The Angel of Death (9 page)

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Authors: Alane Ferguson

BOOK: The Angel of Death
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“I was hoping Ben would be on duty today,” her father said.
The diener assisted the medical examiner in the most grisly jobs, including sewing the corpse back together after autopsy when the dissection was done. Her father told her Ben was the best diener he’d ever seen, because in all the cases he’d worked on, Ben had never once lost his composure. “Even if he’s plucking maggots from someone’s mouth, he keeps his cool,” her father once told her.
Craning over his shoulder, Patrick backed the station wagon into the garage. After the two of them hopped out, Ben unlatched the hatch and lifted it. Then, with an expert motion, he tugged the gurney as the wheels unfolded and banged onto the cement floor. The blue body bag remained perched atop it, misshapen because of the position of Mr. Oakes’s arms and legs. It seemed as though they had bagged a prizefighter who was trying to punch his way out.
“Hey there, Pat,” Ben said. “Cammie. Long time no see. So this vic’s got no eyeballs, eh? No wonder Moore called us in—we got us a bona fide mystery here!” Then he added, “I thought you might have had enough of us the last time, girlfriend. You a glutton for punishment?”
“Mr. Oakes was my teacher.”
“Your teacher, huh?” Ben’s head dipped down as he began to push the gurney. “Sorry for your loss.” He didn’t try to say anything more, didn’t parrot words to make her feel better. His “sorry,” delivered in his deep baritone, was enough.
“Does Dr. Moore know I’m here?” She felt a flutter when she asked this.
“Oh, yeah, the dragon master mentioned you by name,” said Ben. “The weird thing is, I think Moore has actually taken a shine to you. If the man shines on anyone besides himself, that is.”
Ben and her father moved the gurney up a concrete ramp, and with his backside Ben hit the door so that it swung open.
“What do you mean ‘shine’?” Cameryn asked as she fell in step with them. She had to walk double-time to keep up. “Are you implying Moore actually
likes
me now?”
“Tolerates. In my opinion he’s up to simple toleration. He respects what you did to help catch the Christopher Killer, but he’s not convinced that wasn’t a flash in the pan. And before you go getting discouraged,” Ben told her, “remember this: when you’re rating Moore’s opinions, simple toleration’s a good thing.”
Patrick, his hand on the end of the gurney, helped steer the corpse down the narrow hallway. They pushed the gurney beneath the ceiling’s round lights, which reminded Cameryn of the ones in an operating room, the kind women gave birth under. But these had an entirely different purpose. These were birthing lights in reverse. She noticed, too, that in their glow, her skin took on a green cast.
She’d been here before, and she remembered the used, hand-me-down feel of the place. Its brown carpet was worn in the center, like thinning hair, and the walls had been painted a flat, lifeless beige. There were several small rooms on both her right and her left, their doors ajar. As she sped past them, she got just a flash of what lay inside: feeble plants expiring, some wilting on shelves, others dying in corners, and plain chairs with metal legs.
It was the smell, however, that let visitors know exactly what kind of building this was. It wasn’t a strong odor, but more like a hint in the air, wafting just beneath the scent of disinfectant. The charnel smell had fused into the paint, the walls, even into the very plants themselves, as though the corpses passing through had left a whisper of themselves behind, a scent that said,
My body was here
.
“Are we taking him to X-ray first?” she asked Ben.
“Uh-huh. I’ll pop him in for a quick film. The dragon master’s talking with the deputy and the sheriff in the autopsy suite, so you two go on ahead. Last I saw, they were into it pretty deep, trying to figure out what in the world could cause eyes to blow.”
“Justin’s already here?” Cameryn asked, surprised that he’d made it ahead of them.
“So it’s
Justin
now, is it?” Ben’s dark eyes twinkled.
“Last time you were here it was ‘Deputy.’ Um-mm-mm. First time I saw the two of you together I thought I sensed something. Today Justin barely cleared the door when he asked, ‘Is Cameryn here?’ He looked mighty disappointed when I told him you weren’t. What has been goin’ on in Silverton, is what I want to know.”
