The Circle of Blood

by Alane Ferguson

  Cameryn perched on the edge of the bed as a tear rolled down Hannah’s cheek to fall quietly onto a quilted rose.

  “I have to go now,” Cameryn said. She felt helpless, utterly helpless. She wanted to get up and run but instead she made herself be calm. If it’s ruled a murder, I’ll deal with it then, she told herself. Aloud, she said, “Tomorrow I’ve got to go back to Durango to finish the autopsy. There are some things I need to check out now.”

  Hannah paused. Once again the expression shifted. She began to pick at a loose thread, pulling a loop free. “They think it’s a suicide, right?”

  “Dr. Moore hasn’t figured out a manner of death yet. Tomorrow he will.”

  “It’s so sad, the way she cut off her pretty hair.” As Hannah pressed her fingertips into her forehead, Cameryn tried to quell the sick feeling roiling in her stomach.

  “Mom-how did you know about the hair?”

  “What?” Hannah’s face looked flat and empty, far away, as if her soul hung miles above the mountain clouds. “Oh, the cook from High Noon Burgers, Barry something-he’s Mrs. Kennedy’s son. She told me this morning. I guess it’s hard to keep a secret in a small town.”

  “You’re right. Secrets never stay buried in Silverton,” Cameryn repeated. She decided to believe this. For now, she would trust her mother and everything Hannah said. Standing, Cameryn reached down and awkwardly kissed the top of her mother’s head. “Get some rest.”

  “It’s hard to keep secrets,” Hannah said, in a voice barely above a whisper. Her forehead wrinkled and her face became soft in appeal. “But, Cammie, if you love me… then you have to keep mine.”

  Chapter Eleven

  “WELL, WELL, WELL, Miss Mahoney, you’re back,” said Dr. Moore. “And you brought your morgue shoes. Your camera, too, I hope.”

  “Yes,” she said. She looked at the floor and was immediately glad she’d remembered to wear her old running shoes to the autopsy suite. The linoleum was riddled with droplets of blood, which created a strange effect; it looked to Cameryn like a red galaxy had erupted on the floor. Dr. Moore’s eyes followed hers as she took in the floor. “You missed a messy autopsy this morning,” he said. “Ben will be here soon to mop it up.”

  During her lunch hour Justin had called to tell her he and the sheriff were meeting with some men from the Colorado Bureau of Investigation, an announcement that sent a wave of fear through her. But when Justin added, “Jacobs called in the CBI to help identify Baby Doe-I guess they have some sort of strategy,” Cameryn had felt herself relax. The CBI men weren’t asking about Hannah.

  “As you can probably tell, it’s already been a long day,” said Dr. Moore. Although it was only three thirty in the afternoon, the strain of the day showed on his face-it was pink, shiny with sweat. The sockets of his eyes had darkened while the veins in his temples visibly throbbed. But it was Dr. Moore’s plastic apron that revealed what kind of work he’d been subjected to before her arrival. The apron was streaked with blood, some in vertical stripes, but most lined in horizontal rows that stretched across his chest and belly, each line dotted with splatters the size of quarters. It looked like a musical score, sprinkled with notes from a song. The music of death.

  “Is there a problem, Miss Mahoney?”

  “I’m sorry. It’s just-there’s so much blood.”

  “A drunk ran a red light and hit a pedestrian head-on a few blocks from here. The drunk, of course, is fine and recovering in Mercy Medical. The decedent is already in the cooler.”

  “That’s so awful,” she breathed.

  “The inequities of death. You have to harden yourself or you’ll never get through.” He looked at her wearily. “You can put your backpack on the desk along with your coat. Suit up so we can get started, although I don’t think you’ll need more than a paper apron and gloves. You’ll be more of an observer today.”

  Cameryn dropped her belongings, then walked to the locker and put on a disposable apron. Silently stripping away his bloody apron, Dr. Moore opened a cabinet and threw the garment into a biohazard container marked for washing. The gloves were tossed into the garbage can. He pulled out fresh gloves and a new, folded plastic apron, which he looped over his head before knotting the waist ties behind his back.

  “Did you see the sketch of Baby Doe in the paper this morning?” he asked. “The artist did a fine job. He worked off a photograph you took. It was a very good likeness.”

