The Christopher Killer

by Alane Ferguson

  “Wait—go back—look at her hands,” she said. “Dr. Moore, do you see it?”

  “See what?” Dr. Moore asked. The light was still poised in the air, hovering. Cameryn could hear its faint hum.

  She picked up Rachel’s right hand and turned it, palm side up. “Move the blue light away,” she said. “It’s easier to see in regular light.” It was hard to perceive since it was more of a shadow than anything, but Cameryn had seen Rachel’s hands enough in life to know that this wasn’t quite right. A faint cast, the color of root beer, had tinted the palm and fingers. It looked to her as though amber glass had been held over Rachel’s palms so that a subtle reflection glazed the skin. Dr. Moore shoved his glasses up the bridge of his nose and squinted at Rachel’s hand. “What are you talking about, Ms. Mahoney? I’m staring right at it and nothing’s there.”

  “Yes, there is. Dad,” Cameryn said, “do you see it? Look.” She traced her fingertip lightly on Rachel’s palm. “The color’s off. It’s barely off, but the skin’s almost, I don’t know, stained.”

  Her father bent close. “I’m afraid I don’t see what you’re looking at. The color seems the same to me.”

  “Maybe she put on one of those sunless tanning gels and forgot to wash her hands,” Justin offered.

  Cameryn looked at Rachel’s body, prone and lily white except for the spray of freckles that scattered across her skin. “No, that can’t be it,” she answered, more to herself than to him. “There’s no difference between her legs and her belly or anywhere else on her body. Look how pale she is. Besides, the color is just on her palms and the insides of her fingers.” She bit her lip and looked up. “I think we should take a sample.”

  Dr. Moore was obviously annoyed. “Take a sample of what? There’s nothing there.”

  “It’s there,” she told him.

  “It’s always the newbies who think they can see what a trained eye can’t. Take a picture if you think you see something and then let’s move on.”

  Ben shot Cameryn a warning look, but it was too late, because she was too focused on the skin to word her response carefully. “I see it,” she said. “Even if you don’t.”

  There was a fire in Moore’s eyes as he looked at her. “All those years in medical school for nothing when I could have known everything without studying, just like you. I lament my wasted life.” Cameryn flushed, but kept her eyes on Rachel’s palm. He watched her, impatient, while she snapped pictures of Rachel’s hands. The second she was done he pushed past her and resumed scanning Rachel with the light, gliding it over her front before rolling her over to scan her back. He was pointedly not talking anymore, punishing her, Cameryn supposed, for speaking up. While the blue light passed over Rachel like a metal detector, Sheriff Jacobs and Justin shifted in the corner, sometimes watching, sometimes talking. Her father quietly checked the evidence bags. Finally Dr. Moore announced he was ready to begin cutting. “That is,” he added, “if Ms. Mahoney gives me permission. May I proceed?” His eyes were hard as they examined her.

  “I’m sorry if I sounded like a know-it-all. I didn’t mean to, Dr. Moore.”

  “Think nothing of it. It’s a pleasure to be instructed by a seventeen-year-old.”

  She opened her mouth to answer but Ben rushed in. “This is where it really gets interesting, Cammie, because the idea is to examine her from the inside out. You’ll be amazed what Dr. Moore can discover just from going through the organs. He can tell what Rachel ate last and what kind of athlete she was and all kinds of things. You’re going to learn a lot.”

  Dr. Moore picked up a scalpel while Ben turned on a hose. Water began to flow into a large metal container perched on a cart next to Rachel’s head.

  “I’m sure this is redundant for Ms. Mahoney, but the first thing we do is the classic ‘Y’ incision,” he began. Moore’s scalpel gleamed as he cut into Rachel’s left shoulder, then the right, in deep slices that met at the breastbone. With a whip-like motion he slashed Rachel all the way to her pubic bone as though he were gutting a fish. Even though Rachel was rail-thin, Cameryn still saw a half-inch layer of fat puffing from the incision like yellow insulation, and beneath that, muscle, meat-red and shiny. This isn’t Rachel—it’s just what’s left of her. Her soul is gone. This is only the shell. Even though she repeated the mantra in her mind, Cameryn’s nerves reacted on their own. Her throat tightened. Her feet wanted to move her away from the horror of it, yet she forced herself to stand and watch, focused and stoic. That was the deal she made with herself; agitation within, calm without. This is only the shell, she told herself again.