Her father stiffened. His white hair, still under the gel’s control, seemed to bristle with indignation as he growled, “My daughter is only seventeen. The man’s a
deputy
.”
Ben smiled tolerantly. “Sorry. I was just making conversation. ”
It seemed best to keep quiet, so Cameryn gave the gurney a hard push, as if she and Mr. Oakes alone were streaking for the finish line.
“Slow down, Cammie,” her father called after her. “This isn’t a race!”
She pretended not to hear, stopping so suddenly outside the X-ray room that Mr. Oakes’s body shifted forward; she had to place her hand on what she guessed was his knee to steady him.
Opening the door to X-ray, she saw that the place was no bigger than a walk-in closet. A large white machine with a movable arm stood at the ready. Behind it, a revolving door led to the darkroom, painted black. Ben stepped neatly around her, his white shoes, mottled with red, squeaking on the tile. He pulled a heavy apron from a hook and shrugged it on, telling them to leave the room, please, because of radiation. “You two go on into the autopsy suite,” he instructed. “I’ll bring the decedent down in two minutes. You remember the way—first door on the right past the drinking fountain. You can’t miss it.”
Back outside Cameryn heard a woman’s laughter echoing down the hallway, ending in an abrupt, “No
way
!” followed by a disembodied, “Are you
serious
?” Life went on, even in the morgue.
“Cammie, wait,” her father said, hurrying beside her. He was panting a little, and his face looked flushed. “I hope you aren’t upset with me.”
“About what?”
“The crack I made about Justin. About you being too young for him and him being too old for you—which he is, by the way.”
“Forget it.”
He fell in step beside her. “After I said it, well, I started thinking. Your mother was much younger than I was when we met—did you know that?”
“No.”
“So I thought—when I said that about Justin, you might think I was being hypocritical.”
“Actually, the only thing I’m thinking is that your timing sucks. This is a morgue, Dad, not a shrink’s office. We can talk later.”
“Except with you there’s no ‘later.’ You’re going away from me, Cammie. Maybe we should just take a chance and talk, no matter where we are.”
She stopped then, her hand touching the glass rectangle of the autopsy door. Inside she could see Dr. Moore hunched over the sink. He wore thick rubber gloves, the kind people used to wash dishes with.
“Cammie? Is it your mother?”
She turned. Through tight lips she asked, “Why are you doing this? We’ve never talked about Hannah before, and now it’s like you can’t stop bringing her up. I’m walking into an
autopsy
, Dad. Leave it alone, okay? Leave
her
alone!”
Stricken, he said, “I’m sorry. I—a friend told me I should bring it up in natural conversation. About Hannah, I mean, and not make a big deal out of the subject.”
“Your friend was wrong. I never even think of Hannah anymore. Not ever. Now let’s go in there and do our jobs, okay?”
She smacked her palm on the swinging door and wondered at the indignation in her voice, at her dramatic flair and her father’s sheepish response. Lying, it seemed, was easy, and it was getting easier all the time. Each falsehood greased the wheel for the next.
It wasn’t always so. Mammaw had spooned the idea of mortal and venial sins into her along with her baby food, and even now she knew exactly which commandment she was breaking—number eight:
Thou shalt not bear false witness.
Her grandmother had given her a bracelet where each commandment was a tiny charm. The ten trinkets chimed together with every flick of her wrist, miniature bells reminding her not to sin. But now the bracelet was too small and her questions too great.
All this Cameryn considered, then dismissed, as she stepped through the portal.
The Durango autopsy suite was the size of three of her high-school classrooms, but with nothing inside to break the monotony of steel and tile. No plants to add color, no wood to take out the chill—just gleaming surfaces, cold and ready. Three autopsy tables, with their drain plugs to allow seepage of body fluid, were lined up by the sink. In the rear were large, side-by-side stainless-steel doors. She remembered it from her last visit; inside the walk-in refrigerator were brains floating in formaldehyde and pieces of heart and other organs, waiting in liquid formation, like vegetables in a market stand.
