufficient heat to cook flesh, the answer would be ‘yes.’ But this case seems anything but normal. I suppose we’ll know more when we get inside the lungs to check for inhaled smoke.” Dr. Moore’s scalpel was poised in the air, like a conductor’s baton, winking in the light. His face was grim. “Let’s proceed,” he said.

  With one hand Dr. Moore yanked back the flesh, and with the other he sliced beneath it, pulling skin and fat away from the rib cage with strong fingers as he made his way to the groin. As he folded the rubbery flesh toward the table and onto Mr. Oakes’s side, the bowels were exposed, shiny and dark. To Cameryn, it seemed as though the doctor were turning down a bed. Moore did this on the corpse’s other side as well. Now the ribs were fully exposed, like the slats on a blind. Dr. Moore pressed his thumb into the ribs and pushed in a hard line.

  “These aren’t broken, but they feel strange to the touch. For lack of a better word, the ribs feel . . . dry.” Moore’s chin dipped, fattening his neck. “Miss Mahoney, you say you want to go into forensics. Run your fingers down the rib cage and tell me what you feel.”

  Cameryn looked at him in disbelief. Eyes wide, nerves jangling, she looked at the exposed ribs, then back to Moore’s face, then back to the ribs once more.

  “Just run your fingers over the breastbone, like this.” Once again Dr. Moore rubbed his thumb along the bones, which gave way beneath his touch. His eyes hardened as he asked, “Or are you too squeamish, Miss Mahoney?”

  Her father was standing just beyond the autopsy table, and she could see him shake his head slowly, almost imperceptibly. He’d put on a mask, which had the effect of making the hairs of his eyebrows appear more like brush. You don’t have to, he said silently. It’s not required.

  Cameryn looked again at the exposed remains of her teacher. What her father didn’t understand was that she wanted to do this. To get this close to the source of life, even life that had been extinguished, fascinated more than repelled her. She took a quick gulp of air, then, moving close, she reverently placed her latexed hand against Brad Oakes’s ribs and ran the tips of her fingers lightly up and down. She felt the jut of each bone, like knuckles on a clenched fist.

  “Push harder,” Dr. Moore barked. “You won’t hurt him.”

  Her fingers weren’t as strong as the doctor’s, but she could feel the ribs give way as she pressed against the bone.

  “I don’t know what I’m feeling for,” she said.

  “True enough. But I want you to file this sensation away in your brain. These ribs are not normal. Step back.”

  Cameryn did. She realized with a start that at the end of each finger, her gloves had turned a greasy brown.

  Using the pruning shears, Dr. Moore snapped through bone, breathing more heavily as he strained against the breastbone. “Slightly osteoporotic,” he huffed. He removed the breast plate. Shaped like the T from a T-bone steak, the rib plate was set aside on a separate cart that held a small sink with water flowing through it. The water made a soft gurgling sound, like a garden fountain.

  “I’m going in for the heart,” Dr. Moore said. His hands slipped beneath the remaining ribs so that only the area from the wrist up was visible. Through this opening he pulled the heart an inch above the ribs, still attached inside. It looked almost gray against his bright yellow gloves.

  “Coronary artery, posterior descending,” he said, pinching the heart between his thumb and forefinger. “Anterior descending.” Squeezing harder, he suddenly stopped. “Something is definitely off here. The heart feels harder than normal.”