The Dying Breath: A Forensic Mystery

you wouldn’t have to wait in between bodies.”
    The skin on the top of Dr. Moore’s bald head rippled as the doctor raised his shaggy brows. “I’ve told you on more than one occasion that we who choose to work on the dark side of medicine suffer from ever-tightening budgets. Saws and scissors are expensive.” He held up his index finger and punched the air. “I have one diener and one set of instruments. Between autopsies everything is washed by hand. Time-consuming, yes, but the dead will be dead for a long time. They don’t seem to mind the wait.”
    By now Ben had come to Cameryn’s side, his feet moving in perfect rhythm to the music, trying, Cameryn thought, to lighten to mood. “Hey, Doc, for being an oldie, I have to say I’m down with this Seer thing. The music’s got a beat.”
    Dr. Moore acknowledged Ben by making a sound of approval deep in his throat.
    “And Cammie, groovin’ to music is the best way to get through the never-ending cleaning of the tools. That’s the diener’s job, and I’ll tell you what, I’ve had to scrub some nasty things in my time. I go through a boatload of bleach. You want me to show her how it’s done, Doc?” he asked, bobbing his head. “I’ll wash ’em now if you’d like.”
    But Dr. Moore surprised them both by saying no. “I will sterilize the equipment myself, Ben,” he said. “I’d like Miss Mahoney to watch you sew up our movie star. If she wants to go into this profession she should see every aspect of the procedure, from start to grisly finish.” Spinning on his heel, he nodded to Justin. “Deputy Crowley, you seem anxious to get in the game. Why don’t you assist me by gathering up the tools. You’ll find gloves in the cabinet directly to your left. You’ll want an apron.”
    “Of course,” Justin answered. He’d been standing with his weight on one leg, his left elbow resting against the countertop. Like a jack-in-the-box he sprang into action, taking out an apron and tying it on so fast his action seemed a blur. Cameryn heard the snap of latex as he pulled on a pair of gloves.
    “Well, all right then, Cammie,” said Ben, “it looks like today we’re all doing our jobs every which way.” He made a hook with his arm through the air. “Guess it’s just you and me and the celebrity.”
    Dr. Moore took a plastic tub off a shelf and poured blue-green liquid into it. He set it into the deep metal sink and ran hot water on top, making foam. “Have her wash down the decedent,” Dr. Moore called over his shoulder. “Use a casket liner to wrap him. And remember, time is of the essence. The media vultures will discover this soon enough and then all hell will break loose.”
    “You got it—we’ll do it quick and clean,” said Ben. A row of instruments had been laid out on a blue towel. From the center he plucked a large, curved needle and began to thread it with black thread. “Wait’ll you see, Cammie, this part’s kind of fun. We’re gonna put the man back together.”
    Fun was the last word that she would use for it, Cameryn decided. Beginning at the head, Ben picked up a skullcap, still shiny with blood, and placed it back onto Brent Safer’s already hollowed-out head. “I told you before about the notch—see? I put it on the cap to make sure the bone lines up just right.” He clicked the piece of skull into place like a puzzle piece. “Now let’s give this man back his face. Watch how it’s done.”
    With strong fingers, Ben reached down and grabbed the scalp, which had been sliced from ear to ear and tucked beneath Brent Safer’s chin. Slowly, carefully, Ben unfolded the face and pulled it toward the dome of the skull. Features, still loose, realigned themselves as Ben clasped the back part of the scalp that had been doubled onto the neck until both flaps met in the middle. She stared down at him, filled with a strange kind of awe. There was the handsome face she’d seen magnified on the movie screen, his skin waxyin death. But the dead Brent Safer was less polished than his Hollywood version. His blond hair, which Cameryn realized had been highlighted, had matted to his skull. Up close she could see faint pits from acne scars, and the skin beneath his eyes was slightly wrinkled, like tissue paper smudged with blue. These imperfections must have been erased by Hollywood makeup artists.
    “He looks crooked,” Cameryn said.
    “Maybe a little,” Ben agreed. “But the funeral home’ll fix him up nice. If they