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Authors: Alane Ferguson

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BOOK: The Circle of Blood
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Cameryn couldn’t help it—the words “Your wife?” escaped from her lips.
“Yes, I’m married.” He paused to look at her, his eyes fierce as if daring her to speak. “Forty-four years this May. Imagine that.”
Cameryn felt herself blush. “Any kids?”
“Three.”
“Oh. I’m an only child.”
“Which explains your precocious nature, although not your lack of tact.”
“I’m sorry—I didn’t—”
Dr. Moore shook his head and busied himself with his work.
Overhead lights hummed in the cavernous space, like grasshoppers on a summer night, while every surface gleamed with steel that reflected circles bright as moons. She could hear the low rumble of voices in a back office and the rustle of Dr. Moore’s paper gown.
“It’s always better to line up your instruments precisely. I want you to watch how I do this.”
Relieved that he wasn’t angry, she walked to his side. He was bustling now. She watched as he set down the enterotome scissors, which she knew were for opening the intestines, followed by the Stryker saw, an electric saw used to cut through the skull without damaging brain tissue. With gloved hands he placed a Hagedorn needle, the heavy, curved needle used to sew up the deceased after the remains are put back into the organ-containment bag following an autopsy. The needle flashed at Cameryn like a disembodied smile.
“So . . . what happened with the cookie, Dr. Moore?” she prodded gently.
“Ah, yes, the fateful fortune cookie.” Turning back to the cupboard, he removed toothed forceps and a skull chisel, which chimed together in his hand. “At the end of our dinner I cracked the cookie open and pulled out that tiny piece of paper. It read,
‘You will touch the hearts of many
.
’
”
She frowned, repeating the words. “You will . . .”
“. . .
touch
the hearts of
many
. Of course that means one thing to most people, but I saw an answer in it. As a forensic pathologist I would touch many hearts. I would hold them in my hands.”
Cameryn almost laughed but swallowed it back. It seemed crazy that this gruff man’s destiny had been molded by something so inconsequential. And yet Dr. Moore was not only a pathologist, he was also an artist, and in some ways a dreamer. Her eyes drifted back to the script on the wall:
Hic locus est ubi mors gaudet succurrere vitae.
The dead weren’t the only ones who delighted to teach the living, Cameryn realized. Dr. Moore did, too.
“Did you ever doubt that you made the right decision? About going into forensics, I mean?”
“Not once. What we do is a calling.” He set down the scalpel, which had a longer blade than most surgeons’ scalpels, its edge razor sharp. Four blue sponges rested one atop another next to a scale used to weigh organs. Cameryn couldn’t help but think of a child’s building blocks.
“What’s the hardest part for you?” she asked.
“The child-abuse cases, the utter waste of human life due to plain stupidity—that can keep me up at night. But there are compensations. We pathologists solve puzzles by reading the entrails of human beings. We are the soothsayers of our world.”
“What about me?” she asked softly. “Is forensics what
I
should do?”
He looked at her, his expression once again sharp. “There is no way I could possibly answer that question. And, although I’ve enjoyed our little chat, it’s time to prepare for the next step.” He raised one hand in its heavy blue glove, revealing its palm textured like pebbles on a beach. “Are you ready for your assignment?”
“Of course.” Quickly she tugged on her own thick latex gloves, pulling the ends over the paper gown’s sleeves to make a seal. “What is it you want me to do?”
His wooly eyebrows raised into his forehead, causing the skin to ripple into his bald head. “You, Miss Mahoney, are going to prepare a specimen jar.”
“A specimen jar,” she repeated, trying not to sound too disappointed.
“But this is a big specimen. I want you to prepare the largest jar—the one marked ‘165 ounces.’ It’s clear, with a lid. You’ll find it in that back cabinet there.” He pointed. “The ten percent formalin solution is right next to it—the white bottle with the blue writing. You’ll also find some precut pieces of string. Grab one.”
Curious, Cameryn asked, “What specimen are we preparing? ”
“The decedent’s brain,” Dr, Moore said, sounding delighted. “The whole entire organ needs to be suspended in the formalin so it can harden.”
