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Authors: Alane Ferguson

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BOOK: The Circle of Blood
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She could hear Ben whistling as he made his way down the hall. “Hey there, Cammie. I’m glad you waited for me. I was doing some incineratin’ and it gets
hot
.” Today Ben wore yellow scrubs, the color of lemons. Peeling off his gloves, he gave her a bright smile, a smile that was reflected in his almond-shaped eyes. “I hear we got ditched by the rest of the gang. No matter, me and the doc’ll teach you ourselves.”
“I’m all ready to go here,” said Moore. “Let’s get on with it.”
The rods came in a rainbow of colors, like Pixy Stix, so that, Dr. Moore explained, if they had to track more than one bullet’s path they could keep them straight. Since there’d been only a single bullet, he was able to pick whatever color he liked, and he’d chosen red plastic, a long stick as thick as a pencil and blunt at the tip. Cameryn and Ben hovered close as Dr. Moore moved Mariah’s brain so that the bullet hole was directly in front of him. Then, with a careful movement, Dr. Moore gently pushed the rod into the bull’s-eye where the bullet had pierced Mariah’s brain. He worked slowly, carefully. “We couldn’t have done this in the old days,” he said. “Do you see how I never force the rod?” he asked her, his face so close to the brain his nose practically grazed its surface. “The hole is my guide. Although this looks simple, this is a deceivingly delicate procedure.” Finally, he stopped. The rod stuck out a good twelve inches like a single, spiked quill.
“That’s it. Take your photographs,” Dr. Moore instructed.
Obedient, Cameryn and Ben snapped picture after picture, the light bouncing off the glistening surface. When they were finally done, she and Ben straightened and lowered their cameras to their thighs, like characters in a Western ready to holster their guns.
“Well, looks like you were right, Doc,” Ben said, nodding. “Me—I couldn’t look at a bullet hole and tell. But this here’s just the way you thought it would be. That’s why you’re the man.”
Cameryn glanced from face to face. The cold feeling spread inside her once again. “What?” she asked.
“The rod, Miss Mahoney.” With a gloved finger, Dr. Moore touched the rod’s tip. “You see it, don’t you? It points down. The bullet trajectory slants toward Baby Doe’s collarbone.”
“What does that mean?” she asked. But before she heard the answer, she already knew.
“It means that this girl didn’t do this to herself,” Ben said simply.
“Most likely,”
Dr. Moore corrected.
“Right. See, Cammie, with a suicide, the bullet almost always goes into the head straight. Sometimes, if the vic hesitates, then they kinda flinch the gun, and the bullet shoots right up to the top of their skulls. So when you’re dealing with a suicide, the trajectory goes straight across to the other ear or maybe up to the top of the head. But a self-inflicted bullet never goes
down
.”
“Rarely,” said Moore. “I’ll take a few specimens from the wound site, and then we’ll loaf the brain. That means,” he said for Cameryn’s benefit, “that I’ll slice the brain in pieces roughly the thickness of Texas toast. I’ll be able to precisely chart the bullet’s progression.”
Inside, Cameryn was shaking. Her thoughts were ribbons now, curling through the air in all directions, but she had to pull them back. She had to
think.
“That doesn’t seem ver y . . . I mean, a trajectory doesn’t seem like proof.” She held a finger to her own head, placing it to her temple as though it were a barrel to a gun. Angling her hand, she made her finger point downward. “I could do it that way.” She was feeling desperate now. Dr. Moore and Ben were looking at her, hard, as if they could see her fear, so she tried to talk more slowly, to take the frenzy out of her voice. “And what about the scissors? Were there any prints on the handle?”
“Nope,” said Ben. “They were clean as a whistle. Which is kinda odd since you’d think Baby Doe’s prints would have shown up.”
“Except, she could have worn her gloves when she cut off her hair,” Cameryn argued. “She had a pair of knit gloves in her coat pocket. Maybe that’s why there weren’t any prints.”
“You make some good points, Miss Mahoney,” Dr. Moore said, his keen eyes trained on hers. “That’s why, when we’re done here, I want to take another look at Baby Doe. Sometimes death reveals her secrets with the aid of decomposition. Are you ready to revisit the dead?”