  With a carpet cutter Moore severed sinew that held the flesh to the ribs. Rachel’s breasts disappeared as Dr. Moore peeled the rind of skin all the way to her sides, exposing the ribs like so many piano keys. “Cutters,” he said.

  Ben handed him pruning shears and Dr. Moore snapped off Rachel’s breastplate, one rib at a time. He was breathing hard, and Cameryn wondered how old he was. The breastbone was pulled off and set aside. He reached into Rachel’s frame and sliced again, pulling out her heart and handing it to Ben, who dipped it into the metal basin of water before handing it back to Dr. Moore. This time he had a bread knife in his hand. With a smooth motion he sliced Rachel’s heart in two.

  “Left ventricle, right ventricle,” he intoned. “Looks normal.” He placed it onto a terry-cloth towel and sliced again, flaying it a second time. “No clots or other abnormalities.”

  Standing inches from the open body, Cameryn could smell Rachel’s blood mixed with a sweet hint of decay. But there was another smell, too, one that didn’t belong. Puzzled, she bent closer and sniffed deeply, aware that Dr. Moore was watching her.

  “Yes, Ms. Mahoney? You seem to have something to say.”

  Cameryn shook her head. “No,” she answered. She was afraid to antagonize him any more than she already had, but her father looked at her, reading her face.

  “What is it, Cammie?” he asked.

  Her father was wearing a cap on his head just like the one she wore, only on him it had ridden back too far, making it look as though he wore a halo. She could tell the whole ordeal with Rachel had been hard on him. She could see the worry on his face. But his voice was so gentle she relented and said, “It’s the smell.”

  Dr. Moore grunted. “This doesn’t smell. You want smell? Try a corpse that’s been in a plastic bag for a couple of weeks after it’s turned to jelly. If you can’t take this tiny bit of odor then you’re pursuing the wrong line of work.”

  Cameryn shook her head. “No, that’s not what I mean. It—Rachel—she smells like garlic. When I bent close to her lungs it hit me. It’s there. I can smell it.”

  Dr. Moore leaned closer and sniffed. “So she ate garlic,” he said. “So what? Do you want me to run a test for that, too?” Then, to Ben, “Do we have a test for garlic? Ms. Mahoney seems to think it’s important.”

  “The point is Rachel didn’t eat garlic,” Cameryn said. “I know because she told me how much she hated it—she wouldn’t even eat Caesar salad or spaghetti sauce or pizza. So it’s strange that she should smell like something she detested. Am I allowed to tell you that, Dr. Moore? Am I even allowed to wonder?”

  Her father’s eyes widened. “Now, Cammie—” he said, but Cameryn held up her hands.

  “I’m not trying to be rude, I’m just trying to explain what I smelled. Why is having an opinion such an issue?”

  She heard Ben suck in a big gulp of air, and his words from early morning rang in her ears: “dragon master.” That’s what Ben had called Dr. Moore, and she’d just challenged the dragon master himself. Dr. Moore just stared.

  This time Cameryn thrust out her chin and stared right back, because she realized she had grown weary of pretending she didn’t know how to think. Besides, it would take more than his snide comments to take her down—she’d been sparring with Mammaw for years, and her grandmother had trained her well. From the moment she’d met him the doctor had conveyed that he was in charge.
He’d allowed Cameryn on board when he thought she would stand by and passively watch him steer. Now he glared at her as if, by speaking up, she’d committed mutiny. But she owed someone her allegiance, and it wasn’t Moore. It was Rachel.

  “I don’t like your attitude, Ms. Mahoney,” Moore said. His voice was ice. “You’re a child who is in way over her head. Your naïve comments waste valuable time. You are a distraction—one I cannot afford.”

  “And with all due respect, you’re not listening. There’s something wrong here. I know Rachel. It’s not right—it’s something about this stain on her hands and the garlic smell. I can feel it!”

  “So you’re a psychic now, too. You and Dr. Jewel.”

  Cameryn flushed. “That’s not fair!”

