The Dying Breath: A Forensic Mystery

felt a rabbit-kick to her heart. “Well.”
    “Yeah. I’m telling you, there’s some messed-up things going on—first Leather Ed and now these two. This is wild.”
    At this point Dr. Moore, whose hearing was better than Cameryn would have guessed, whipped around from the sink to roar, “That’s enough, Ben. There will be no discussion of that case with Miss Mahoney. Information concerning that autopsy is off-limits. You know that!”
    “Yes, sir. But seeing as Cammie’s our friend—”
    “All the more reason to keep quiet. I don’t want my work thrown out on a technicality.” Dr. Moore looked daggers at Ben, as if daring him to speak, but Ben kept on stitching, oblivious to the doctor’s cantankerous response. Although Ben meant well, Cameryn couldn’t help but feel grateful to the doctor for shutting down the conversation. A queasy feeling spread through her whenever she thought of Kyle. The constant thrum of dread quieted only when she concentrated on other things, like the death of a movie star and the mystery of the clear gel in his lungs. Focus on that, only that, she told herself, and nothing more.
    “So what happens to the junk?” she asked, pointing to the organs in the Hefty bag.
    “Huh? Oh . . . the mortician’ll take out the bag and dump a bunch of formaldehyde inside and sew it back into the torso. His work’ll be finer than mine, though—the stitches’ll be a lot closer and neater.” As he spoke he looked not at Cameryn or at his handiwork, but at the back of Dr. Moore’s head. Justin, too, had turned away from them. She heard the click of the door closing behind her father and the sheriff, who had entered the cooler where the other corpses were kept. It was then Ben made his move. “Cammie,” he said, his voice just above a whisper, “Moore’s about the rules but I say screw the law.”
    “Shhh. You’ll get fired!” Cameryn shot a look at Dr. Moore, who was now engrossed with scrubbing the Stryker bone saw, explaining the procedure to Justin, who was bent over the sink, asking questions. For a moment, at least, Ben could speak without being overheard.
    “Nah, Moore couldn’t last a day without me. Listen, we can talk all day about this famous dead guy and his jelly lungs, but I’m more worried about you. Girl, there’s a killer on your tail. One of his victims is turning blue in our cooler and I think you got the right to know whatever it is we find out.”
    “I’m not supposed to know anything,” she whispered. The sick feeling twisted in her stomach again as she pictured the body that was less than thirty yards away. A body that had something to do with her. Her mind flashed again to the note, but she shook her head, trying to force the thought away. “Ben, we need to concentrate on this case. I’ve got to leave Leather Ed alone—it’s a conflict of interest.” She picked up a sponge and mindlessly put it back down again, then did the same with a pair of forceps. How could she explain it so that Ben could understand? Examining Brent Safer made her an expert. Thinking about Leather Ed’s corpse made her a victim all over again.
    Plunk, plunk, plunk —with a sure hand Ben punctured the skin, leaving a trail of Frankenstein-looking stitches up Brent Safer’s chest. Ben eyed Dr. Moore and bent closer still. “All right, have it your way,” he murmured. “Remember, all you got to do is ask.”
    “What are you two whispering about?” Dr. Moore demanded. His fists, balled up, were planted on his hips. Water and blood had sprayed against his apron in a psychedelic pattern of red. He eyed them suspiciously.
    “Nothing,” she answered, too loud. She felt like she was back in junior high, caught passing notes. It was hard to meet his gaze, but she forced herself to, and then, using her cheeriest voice, she said, “Ben was explaining how he worked in a funeral home. It’s amazing. He knows all the angles.”
    “Yeah, that’s right,” Ben agreed. “See, I was telling Cammie how I used to work there before I started in this crazy business. Now Cammie, check out that bucket by the sink. I want you to put in about a cup of ProForce floor cleaner in the bucket, fill it with water, and grab a Scotch-Brite sponge, and then I want you to scrub this man down. We got to get all the blood off him.”
    “You clean the bodies with floor cleaner?” she asked, genuinely surprised.
    “Uh-huh,” Ben replied, and now the familiar smile was back. “It cuts the grease.