The Dying Breath (14 page)

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Authors: Alane Ferguson

BOOK: The Dying Breath
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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 violation? 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 tissue 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.”
The refrigerator hum was loud in her ears. The body at the farthest end had toes that had turned a purplish black. The tag read
Edward Staskiewicz
.
Reflexively, Cameryn clamped her hand tighter over her nose, but it was no use. The stench penetrated her fingers and she breathed him in, the odor thick enough to taste. Dr. Moore, though, seemed unfazed as he stepped to the right of Leather Ed’s head. With an expert motion he rolled back the sheet all the way to just above Leather Ed’s groin. “He came in with boots on and Ben had a devil of a time getting them off. In the end he had to slice them with a carpet knife. We had to cut off his leathers, too. My guess is he had been dead for three weeks, although I’m sure the cool air slowed his decomposition. As you know, declaring time of death is never an exact science.”

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