  “You wouldn’t even be here if your father hadn’t forced the issue. But here’s what’s changed. I’m knee-deep in the procedure so this autopsy is now under my control exclusively. Watch yourself, Ms. Mahoney. I already told you once—I run a tight ship!”

  “So you’re not even going to check on the garlic.”

  “Garlic is not something our lab runs a screen for. Perhaps you can take a picture of the smell.” He chuckled to himself.

  It was that small laugh that undid her. The condescending, smug, dismissive snicker that said he didn’t care what she thought, that she was young and female and therefore not to be taken seriously. She had done more than merely listen to him, and in that, he must have sensed a challenge. Her blood rocketed to her head and the words flew from her mouth unchecked.

  “This isn’t a ship and you’re not a captain. You’re a pathologist who should care more about the case than—!” She stopped herself then, but it was too late. The four of them—Ben, her father, Jacobs, and Deputy Crowley—stared at her, their mouths agape. Dr. Moore turned crimson, which soon deepened to purple. As much as Cameryn wanted to take the words back, she couldn’t. The room vibrated with them.

  “I’ll ask you to leave,” Moore told her, his voice low. “Now.”

  “Just a minute!” Patrick protested. “You can’t throw her out! We’ve barely even started this thing. Cameryn’s here with me and I’m not leaving—”

  “I told you the rules from the get-go,” Moore replied icily. “Your daughter is no longer a part of this.”

  Sheriff Jacobs asked where she would go for the next four-plus hours, but Moore just countered that it wasn’t his problem—if the girl sat in the parking lot until nightfall then so be it; maybe next time she’d think before opening her mouth. Ben weighed in on her behalf as well, but Moore would have none of it. Cameryn stood in the midst of the uproar feeling miserable. Her father had trusted her to act professionally and she’d pushed too hard, said too much. Rachel lay on the table, half-opened, her still-wet organs shimmering in the light. I’m sorry, she told Rachel, her father, herself. They were stalemated: Dr. Moore insisting she leave, her father ordering her to stay, Cameryn caught between them. Then she saw Justin whisper something into Jacobs’s ear, who in turn gave a terse nod.

  “I’ll take Cameryn,” Justin said, stepping forward. A lock of dark hair had fallen in his eyes. He plowed his hand back though his hair, as though rinsing it in the shower. “I’m not really needed here and there’s work to do at the station. Sheriff Jacobs can drive back with Mr. Mahoney when you get finished here.”

  The arguing stopped then and the room became silent, as though it were taking a breath, while Puccini played on.

  Her father began to protest, but Cameryn broke in. “No, I want to go, Dad. It’s fine. I think I need to get out of here.”

  It was true, because suddenly she needed to breathe air that didn’t smell like blood. Without waiting for a reply, Cameryn stripped off her paper smock and booties, still pristine despite everything that had been done to Rachel. Cameryn refused to look at Dr. Moore when he opened the door and gestured the two of them into the hallway. The door swung shut, silencing the music.

  Cameryn looked up at Justin, whose blue-green eyes seemed lit from within. He leaned closer than he needed to, and Cameryn felt a blush creep across her face, as though his breath could somehow leave a visible trace upon her skin.

  His voice was low. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Chapter Nine

  “I DON’T REALLY HAVE WORK to do in Silverton. I made that up,” Justin told her as he pushed through the glass doors that led to the parking lot.

  “Yeah, I figured that. Thanks for getting me out of there.” When Cameryn stepped outside, she felt bright October sun on her face. Although it was cooler now, the white light stabbed her eyes, making her squint. It felt surreal, leaving Rachel behind. It seemed as though she herself had stepped from death to life, and the transition felt good.

  “Over there,” Justin said, leading her to the sheriff’s Chevy Blazer. Two five-pointed stars had been decaled on the Blazer, one star on each front door, bright gold over the paint’s sun-damaged silver. The car’s finish reminded her of the polish on old coins, darkened from their journey through countless grimy hands. Justin opened the door for her and Cameryn slid inside.

  He said, “You really gave Moore what-for in there, didn’t you? I thought the old man was going to have a stroke when you told him he wasn’t a real captain. Moore’s an egomaniac.”