  “I didn’t get a chance to see it yet, Dr. Moore.” Suddenly alarmed, she said, “I smell something. Is there a fire?” An acrid odor, like smoke from a campfire, had wafted its way through the autopsy room.

  “No, Ben’s just cleaning up. It’s burn day.” Dr. Moore adjusted the loop around his neck so that the apron fit snugly.

  “Burn day?”

  “Ben’s throwing tissue into the incinerator. We do it once every three months. He’ll be done soon.”

  “You’ve got a crematorium here?”

  “No. We have an incinerator.” He turned to her then, examining her, the lenses of his glasses magnifying his eyes. She could see how bloodshot his eyes were. “At some point we have to dispose of all the parts left in the buckets-heart, brain, lung, liver. After eighteen months, they’re gone. Unless it’s a homicide. Those parts we keep forever.”

  “There’s a lot of smoke. How much are you burning today? ”

  “We’re losing about”-he thought for a minute, staring at the ceiling-“one hundred and twenty pounds of tissue. It’s quite a job. There are regulations on how much we can incinerate at once. Air-quality issues and such.”

  “Oh.”

  “Oh, indeed.”

  Dr. Moore wasn’t playing any music. In the background Cameryn could hear the hum of the refrigerator where they kept the bodies lined up on gurneys in a neat row. She’d been in it before. Unlike the storage room, the cooler was thick with the odor of death, almost strangling. Once inside she always switched to breathing through her mouth, even though, until she walked out, she could almost taste those people.

  “By the way, Miss Mahoney, did you know my friend Jo Ann Whittaker is the dean of forensics at CU?” He looked at her over his half-moon glasses. “It’s very unusual she would reach out to an incoming freshman.”

  “I guess she saw me on television.”

  "Do you know she’s very connected to the police as well?”

  “Yes.”

  “And how do you know that?”

  “Because Jo Ann told me.”

  It was true. Cameryn had been seated at her desk Saturday night when she’d heard the soft ping of her computer. She’d opened her e-mail. The new message had read:

  Dear Ms. Mahoney,

  I was sorry to receive an alert that you have a Jane Doe in Silverton. As a forensic pathologist and dean of the CU College of Forensics, I would like to offer you any help I could provide. I am closely associated with various law-enforcement agencies throughout Colorado. If you have need for assistance in any form, I assure you that whatever information you choose to share with me will be held in the strictest of confidence.

  Jo Ann Whittaker

  Quickly, Cameryn had replied:

  Dear Ms. Whittaker,

  Thank you for your concern. We still do not have the manner of death but should know more tomorrow after we complete a brain bucket. I do have a question about a different case.

  She’d hesitated then, because she knew she shouldn’t give out information to anyone. Jo Ann Whittaker, though, was the one person she could talk to. A professional tucked all the way in Boulder, Jo Ann would never be able to connect the Silverton dots. Still, Cameryn understood what she had to share would have to be framed carefully. Slowly, she’d typed, Do the words ‘Keep Sweet’ mean anything to you? I’d appreciate any information you might have. Cameryn Mahoney (Please call me Cameryn)

  Her finger hovered over the key only a moment before she hit “Send.” She had just finished pulling on her nightshirt when she’d heard another ping of the comp
uter. The message read:

  Dear Cameryn,

  (Please call me Jo Ann.) Your question will take some time to research, but I should have an answer for you Monday afternoon. Until then,

  Jo Ann

  Jo Ann had contacted her again only an hour ago as she’d been driving down the Million Dollar Highway. The ping of her BlackBerry had told her it was an e-mail. Shifting her eyes, she’d glanced at it and seen that it was from Jo Ann Whittaker. Pulling onto the next overlook, she’d heard the engine of her car clatter in idle as she sat staring at the tiny screen, at the same time fingering Mariah’s silver ring in her pocket. The e-mail had read:

  Dear Cameryn,

  It’s Monday afternoon and I am, unfortunately, running behind. I don’t have all the facts yet, but I can say I have discovered some interesting news about the words ‘Keep Sweet’ that I think you will find most enlightening. I will share what I know this evening. Can you divulge any more information about the case?