“Of course,” she said, with more enthusiasm than she felt.
When he had finished with the brain, Dr. Moore and Ben headed for the locker, motioning Cameryn to follow them. Her feet felt heavy as she walked toward the cooler. She knew what lay inside: behind that polished steel door rested Mariah with a white cotton sheet draped over her naked body, and next to her would be another corpse, and another, lined up against the wall in perfect white rectangles.
A blast of cool, fetid air hit her directly in the face as she stepped inside. Ben had already lifted up the corner of the sheet to fold it down to Mariah’s waist. “And there it is, Doc,” he said reverently. “Look at that.”
Cameryn took a step closer. The blood-soaked white string Ben had used to close the "Y” incision looked crude against Mariah’s pale skin, as if Frankenstein himself had tried to hem a garment. But that wasn’t the target of Ben’s gaze. He was looking at Mariah’s face.
“Well, well, well,” Dr. Moore said. “Putrification does her work again. Once decomposition begins, Miss Mahoney, bruising that was previously undetected by the human eye can surface. It looks like Baby Doe was hit on her face, right before she died.”
“I think it looks more like a scrape,” Ben said thoughtfully, touching the red mark that had spread across Mariah’s cheekbone. “Let me check something out.”
With an expert motion he flipped Mariah over so that her back lay exposed, mottled red from where the blood had pooled from post-mortem lividity.
“Whoo-wee, strike three. Do you see that?”
Although she didn’t want to, Cameryn forced herself to look. There was an outline, a print stamped on Mariah’s dappled skin. Like a silk-screen image, she saw the bruise that had appeared after death like a message in a Magic 8-Ball, a finger pointing the way to a verdict she could not accept.
Ben said, “Sometimes an injury to the face comes from someone stompin’ on the back. This changes everything.”
“It does,” said Dr. Moore. “What does that shape suggest to you?”
“A cowboy boot,” Cameryn replied, so softly she wasn’t sure they could hear.
Dr. Moore peered closer. His glasses had slipped but he pushed them up, impatient. “It does indeed, Miss Mahoney. There’s the tip, and there’s the heel. Well, it appears we have our answer. I’ll have to call the sheriff and tell him the manner of death. It looks like we’ve got ourselves a homicide.”
Chapter Twelve
"WHERE’S DAD?” Cameryn asked. The kitchen door slammed behind her, pounding like the headache that hammered inside her skull.
Her grandmother said, “Patrick’s back up to Ouray. And you’re late.” Although she usually wore slippers, tonight Mammaw was barefoot. Her toes, like her fingers, were as gnarled as ancient trees in miniature, and the soles of her feet made a padding sound as she walked across the linoleum to the sink. Mammaw’s hair must have been recently washed and towel-dried. The white ends stood up in stiff peaks from her head, like meringue, and the skin on her cheeks was flushed from the heat of her bath.
Lifting a plate of Christmas cookies covered in plastic wrap from the counter, she extended it to Cameryn, saying, “I think it’s getting serious with that lady judge in Ouray, and that’s a mighty thing. These cookies are from Amy herself—Pat brought them home yesterday. The frosting’s a bit sweet but the cookies aren’t bad. At least she knows the basics of how to cook.”
“Thanks, but no,” Cameryn said.
“Don’t be stubborn, girl. The judge is trying to do right by you. She’s reaching out and . . . Cammie, what is it?” Her grandmother’s eyes filled with worry.
“It’s just—they—we—we classified Jane Doe as a homicide. I guess I’m a little wound up. It’s been a hard day.”
Her grandmother’s hand rose to her face. “Another murder in Silverton. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.” Her eyes were wide as she said, “I thought Patrick said the girl put the bullet in her own head.”
“That’s what we thought at first. But more evidence showed up post mortem. Someone did it to her.”
Setting down the plate, her grandmother narrowed her ice-blue eyes. “Does your father know?”
“Dr. Moore said he would call the sheriff, so I’m assuming so,” Cameryn told her, hoisting her heavy backpack to her shoulder. “My battery died and I couldn’t call. Anyway, I’ve got homework to do.” She felt tired. Boneachingly tired. Her fear, her despair, her anger—all of it had come tumbling out on that ride home. Before, she’d drawn a line:
If it’s a murder, then . . .
