The Dying Breath: A Forensic Mystery

Fat from the body makes everything kinda slick. After you scrub, I’ll show you how to rinse ’em with a hose. I got my own diener hose while the doc’s got his. Equal opportunity cleaning.”
    “Yes, yes, the system is wonderful,” Dr. Moore said, seemingly satisfied. “A little less chatter and a little more speed, Ben. We’ve got a decedent waiting.”
    Cameryn released a breath, happy she’d smoothed over the rough patch. Stepping away from Brent Safer’s remains, she was heading for the yellow plastic bucket when she felt her BlackBerry hum in her pocket. Curious, she pulled it out and looked at the screen, holding it gingerly in her gloved hand. It showed a local number she didn’t recognize.
    “Hello?” she said. She could hear breathing on the other end, low and rasping. “Hello?”
    No answer.
    Justin, alert to the sound of her voice, whirled around to look at her.
    “Hello?” she asked again.
    “Who is it?” Justin demanded.
    Cameryn shrugged in reply. She pressed her phone more tightly to her ear. The breathing was still there, but louder. “Who is this?”
    “There are no calls in the autopsy suite,” Dr. Moore barked. “Tell your little friend you’re working and hang up.”
    And then a voice began to speak to her, disembodied and strangely sweet, a lover’s voice, crooning in her ear.
    “You shouldn’t be in the morgue, Cammie.” There was a tsk ing sound, three short beats, like the tick of a clock. “What about my note? You’re a naughty girl.” The breathing began again, in and out, like a bellows.
    Cameryn felt her body go rigid, the phone now ice in her hand. Her heart began to beat wildly while her mind registered the voice that she never wanted to hear again.
    “I’ve missed you, my Angel of Death. We belong together. And we will be, very soon. I promise you that.”
    Justin, sensing what was happening, darted toward her while Cameryn wheeled, dark spots appearing in front of her eyes. Somehow her body had stopped breathing. There were popping noises behind her temples as darkness moved toward her.
    “Because you are my anam cara . You always have been.”
    A click, and then the line went dead as her world turned black.

Chapter Six

    “I’LL THINK SHE’S finally coming around. Look at her eyelids—they’re moving.” The voice belonged to Justin. Through her lashes Cameryn could see his face above her, swimming into focus as she tried to adjust her mind. Point by point she could feel sensation return: rough fabric beneath her hands, the buzz of fluorescent lights, the quiet murmur of men’s voices crowding overhead. Like puzzle pieces she put the perceptions together. She was in the lobby, laid out on the institutional-style sofa as though she were a corpse on an autopsy table. Light pooled along the top of Dr. Moore’s head, his jowls more pronounced as he leaned over her, his blood-spattered apron inches away from her face. Behind him stood Ben and the sheriff. Her father and Justin were kneeling beside her head. Blinking, she pulled herself up to her elbows while the men hovered in a circle overhead, cutting off the light.
    “Thank God she’s back,” her father cried. His strong arms propped her up, but she could feel Justin, too, his hand over hers, rough and warm. Patrick and Justin seemed to be jostling for position, but for now her father had won. His worried eyes searched hers while his hair, usually so controlled, stood straight up from his forehead like feathers. “Baby, are you all right?” he asked. Then the forced smile that she knew meant whatever was happening wasn’t good. “It’s all okay. You’re going to be okay. Just relax now, you’re fine.”
    “What happened?” she croaked. Her throat felt dry. Justin thrust a plastic cup of water toward her. His hands were steady as he pressed it to her lips. Grateful, she drank, as the sheriff said, “You fainted. You would have landed smack on the floor if my deputy hadn’t caught you. He grabbed you right before you hit.”
    “I fainted?” Cameryn felt a hot wave of embarrassment. She’d never, not in her entire life, ever done something so melodramatic. Fainting was something women in old-fashioned movies did. It didn’t happen to someone like her, not to a scientist who lived in a world of fact. She began to register the various segments of her body, the way her feet, still encased the paper booties, lay on the arm of the couch. For the briefest of seconds her mind couldn’t