toxicology lab. Cameryn felt a surge of curiosity. To understand death fascinated more than repelled her. The body was a puzzle meant to be read, and Cameryn wanted to read it.
“Let’s do the log later,” she said. “I want to see.”
Justin blinked. “You sure?”
“Yeah. It’s just sort of embarrassing with the vaginal swabs, being the only female in the room. Besides the decedent, I mean. But this is what I want to do.”
They returned to the autopsy table just as Dr. Moore peeled open the lids to Mariah’s right eye, pushing at the bottom of the eyeball until it bulged from her face. “No petechial hemorrhaging,” he said, repeating the procedure on the left. Then, with a sure motion, he took a smaller syringe and stuck the needle straight into the white of Mariah’s eye. Cameryn tried not to wince as he removed vitreous fluid, slightly deflating the eyeball. Once again he handed the syringe to Ben, who placed the contents in a tube he capped with a red rubber lid.
“And why do we do this procedure, Miss Mahoney?” Moore asked.
“Because—because drugs show up in the vitreous fluid at a higher level.”
“And why is that important?”
For the second time that day, Cameryn felt as though she were being tested. “You can compare the levels of drugs between the different organs. You could figure out if a decedent was, say, getting drunk or coming off of being drunk. I think.”
“Correct,” he said, sounding pleased. “My, my—no wonder that recruiter is courting you. What’s her name?”
“Jo Ann Whittaker.”
“She’s a friend of mine. Tell her to call me. I’ll give you a recommendation.” Tilting his head toward the music, he said, “Appropriately, at this moment you are hearing the jealous lover José singing for Carmen. ‘Oui, nous allons tous deux commencer une autre vie, loin d’ici, sous d’autres cieux.’ Roughly translated, it means, ‘Let us begin another life, under other skies.’ That’s what you are about to do, Miss Mahoney. You’ll begin a new life in college.” Grabbing Mariah’s jaw, he gently rolled her head to the side as he bent close to study the wound he swabbed for gunshot residue. Speaking into the bullet hole as if it were a tiny mouthpiece, he murmured, “But there will not be another life for you, will there, Baby Doe?” Sighing, he straightened and said, “I’m ready to cut.”
The five of them crowded in—Justin, Cameryn, and her father on one side, Ben and the sheriff on the other. Water burbled like an artesian spring, the walk-in freezer thrummed behind, the fluorescent lights trilled like crickets as they all stood, perfectly still, waiting. Dr. Moore moved to Mariah’s right shoulder and Jacobs stepped back as Dr. Moore raised the blade. Then he cut. Starting from her left shoulder, the doctor made a sure, deep incision that curved beneath Mariah’s teacup-shaped breast. From the right shoulder he slashed again, until the incisions joined at her breastbone. At the juncture he whipped the scalpel to Mariah’s pelvic bone in a classic "Y” incision. Cameryn could see a thin layer of fat, yellow as butter, and beneath it the maroon-colored muscle. She could almost taste the distinctive smell of blood.
“Here’s my favorite line from the opera,” Moore said as he peeled back flesh to expose ribs. “‘ Libre elle est née et libre elle mourra’ —‘Free she was born and free she will die.’ It surprises people to know I love art in all its incarnations. There is an art to the autopsy as well. I read the color and texture of the human body. I interpret their palette.” He folded the chest flap up so that Mariah’s face was covered by a triangle of her own skin. Switching to a carpet cutter, he continued to work the flesh free from the sinew until her skin lay crinkled at her sides like an elephant hide.
“Clippers,” he said, and Ben handed Moore the pruning shears. Dr. Moore’s breathing became more labored
“Let’s do the log later,” she said. “I want to see.”
Justin blinked. “You sure?”
“Yeah. It’s just sort of embarrassing with the vaginal swabs, being the only female in the room. Besides the decedent, I mean. But this is what I want to do.”
They returned to the autopsy table just as Dr. Moore peeled open the lids to Mariah’s right eye, pushing at the bottom of the eyeball until it bulged from her face. “No petechial hemorrhaging,” he said, repeating the procedure on the left. Then, with a sure motion, he took a smaller syringe and stuck the needle straight into the white of Mariah’s eye. Cameryn tried not to wince as he removed vitreous fluid, slightly deflating the eyeball. Once again he handed the syringe to Ben, who placed the contents in a tube he capped with a red rubber lid.
“And why do we do this procedure, Miss Mahoney?” Moore asked.
“Because—because drugs show up in the vitreous fluid at a higher level.”
“And why is that important?”
For the second time that day, Cameryn felt as though she were being tested. “You can compare the levels of drugs between the different organs. You could figure out if a decedent was, say, getting drunk or coming off of being drunk. I think.”
“Correct,” he said, sounding pleased. “My, my—no wonder that recruiter is courting you. What’s her name?”
“Jo Ann Whittaker.”
“She’s a friend of mine. Tell her to call me. I’ll give you a recommendation.” Tilting his head toward the music, he said, “Appropriately, at this moment you are hearing the jealous lover José singing for Carmen. ‘Oui, nous allons tous deux commencer une autre vie, loin d’ici, sous d’autres cieux.’ Roughly translated, it means, ‘Let us begin another life, under other skies.’ That’s what you are about to do, Miss Mahoney. You’ll begin a new life in college.” Grabbing Mariah’s jaw, he gently rolled her head to the side as he bent close to study the wound he swabbed for gunshot residue. Speaking into the bullet hole as if it were a tiny mouthpiece, he murmured, “But there will not be another life for you, will there, Baby Doe?” Sighing, he straightened and said, “I’m ready to cut.”
The five of them crowded in—Justin, Cameryn, and her father on one side, Ben and the sheriff on the other. Water burbled like an artesian spring, the walk-in freezer thrummed behind, the fluorescent lights trilled like crickets as they all stood, perfectly still, waiting. Dr. Moore moved to Mariah’s right shoulder and Jacobs stepped back as Dr. Moore raised the blade. Then he cut. Starting from her left shoulder, the doctor made a sure, deep incision that curved beneath Mariah’s teacup-shaped breast. From the right shoulder he slashed again, until the incisions joined at her breastbone. At the juncture he whipped the scalpel to Mariah’s pelvic bone in a classic "Y” incision. Cameryn could see a thin layer of fat, yellow as butter, and beneath it the maroon-colored muscle. She could almost taste the distinctive smell of blood.
“Here’s my favorite line from the opera,” Moore said as he peeled back flesh to expose ribs. “‘ Libre elle est née et libre elle mourra’ —‘Free she was born and free she will die.’ It surprises people to know I love art in all its incarnations. There is an art to the autopsy as well. I read the color and texture of the human body. I interpret their palette.” He folded the chest flap up so that Mariah’s face was covered by a triangle of her own skin. Switching to a carpet cutter, he continued to work the flesh free from the sinew until her skin lay crinkled at her sides like an elephant hide.
“Clippers,” he said, and Ben handed Moore the pruning shears. Dr. Moore’s breathing became more labored
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