It took a minute for Cameryn to register this. “The brain? What for?”
“So we can put in rods to chart the bullet’s trajectory. There’s always the possibility of testifying at a future trial, which means we need to cover every base.”
“But . . . I thought,” she stammered. “This is a suicide. My dad said so.”
“Is it? Well, my mistake.” The edge was back in his voice as he said, “I didn’t know you could render a diagnosis without a full autopsy. Why don’t you have your father fill out these papers and save the state of Colorado a lot of time and money? My wife has a roast waiting.”
Cameryn bit her lip. “That’s not what I meant—”
“Then get out the formalin.”
She heard a clunk as the gurney struck the door and Ben appeared, smiling broadly. She could tell from his expression he had overheard the last part of the conversation and was pleased with her assignment.
“Ooohhh, so you’re gonna show Cammie how to make a brain bucket! ” he cried as he wheeled Mariah into the autopsy suite. “That’s a good idea, ’cause the film shows that bullet bounced through her head every which way.” To Cameryn, he added, “Dr. Moore’s got the best technique I’ve seen. The last ME just chucked ’em right in a bucket without the string. You got to have the string or the brain settles on the bottom and goes all flat, which messes up the samples. Moore’s an artist.”
“That’s enough, Ben,” Moore grumbled. “Go weigh the decedent. And don’t forget my music. How about some Bizet?”
“No problem,” Ben replied. Then, his voice low, he said, “The man likes his Carmen, as in the opera. I prefer Carmen Electra myself.”
“And get the rest of the crew in here,” Dr. Moore barked.
Ben’s head bobbed in reply. “Right. The sheriff and them are just calling to see if they can get an ID on the girl.”
Snorting, Dr. Moore said, “Who are you kidding? They’re in
my
office, eating
your
pizza. I saw the box.”
Ben shrugged nonchalantly. Patting his stomach, he said, “I always like to share. Let me get that music going for you.”
Soon the rich notes of the opera filled the room like incense. Ben wheeled the gurney onto a large metal plate that rested in the floor, which was in actuality a scale. “Ninety-three pounds,” he announced, squinting at the numbers. “She was a little thing. Would you write that down for me, Cammie? Yeah, it’s that clipboard over there. Uh-huh, that’s the one. There’s a pen at the top.”
“Go and help the man,” ordered Dr. Moore, who was now turning on a hose that filled a large, rectangular pan that would be used to rinse off organs.
Cameryn walked past the body bag and tried not to picture the face beneath the vinyl, but in her mind’s eye she could see the blank, glacial eyes and the lips slightly parted. What she couldn’t get past was the way Dr. Moore had put murder back on the table. Her stomach turned to water while she went through the motions of writing down numbers, her mind once again sifting through facts. What if someone reported that Cameryn had chased Mariah through the crowd? What then? What if the snowboarders came forward to say Mariah had been in the car with Hannah, with Cameryn standing nearby? What if the whole sin of omission unraveled? By remaining silent she had become a cog in the wheel of a deception. She knew the name of the girl who lay wrapped in the body bag, knew of her planned destination.
If it’s a suicide, it doesn’t matter.
Once, Cameryn had thought that she wanted to be a medical examiner in order to give voice to the dead. But not now. For the first time she was more than glad that the departed
didn’t
speak. Hannah needed protecting, and that’s what Cameryn was doing. This case was a suicide. It had to be.
“Hey, girl, you’re turning a little pale there,” said Ben. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Sorry, I’m just trying to focus. Sixty-one inches,” Cameryn repeated, entering the number on the autopsy worksheet. Ben was scrutinizing her face. To throw him off, she said, “So, Ben, there’s one thing I don’t get.”
“Yeah?” he replied, wheeling the gurney off the scale.
“And what would that be?”
“How could you tell anything about the trajectory of the bullet from the X-ray? I thought soft tissue didn’t show up on film.”
