The Dying Breath: A Forensic Mystery

ready to do it now.”
    She felt her eyes go wide. Something was definitely wrong. “Dr. Moore—”
    “I see a bit of myself in you, Miss Mahoney. The same fire, the same passion, your willingness to fight.” He picked up the file he’d been reading, then inexplicably set it down. “Do you remember that first day when I met you?” He wasn’t talking to her, exactly. His words seemed to be aimed at the file. “I’m afraid I was a bit hard on you then. But your father said you had a gift, a gift for forensics. Patrick was right and I was wrong.”
    “You’ve taught me a lot, Dr. Moore.”
    “Have I? I’d like to think what we do is important.”
    “If it weren’t for people like you and me then the dead would die without any kind of voice. You’re the one who told me that.”
    “Precisely.” He nodded and looked at her with unwavering eyes. “All this time I’ve worked with death, around death, through death, I’ve never stopped to think about the thing itself. The fact of the matter is . . .” His voiced trailed off.
    “What is it, Dr. Moore?”
    Dr. Moore’s jowly head bowed and his eyebrows rose as he said in a flat, emotionless voice, “I have cancer, Miss Mahoney. So death has finally and inevitably come knocking, but this time it’s on my own door.”
    Cameryn sat frozen while cancer spiraled through the air as if it were a nebula. She breathed the word in and exhaled it and the word kept unwinding into the corners of the room. “What kind?” she asked softly.
    “Renal cell carcinoma. Kidney. It’s in my left kidney.” He sounded as though he were recounting statistics on a report. “I’ve not shared this yet with my staff so I’m asking you to keep this in confidence. Will you?”
    “Yes.” She paused. “How bad is it?”
    “Clinically, my doctor hopes it’s contained to stage two. Pathologically, well, I’ll have the final answer after my surgery, which is scheduled for next week. So you see, time has become a priority for me.”
    “I’m—I’m so sorry.”
    “Well, so am I, but there it is. I’m not dead yet,” he said, with a bit of his old bite. “However, what I said about time didn’t concern me. It concerns you.” He pushed the file to the edge of the desk and this time Cameryn could see his fingers tremble every so slightly. “Your young man came here and asked me to convince you to drop your involvement in the Kyle O’Neil case.”
    This again. Cameryn looked down at the carpet, shabby and brown. There was a frayed patch the chair wheels had worn thin.
    “Deputy Crowley is quite right to be concerned.”
    “I can handle it.”
    “Can you?” He smiled tolerantly. “You do understand that O’Neil is a psychopath.” He said this in a way that was neither a statement nor a question.
    “Yes. I know. Sheriff Jacobs told me that a long time ago.”
    “Perhaps you don’t understand what that entails. A colleague of mine in Arizona has conducted research on the psychopathic mind. He believes there may be an actual physical component to the disorder, although it’s too soon to be sure. The amygdala—that’s the emotional hub of the brain—may play a part. Or perhaps a disruption to the paralimbic region of the brain.”
    She looked at him blankly. She couldn’t seem to keep her mind on the conversation, because the thoughts of cancer and her mentor’s death drowned out the rest of his words rushing past her in a verbal wave. Instead, she had a memory. Of Dr. Moore, his eyes alight, explaining the words he’d painted on the autopsy room wall in his own delicate hand. Hic locus est ubi mors gaudet succurrere vitae. This is the place where death delights to help the living. He’d taken so much joy in teaching her, in giving to her, in saving her. Other than helping with a few forensic cases, she’d never really done much for Dr. Moore, and that made her sad.
    “. . . makes all the difference. Are you listening?”
    “I’m sorry . . . the what?”
    “Miss Mahoney, I am trying to get you to understand. A psychopath does not feel what we feel. In extreme cases, such as O’Neil’s, the person is crafty and manipulative and utterly without conscience. They are among the most dangerous of people who walk our planet. I want you to look at his handiwork.” He placed the manila file into her hands.
    She looked from him to the folder and back again. “Is this the Safer file?”
    “No. It’s not.” For a moment his fingers lingered until he