On the other end of the room was a cavernous sink, and next to it puttered Dr. Moore, his back toward them. Intent, he placed one tool, then another, on a cotton towel. Knives, saws, scissors with needle-sharp points, specimen jars—all had been laid out on the cloth in a perfect row, like piano keys. A yellow bucket had been tucked beneath the autopsy table, destined to hold leftover organs, while pruning shears, purchased at Home Depot, lay ready to bite through her teacher’s breastbone and ribs. Justin and Sheriff Jacobs were nowhere to be seen.
“Well, well, well, if it isn’t our protégé,” Dr. Moore said, turning to face her. “We meet again.” His voice was cordial, but his face betrayed no emotion, and his eyes were hard as they examined her closely.
“Hello, Dr. Moore.”
“So, Patrick, you brought her back into the netherworld. ”
“She’s still my assistant,” her father replied. “She’s proven what she can do.”
“That assessment may be premature. But I’m nothing if not a humble man, ready to change my opinion if it’s warranted. I must admit I’m curious about you, Miss Mahoney. You seem to have intelligence. More than what is at first apparent.”
Dr. Moore wore a plastic apron over his ample middle. He had a pugnacious face: An underbite pushed his lower jaw forward, which caused the folds of his cheeks to droop past his jawline. Beneath the thick, bullfrog neck, below the ample torso and Santa belly, two thin legs emerged, looking as though they belonged to another, more slender body.
“We’ve got ourselves an interesting case,” Moore said.
“Will you be solving this one, too, Miss Mahoney?”
“I’m here to help in any way I can,” she answered.
“You realize it would be easier for me to take you seriously if you wore something besides a hoodie and jeans.”
“I didn’t plan to be here today.”
“No matter. Get your scrubs on and then come back to the table,” he ordered. “I’ve got a job for you.”
Chastised, Cameryn went to the cabinet and opened the metal door. Inside she found more disposable booties, these pale green; a plastic apron; a hair-covering that looked like a paper shower cap; latex gloves; and a paper mask shaped like a muzzle. She tied on the apron and quickly braided her hair, shoving it inside the cap, which for some reason made her feel foolish. Tugging on the latex gloves and then the booties, she left the mask inside the cabinet. No one here seemed to use them.
Dr. Moore looked at her feet. “Your next purchase should be morgue shoes.”
“Morgue shoes?”
“Those of us in the business leave a pair of shoes here, in the building. That way we don’t drag any of the decedent back into our own pristine homes.” In her direction he swiveled a foot shod in black high-tops. If there was blood on them, it didn’t show.
“They say you’ve got a sixth sense, Miss Mahoney. Do you?”
Cameryn shrugged modestly. “I don’t know if I’d call it a sixth sense. . . .”
“Never devalue yourself—if you’re good, say so.”
“I’m good,” Cameryn told him, raising her chin.
“Perfect. So am I.” He looked at her with his small, deep-set eyes. She hoped he couldn’t hear her heart, beating inside her chest like a rabbit’s.
Her father seemed subdued as he carefully suited up, so Cameryn thought it best to leave him alone. Justin and the sheriff stepped out of the refrigerator—what they were doing in there Cameryn couldn’t tell—and at that moment Ben wheeled in and parked the gurney parallel to an autopsy table.
“The decedent’s been x-rayed, so we’re ready,” he announced. “Let the fireworks begin.”
“Shall we, Miss Mahoney?” Moore asked, sweeping his arm toward the gurney.
Ben grabbed the bag, as did Patrick. “On the count of three,” Ben said, and in a seamless motion the blue bag slipped onto the cart.
Intent, Cameryn watched the doctor’s face as he unzipped the bag, a sound that, in the quiet of the room, seemed as loud as a dentist’s drill. Gently, Ben unwrapped the white sheet enfolding Mr. Oakes. The left fist emerged, still clutching the sheet that was no longer there, then the right, his fingers bent into the shape of an eagle’s talon. Oakes’s knees, still drawn to his chest, gave a strange impression: Cameryn realized if the body were rocked forward, Mr. Oakes could kneel on his rigor-stiffened legs.

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