  Jo Ann

  Although her mammaw talked of God and angels, Cameryn had never really believed in signs. Yet the e-mail had promised an answer and that, in and of itself, was a small miracle. She’d read it once, twice, three times through before looking out her windshield. In a mountain crevice she saw broken tree limbs, victims of a small avalanche. There was a graveyard feeling to that wash of trees; the ones that had died had been reduced to gray skeletons, their arms bleached like bones. Other trees on the edge were leaning, touching, as though the stronger held the weaker. Like Cameryn held up Hannah, she thought. But now Cameryn needed someone powerful to hold her up. She knew she’d found strength in the person of Jo Ann. Slowly, on the tiny keypad, Cameryn had written:

  Dear Jo Ann,

  I’m on my way to do the brain bucket so we’ll connect this evening. I really am excited to find out what you’ve discovered. Thank you so much for your interest and your help.

  Cameryn

  The thought that someone was on her side had calmed her. As Cameryn had pulled back onto the highway once more, she’d felt the knot inside her relax. What good would it do, worrying and making plans, until she had all the facts? The brain bucket could reveal the death as a suicide; after that she would find a way to get the ring to the sheriff, which meant all the worrying she’d done up till then would be for nothing. Jane Doe’s death had to be suicide. Cameryn was sure of that. And now it sounded as though the ring would yield an important clue, which could point them all in the right direction.

  “So it’s Jo Ann, is it?” Dr. Moore said now, breaking into her thoughts. “You’re on a first-name basis with the dean and you’re only seventeen. It’s clear that you, Miss Mahoney, are a rising forensic star. If Jo Ann Whittaker is shepherding you, then you’re in the very best of hands. So-are you ready to begin this task?” He gestured toward the counter, and Cameryn was surprised to see Mariah’s brain exactly where they had left it. The chemical had whitened the brain slightly, turning it a pearly beige. Picking up the bucket, Moore took Mariah’s brain to the sink. “You might want to watch how I do this, Miss Mahoney,” he said. “There’s a real finesse to the procedure.”

  Carefully, Dr. Moore lifted the lid from the specimen jar and set it to one side. Then, with both hands, he removed Mariah’s brain to hold it over the plastic container while the formalin fell off the sides in a shower of tiny droplets. The string slipped back into the bucket, drifting gently, slowly, until it settled on the bottom like a single strand of hair.

  “The brain’s hardened up,” he said, smiling grimly, “which is exactly what we want. If I had tried to cut Baby Doe’s brain before the formalin did its work, it would have fallen apart on the table. Now it’s nice and firm. Perfect.”

  The surface of the brain looked similar to Mariah’s intestines, with its fissures and squiggly canals compressed together in a tight sphere. From her books she knew the names of the areas: the central sulcus, the parietal lobe, the occipital lobe, the cerebellum. But the brain was mystic as well-Mariah’s thoughts had been contained there, in that wrinkled human organ. Dr. Moore stood cradling the essence of Mariah in his very hands.

  “Turn on the water, will you, Miss Mahoney?” he said, holding the dripping brain dead center over the bucket. “I need the water lukewarm. We’ve got to rinse off the brain before I can start. Make sure it isn’t too hot, or the tissue will cook. A brain is surprisingly delicate.”

  “Okay, I’ll be careful.” The sink was deep and made of stainless steel. Turning the handle, she adjusted the stream until the temperature felt right. “It’s ready,” she told him, and a moment later Dr. Moore was beside her, closer than she wanted as he plunged Mariah’s brain into the water as if it were a head of lettuce. With a quick motion he took the brain back to the autopsy table, placing it atop the perforated holes.

  “Let me get a rod. You get your camera. Ben will need to take a set of photographs, too.”

  “Dr. Moore?” she asked as she went to her backpack to retrieve the camera.

  "Yes?”

  Cameryn swallowed, trying to act casual, determined not to appear as nervous as she felt. She removed the camera and came back to the autopsy table to where the doctor stood, waiting. “Did you get any results from the gunshot-residue test?”

  “I did.”

  “And… what did they say?”

  “The results were negative.”

  Negative. A stone sank into her chest. If the kit had shown a positive for the residue, the question of Mariah’s death being a suicide would be over. It would be proof that Mariah had held the gun in her own hand when she pulled the trigger. Instead, no residue on a victim’s hand was a red flag that pointed to homicide. “So,” she said, “do you think…?”

  “I think it’s inconclusive. We’re dealing with a.22-caliber weapon. As I told you, a.22 is notorious for its lack of residue. So there are no definitive answers there,” said Moore. “That’s why I’m going for clarification with the rod.”

  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.

  “Th
e 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.”