The Dying Breath: A Forensic Mystery

said, looking pleased. “That is where the real question lies. To be specific, I’d like you to examine this man’s lungs. Here,” he said. From a bloodstained towel Dr. Moore plucked a piece of tissue, sliced opened like the pages of a book. “What do you see?”
    Whatever disappointment he’d felt toward her for breaking into Leather Ed’s had seemingly vanished. In its place was an eagerness, as though the two of them were playing a game where only they understood the rules. “You see what I see? I found it in every lobe.”
    Fascinated, Cameryn bent so that she was only inches away. The tissue glistened with a coating of clear gel that shimmered like ice. Dr. Moore scraped the viscous matter and rubbed it between his gloved fingers.
    “Is this a dry drowning?” she asked.
    Again, the smile. “You’re on the right track, Miss Mahoney, but no. Dry drowning is caused by the body’s delayed reaction to inhaling too much water. But this”—he rubbed his fingers together again—“is not mucus. What you are looking at is a foreign material of unknown origin. The man drowned, yes, but whatever this is”—he pulled his fingers apart, the gel forming a thin, tenuous thread—“caused him to drown while sitting in a Durango restaurant. I’ve never seen anything like it and we have only a short window of time to figure this out before the vultures, and by that I mean the media, swoop in.”
    “The media?” Cameryn echoed.
    “Yes. They’re going to accuse me of being a hick pathologist out of my league. I want to be prepared with answers before they do.”
    Cameryn’s heart skipped a beat as she once again looked at the dragon tattoo snaking up the decedent’s leg. A memory flashed through her, followed by a sick understanding. “Dr. Moore, who is this man?”
    “The lung tissue you’re examining belongs to Brent Safer.” He gave a cursery nod. “Yes, the Brent Safer. The other man is Joseph Stein, world-renowned producer. One of the biggest stars of our time just died in our little town. And when that story breaks . . .” Dr. Moore shut his eyes. He paused, but when he opened them, he looked only at Cameryn. “God help us all.”

Chapter Five

    “YOU’VE GOT TO be kidding,” Justin exclaimed, looking awed. “ This is Brent Safer? The famous Brent Safer? The Brent Safer who starred in Raw Fever and Blaze ?”
    “The very one,” Moore replied. “Although I believe action pictures of that caliber to be the lowest kind of tripe. That said, I would like to find some answers before this story breaks. Suit up, Miss Mahoney. I’m counting on your keen eye when we open decedent number two. Ben, my nerves are shot. I need some music.”
    “Anything in particular, Doctor?” Ben asked genially as he moved to the counter where the boom box was kept. Thickly muscled, Ben moved with a lithe grace Cameryn envied, his shoulders stretching his scrubs thin, his dark skin shining like liquid chocolate. Everyone knew that Moore was particular about his music. But the doctor surprised her by saying, “Make it anything you like, Ben. Diener’s choice.”
    Ben smiled, flashing teeth. “I don’t suppose I could push you far enough for some vintage Tupac Shakur?” Even while asking, Ben shook his head. “Yeah, I didn’t think so.” He ran his finger along the edge of the CD cases lined up on a shelf. “I’d like to try something a little bit lighter than opera. Hmmm.” He plucked a square case from a bottom rack. “This one’s got a cover with a ship about to sail off the edge of the world. Falling Star by some band called . . . The Seers.” He flipped the case from the front to the back, narrowing his lids. “Man, how old is this thing? That’s some seriously funky hair.”
    “They’re from the seventies,” said Moore. “An inspired choice. Now hustle, Miss Mahoney. I’m expecting an onslaught of the media at any moment.”
    “Right.” Cameryn hurried to the metal storage cabinet, pulling out her gear so that she could quickly suit up: pale green doctor’s scrubs were folded beneath a plastic apron with long ties made of twill. From the highest shelf she took down her least favorite piece of gear, a disposable cloth cap to tuck her hair in so that it protruded like a bell. From another shelf she plucked a mask and a pair of latex gloves. In the adjoining locker she found her morgue shoes, and next to them a stack of paper booties. Suiting up, she watched Ben put in the CD, and