he instructed. “Yeah, it’s under the table, right by your feet.”
Cameryn did as she was told, aware that the bag contained the remains of Brent Safer’s dissected organs. It was heavier than she expected, at least fifteen pounds.
“Got it,” said Ben as he plucked it from her hands. He set the bag into Brent Safer’s hollowed torso and topped it with the already cut breast plate. “I kind of smoosh it down so it’s all even,” Ben told her. “Now I’m ready to sew. Watch—I’ll teach you a little technique. I clamp the skin together with these towel clips. See? They’re a kind of forceps with itty-bitty teeth.” He pulled the skin from either side and pinched the edges together with scissors that bent at the end in a kind of clamp.
“Then I baste the skin with great big baseball stitches, at least an inch apart.”
Cameryn moved closer to Ben’s side. Standing on his right, she could hear his gentle grunts as he pushed the needle through. “Human skin is tough,” Ben said. She could see a glisten of sweat gathering at the edge of his hair. He pulled down his mask so that it dangled against his chest. “I have to toss the needle when I’m done ’cause they get dull. Same with the scalpels, well, the blades, anyway. They’re disposable.” The needle popped through the skin as Ben made his way toward the crook in the Y incision. “We still haven’t opened up Leather Ed. He’s back there in the cooler.”
“Oh.” She 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
Cameryn did as she was told, aware that the bag contained the remains of Brent Safer’s dissected organs. It was heavier than she expected, at least fifteen pounds.
“Got it,” said Ben as he plucked it from her hands. He set the bag into Brent Safer’s hollowed torso and topped it with the already cut breast plate. “I kind of smoosh it down so it’s all even,” Ben told her. “Now I’m ready to sew. Watch—I’ll teach you a little technique. I clamp the skin together with these towel clips. See? They’re a kind of forceps with itty-bitty teeth.” He pulled the skin from either side and pinched the edges together with scissors that bent at the end in a kind of clamp.
“Then I baste the skin with great big baseball stitches, at least an inch apart.”
Cameryn moved closer to Ben’s side. Standing on his right, she could hear his gentle grunts as he pushed the needle through. “Human skin is tough,” Ben said. She could see a glisten of sweat gathering at the edge of his hair. He pulled down his mask so that it dangled against his chest. “I have to toss the needle when I’m done ’cause they get dull. Same with the scalpels, well, the blades, anyway. They’re disposable.” The needle popped through the skin as Ben made his way toward the crook in the Y incision. “We still haven’t opened up Leather Ed. He’s back there in the cooler.”
“Oh.” She 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
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