But she was no longer willing to honor that division. Mentally, she’d moved the mark further. After all, a ring didn’t prove anything—Mariah had left it with Hannah of her own accord. Hannah’s mental illness didn’t prove anything— there were millions of people with bipolar disorder. She wanted to be in her room, alone, so that she could read the articles she’d printed, then stashed, on her mother’s illness. “The Role of Family and Friends in a Bipolar Person’s Life” was neatly tucked between her mattress and box springs.
“Before you go hiding upstairs you should know they think they’ve discovered who she is,” Mammaw said.
The breath sucked back in Cameryn’s throat as she asked, “What are you talking about? For Baby Doe? They’ve got a name?”
“It was an anonymous tip. Someone gave the real name of Baby Doe, told where she lived, and hung up”—Mammaw snapped her fingers—“just like that. The sheriff confirmed it.”
“So who is Baby Doe?” Cameryn demanded.
“I don’t remember. Ask your father. The point is, they found her, and that’s a blessing. My gracious,” she exclaimed. “Someone’s driving up and I’ve got nothing but a robe on. Get the door, Cammie. If I’m not mistaken, the visitor is your Justin Crowley.”
“He’s not
my
Justin Crowley,” she muttered, but her grandmother had already escaped up the stairs. In spite of herself, Cameryn finger-combed her hair. When she pulled open the door, the plastic lighted wreath rocked on its hook.
“Cameryn, I’m glad you’re home,” Justin told her. He had on boots with heels so thick his head almost touched the top of the doorframe. Although the evening was cold, he wore no hat, and the tips of his ears flamed red. Usually there was an easiness about Justin, but tonight he stood stiffly. His dark brows met in the center, and his eyes were no longer greenish blue but indigo, like the sky before a storm.
“Justin,” she said, “come in.”
“Is anyone else home? ”
“Just my grandmother.”
“Then I’ll stay here.”
“Why?” Apprehension spread through her as she looked at Justin’s face. Whatever he wanted to tell her, it was bad news.
“Can you step outside, just for a minute? It’s important—Cammie, I want to keep this private.”
Shrugging, she said, “Sure.”
“This won’t take long. It’s just two things.”
As he spoke, his breath blew into the air in a warm cloud, dissipating before it reached her. But she could smell it. Peppermint, from a Tic Tac, she guessed, hiding somewhere in the back of his mouth. A shock of dark hair had fallen into his eyes; for once, he left it there.
She stepped onto the cement, pulling the door shut behind her. There was only three feet of space, and Justin had barely moved. They were too close, no more than ten inches apart. The lights on the wreath blinked on and off; she watched him in the flickering glow.
He cleared his throat. “The vic’s real name is Esther Childs.”
“
Esther Childs?
” Cameryn felt her eyes go wide. “Are you sure that’s right? How do you know that’s her name?”
“We got a tip. A lady from Durango. She called from a phone booth at the Loaf ‘N Jug on Sixth Street. She wouldn’t say who she was. Why do you look so surprised, Cammie? Do you know something you’re not telling me? ”
“Of course not.” Evasive, Cameryn stared at the edge of his collar, trying to keep from returning his gaze. “Why do you think she wanted to stay anonymous?”
“Who knows?” He shrugged. “Some people don’t like to get involved. Anyway, we sent a picture of the vic to a sheriff in Arizona and they ran it down to the Childs family. The family made a positive ID. Cameryn, they’re a wreck—Jacobs told me the family lost it when they found out it was a homicide. The Childses are demanding answers, and so far we don’t have any.” Justin placed his palm on the siding of the house, close to her head.
“Okay,” she said. “Great. Now we know who she is. So what was the other thing?”
Justin hesitated. Cameryn’s spine was pressed against the door, and he wasn’t moving back like she thought he would. She could feel his heat radiating toward her and hers toward him, like two auras bumping into each other, creating an energy all its own. Thrusting her hands into her pockets, she waited.
“What’s the other thing?” she asked again.
BOOK: The Circle of Blood
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