Ben began unzipping the body bag. Huffing, he replied, “See, Cammie, sometimes traces from a bullet’s copper casing fleck off when it travels—that’s what happened here. The X-ray of her brain shows little tiny stars everywhere, which means the bullet bounced all over the inside of her skull. One thing I do know, this girl’s head is a mess. We’re gonna need that brain bucket for sure to tell what happened.”
“Does that mean we start with the head first?”
“Can’t. She’d bleed out into the body cavity if we did that. We always go in an order. Chest first, head last.”
Patrick, Sheriff Jacobs, and Deputy Crowley emerged from Dr. Moore’s office, the latter’s heavy boots clumping as they approached the body. Cameryn could see a pea-sized bit of pizza sauce stuck to the sheriff’s chin. He seemed to be aware of her looking at his mouth, because he wiped it with a crumpled napkin before tossing it into a garbage can. “Evening, Doc,” Jacobs said. “Sorry we took a minute in there. We were trying to get a lead on this girl here through missing persons, but we came up empty. Lots of girls are missing, but none of ’em with that long of hair.”
“So no one’s looking for our Baby Doe,” murmured Moore. He had switched his glasses; this pair magnified his eyes so they appeared to glow, catlike. Patrick and Justin helped Ben move the body, still enfolded in a sheet, from the gurney to the steel autopsy table.
“On the count of three,” said Ben, and Cameryn could hear the men grunt as they pulled Mariah onto the perforated metal.
“I’m all set to unwrap her,” Ben announced. “You all ready?”
As Justin stepped closer to Cameryn, she could feel the warmth of his body radiating toward her, which helped calm the chill. If she were going to come clean, now was the time.
Just say it. Tell them what you know.
But her lips pressed together on their own, forbidding her to speak.
“Ready,” Patrick replied with a brisk nod.
“All right,” said Moore. “Let’s open her up.”
Chapter Eight
“HERE WE GO,” said Ben, gently unwrapping the sheet.
The cold, heavy feeling spread through Cameryn as she looked down at Mariah’s pale face and the bullet hole in the side of her head. Beneath the bright autopsy lights, she noticed the thickness of Mariah’s lashes and the curve of her cheekbones, the waxiness of her skin, the ragged edges of her hair. It was easier when she’d seen her as the enemy. Lying there, Mariah looked more like a victim.
While Patrick checked the body bag, which came up clean, Justin handed Cameryn a digital camera. Pictures got snapped once again, encompassing the ABFO scale that Ben moved from Mariah’s head to her elbow to her knee to her foot. Each hand had been placed in a paper bag secured with a rubber band.
“This child is
young
,” Ben breathed, leaning close and examining her face.
Cameryn said, “Yeah, I thought you knew that.”
“There’s hearing, and there’s seeing,” answered Ben. “I never get used to the kids. Um-mm-mm. I wonder who she is?”
“It’s every parent’s worst nightmare,” added the sheriff, shifting awkwardly in his boots. “You know, I got kids of my own. That girl had her whole life ahead of her, and she did this.”
“Perhaps,” said Dr. Moore.
Her father gave Cameryn a look but said nothing.
Cameryn knew the drill. There was a rote momentum in autopsies that never varied. She tried to get lost in the checklist, attempted to ignore the undigested secret that sat in her stomach like a stone. When she finished taking pictures, her father asked her to chronicle the inside of the backpack, which she was only too glad to do
.
Her hands trembled ever so slightly as she unzipped the dark blue pack.
What if Justin missed a pocket with Hannah’s wallet inside it? What will I do then? Hide it? Confess?
She needn’t have worried. After she opened every zipper and searched each pocket, the backpack revealed only a plastic comb, a ChapStick lip balm (coconut flavored) , a small package of Kleenex tissues, and the pair of silver scissors with the etched handles. Each went into a separate evidence bag, which her father took from her, signing and sealing them mechanically. “We’ll take possession of the backpack itself when you’re done,” Justin told her, handing her a grocery-sized paper bag. It was strange, she thought, that the backpack had been so empty. She was just about to bag the backpack itself when something caught her eye. Something was written on the nylon interior. Block letters, printed in ink along the zipper line.
BOOK: The Circle of Blood
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