  “I’m surprised to hear you say that.”

  “Why?” he asked, cocking his head. “You don’t think I bought into him, do you?”

  “I thought you were a suck-up. I mean, with all that opera stuff? You were like a Hoover Deluxe.” She smiled at him, her first, tenuous smile.

  “Hey, that wasn’t sucking up,” he protested. “I happen to love opera. Do you want to stop for a bite to eat or something? Durango’s a cool place and it might be good to take a break after all that.”

  Cameryn shook her head. “I just want to go home.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  He pulled out of the parking lot, turning onto Durango’s Greene Street. Durango, too, was a tourist town, but it had done its transformation far better than Silverton. This town had fifty times as many stores, most upscale and expensive-looking with their striped awnings that capped the windows like medieval flags. Instead of trinkets, these shops offered top-of-the-line sports equipment next to stores boasting Hermès handbags. The real money stayed in Durango. If Dr. Jewel really was coming, she bet he’d want to stay here. Or did psychics even care about that sort of thing?

  “What do you make of this Dr. Jewel?” she asked suddenly.

  It took Justin a moment to answer. “Well, I think he’s convincing. I can’t see how the guy can be anything but real.” He glanced at her, his eyes framing a question. “So where do you stand, Cameryn? Are you a believer?”

  “I—it’s hard to say. I would have said no yesterday, but today…I guess I need more information.” That much was true. Jewel had almost proven beyond a shadow of a doubt that he’d seen the supernatural. Nothing fit in her world anymore.

  “Man, you are a scientist at heart, aren’t you?” Justin frowned. “I’m trying to remember—your people are Catholic, right?”

  “What do you mean by ‘my people’?” she asked, bristling.

  Justin laughed at this. “Relax! My mom’s Italian but I was raised Lutheran, and Lutherans don’t have saints. I was just wondering about Saint Christopher. His medal had been left at every murder scene but I actually don’t know much about the guy. Wasn’t he demoted or something like that? If he’s not a real saint what do you call him now—Mr. Christopher?”

  “I don’t know.” The nuns had told Cameryn once, but the details were hazy, fogged over by disinterest and time. “I think he was the patron saint for something but…I’ll ask Mammaw. She knows all that stuff.”

  The Christopher medal brought her mind back to Rachel. Whoever killed her left the medal as a calling card, or perhaps a talisman, his own lucky charm to keep the police at bay. So far, it had worked. Rachel was the fourth victim. Four times in the last year the killer had s
trangled the life out of a girl and left her body in the wilderness. If they didn’t capture the Christopher Killer now, there would most certainly be a fifth. The thought of yet another victim chilled her.

  Moments later they were on Highway 550 on their way toward Silverton. Justin was a confident driver, and as he talked his hands lay loose on the wheel. Cameryn listened as he told her about his growing up in New York with his large family comprised of seven kids and various dogs and cats. “I love motorcycles,” he said. “Six months ago I went solo to the Blue Ridge Mountains on my bike, and I’m telling you there’s nothing better.”

  “So how did you end up in teeny tiny Silverton? I mean, how did you even find us?”

  “Internet search. I went to the academy in New York, but I wasn’t really that hot about staying in the city. Then I checked out jobs in the West. This seemed like a good place to get some experience, especially since I’m hooked on snowboarding.”

  She followed this with only half a brain because inside, her mind churned. Thoughts of Rachel haunted her, and beneath that, Justin’s comments about “the secret” hummed, like white noise. Still, as they drove, the knot inside her began to unwind. She let his cheerful words lull her away from the images of Rachel being filleted on the autopsy table.

  “So what’s your story? You got any other kids in your family?”

  When she realized his question required a response, she shook herself. “Who, me?”

  “Yeah. Who else?”

  “I’m an only child.”

  “Your mom didn’t want to give birth to a whole team like mine did?”

  “Nope.”

  “My mom will have to call your mom. She’ll probably give away a sibling or two of mine to even things out.”

  “I don’t have a mother.”

  This seemed to surprise him. “Oh. I’m sorry to hear that. What happened?”

  Sticking to her cover story, the one she’d told her friends for years, she said, “She died. And just so you know I don’t want to talk about it.”