The Dying Breath: A Forensic Mystery

surprised. I pegged you as an intelligent girl.”
    “Woman,” she corrected automatically under her breath. She flushed when she realized the doctor had heard her.
    Moore bit off each word. “Not. Yet.”
    She felt the full heat of the doctor’s gaze, and as much as she wanted to cringe away, she knew she could not. Although she had learned to like Dr. Moore she also understood he would steamroll over anyone who let him. Carefully arranging her face so that it conveyed strength, rather than the panic she was actually feeling, she said, “I already told the sheriff I was sorry.”
    “Water under the bridge,” Jacobs answered, clearing his throat. He shifted uncomfortably. “Let’s move on. We got other fish to fry.”
    “Yeah, give Cammie a break,” Ben jumped in. A diener, Ben assisted Dr. Moore in the most difficult aspects of the forensic job. Every corpse was gently washed by Ben, its skin stitched with sutures so wide they looked like the teeth of a zipper. Organs were dipped in water before dissection, the contents of bowels washed clean, and yet, somehow immune to death’s gruesomeness, Ben kept his jovial warmth. “We can’t gang up on her, Dr. Moore,” he said, shooting her a grin. “Not when we’re askin’ for her help.”
    “Well, I see you’ve got your fan club ready to defend you, Miss Mahoney.” Dr. Moore drew in woolly brows. “But I still have a few things to say.”
    Everyone in the room seemed to draw a collective breath. Moore, seemingly unaware, carefully set down a scalpel so that it lined up perfectly along the edge of the counter. “Here’s my problem: I do not want to unzip a body bag to find the remains of the assistant to the coroner tucked inside. Since I am, in essence, mentoring you, I expect you to show a modicum of intellect. O’Neil is a psychopath with a fixation on you. What you did was foolish in the extreme.”
    “That’s enough, Doctor.” Patrick Mahoney peeled the tape back and tugged off his mask. He was tall, with white hair as thick as a pelt and skin seamed by a lifetime in the mountains. Ever since she’d been small, Cameryn had learned how to read him. When upset he seemed to swell with emotion, and by the current size of him Cameryn could tell he didn’t like Moore dressing her down. “I appreciate what you’re saying, but Cameryn is my daughter. Mine, not yours. And we’ve handled it between us.”
    Moore’s eyes snapped from Patrick to Cameryn. The conversation was unspoken now, just between the two of them. “Are we clear, Miss Mahoney?”
    “Yes,” she answered softly.
    “Good. Now come closer. You see this man?” Obedient, Cameryn walked toward the hollowed body. She could almost taste the blood, yet there was no smell of decay. Even though her fingers weren’t gloved she touched his skin. It was cool. From the softness of the arm she guessed he hadn’t been dead long. Once again her mind began to whir as she took in the details of what remained—the puzzle pieces were there, just waiting to be assembled.
    “Whatever killed him most likely took his friend there as well.” Moore jerked his head toward a second autopsy table. Cameryn glanced at the other body. Wrapped in a sheet, the body was shaped like a man’s. His feet made steeples beneath the thin cotton.
    “The two vics died just minutes apart,” Moore said, redirecting Cameryn to the body that had been opened. “Look there, Miss Mahoney. Tell me what you see.”
    As she leaned closer, the daughter-girlfriend part of her personality melted away, and in its place rose a scientific passion that drove her to understand the intricacies of the body splayed open beneath her.
    Beginning at his feet, Cameryn studied the corpse. The decedent was a slender white man with muscled arms and a tattoo of a dragon snaking up one calf, its fangs bright yellow with eyes the color of garnets. A cloth had been placed discreetly over his groin. Because his scalp had been pulled free and folded beneath his chin, the features of his face had been rendered blank; his skull had been opened and emptied. Cameryn briefly wondered if this man had been famous in life. If he had been, it no longer mattered. There was nothing left to suggest either fame or ignominy. All humans, she knew, were reduced by death to their parts. She stared into the empty space and saw the white knots of his spine gleaming like pearls.
    “Well?”
    “I’d like to take a look at the organs.”
    “Very good,” Moore