The Circle of Blood

by Ferguson, Alane

  “Did you— Did you talk about Jayne?”

  She planted the tip of her boot onto the notch and pressed it. “Hannah told me what happened.”

  “She did? Can you please look at me?”

  She did. Patrick’s eyes were warm, sad, and full of love. There was so much love in Patrick’s eyes that it was almost impossible to hold his gaze. But she made herself do it. “I—I feel sorry for Hannah,” she said in a thickened voice.

  “You feel sorry for her. Wow.” He blinked hard. “That’s not the reaction I expected.”

  “It’s just, there are worse things . . . worse people . . . than Hannah,” Cameryn tried to explain. “Baby Doe put a bullet in her head. Imagine how screwed up her life must have been. Maybe she had problems and everyone abandoned her and then she killed herself. I’m not going to abandon Hannah,” she told him. “I think I can help.”

  “Cammie . . . there’s more that you don’t know.”

  “But I don’t want to hear any more giant revelations. I think I’ve had enough for one day. Can we just let it lie?”

  The door to X-ray popped open, and Ben pushed Mariah out, feet-first. “All done,” he said.

  For just the barest of seconds, her father held Cameryn in his gaze until, like a cord breaking, he released her. They once again became the coroner and assistant to the coroner, a father/daughter team, the cheerful partners who worked cases together in family harmony. No outsider would ever guess the truth. She wouldn’t let them.

  “You two ready?” Ben asked.

  “Yeah,” she said. “We’re ready.”

  They began to walk down the hallway, the worn heels of Cameryn’s cowboy boots reverberating along the linoleum in rhythm with the soft padding sound of her father’s new shoes. Other than the overheads, most of the lights had been turned off. As she walked, she thought of Lyric and how frightened she would be if she were here. Lyric believed the deceased hovered close to their remains—sometimes, she claimed, unaware they were actually dead. But Cameryn didn’t sense any floating spirits here. No, it was the smell that haunted, a reminder of what really went on inside these plain beige walls. As she got closer to the autopsy suite she inhaled it, the sickly sweet odor scrubbed by bleach and covered by ineffective fresheners. The air in the building hung heavy with death. It had entered into the very pores, weaving its own kind of DNA from the hundreds of bodies dissected inside these walls. The hardest thing about her chosen profession, worse than anything Cameryn ever looked at, was this clinging smell of death.

  With the ball of his fist, her father pushed open the door to the autopsy suite. Dr. Moore, already at the sink, looked up and grunted. “Didn’t think I’d see you again so soon, Patrick,” he said. “What’s going on in that town of yours? Two children in one day? Silverton’s become a charnel house.”

  “We’ve had a bad run,” her father admitted. With his feet planted, he rocked back on his heels. “Car accidents are part of living in the mountains, but this . . . Well, you’ll see. Suicides are always hard, and this girl’s practically a baby.”

  “A baby with a gun. Move it, Miss Mahoney,” Moore ordered, turning his small eyes onto her. “Get suited up and get in the game. I don’t intend to spend the night here. Since you’re our famed forensic prodigy—”

  “I never said that,” she protested, but Dr. Moore dismissed her objection, waving his hand through the air as if he were swatting flies. “A prodigy should know to get into her scrubs instead of standing there with her mouth open. You’ll find them exactly where they were before, in that cabinet over there. Hurry. I’ve got a job for you. And I think it’s something even you have never seen before. Get ready, Cameryn. You’re about to go on quite a ride.”

  Chapter Seven

  CAMERYN’S MIND RACED as she put on her forensic gear piece by piece, as though she were suiting up for battle. A pale green gown went on first. Next came a disposable black plastic apron, shiny as beetle wings, the strings of which she tied behind her, then in front, before knotting them together. She lifted a disposable cloth shower cap, the kind she’d seen doctors use in surgery, shoving her hair beneath it so that it ballooned out at her neck. Last, she removed a matching pair of booties to slip on later.

  Shutting the door behind them, her father and Ben had disappeared into a back room where Justin and the sheriff stood quietly talking. It felt odd to be alone with Dr. Moore. The doctor had an acid tongue, which made Cameryn apprehensive. It was best, she decided, to say nothing to him until she was spoken to, but when she looked up, she saw something she had never seen before. Words were painted on the walls in a spidery script against a scene of what looked to be mountain peaks. She squinted, trying to understand. Hic locus est ubi mors gaudet succurrere vitae.

  “Dr. Moore?” she asked. “What is that? What does it mean?”

  He turned off the spigot and stared at her, water dripping from his thick rubber gloves. “You’re going into medicine and you don’t know Latin?” he asked, staring at her over his reading glasses, which had slipped down his bulbous nose.

  “The priest uses Latin sometimes in a High Mass, but I never know what he’s saying.”

  Dr. Moore crossed his arms over his ample middle. Had he been more jovial and sported a white beard, he could have been a mall Santa. His white hair formed a wreath around his bald head while his half-moon glasses winked in the light, making him look almost friendly. But Cameryn knew better. Dr. Moore was a brilliant, demanding, work-obsessed man who, despite his prickly nature, she was beginning to like. Still, she remained cautious around him. One time he’d thrown her out of his autopsy suite, an event she never wanted to repeat.

  He began to open metal cupboards over the autopsy sink. “If you want to get ahead in medicine, I suggest you take at least a cursory course in Latin. Most medical names have Latin roots,” he told her, pulling out a cotton towel and spreading it on a metal countertop.

  “Latin isn’t offered at Silverton High.”

  “Why am I not surprised? It’s yet another example of our education system going to hell in a handbasket. Ah, well,” he sighed. With his arm, he swept an arc toward the wall as he announced, “That verse can be found in autopsy theaters across the world. Since we didn’t seem to have a budget for such things, I painted it myself. The phrase is most commonly translated: ‘This is the place where death delights to help the living.’”

  “You’re a painter, too?” Cameryn asked, startled. “I didn’t know that.”

  Dr. Moore’s voice was dry. “It may surprise you, Miss Mahoney, to realize I have a life outside these walls.”

  Of course he did—she knew that. But she found it hard to imagine what Dr. Moore did when he was away from the autopsy suite. Squatting, she adjusted a paper bootie, and when she looked up at him from this angle, the man seemed different. The profound grooves that had formed at the sides of his mouth exaggerated both his underbite and his perpetual frown, and yet . . . there was something changed in his eyes. They seemed to be smiling, as though Cameryn amused him somehow. He’d never looked so approachable. Without thinking, she blurted, “Dr. Moore, can I ask you something? Even though it’s personal?”

  “May you,” he said tartly. “I’ll decide the answer when I hear your question.”

  “How did you know you wanted to be a forensic pathologist? My mammaw says I should be a ‘real’ doctor instead of a medical examiner. Everyone says that.”

  Dr. Moore pushed his glasses up his nose, staring at her for a moment. “How I got into this line of work is a story I don’t often share.”

  “I won’t tell anyone. Believe me, Dr. Moore, I can keep a secret.” She pulled on her second bootie and stood—she and the doctor were practically the same height. He might have been taller if his neck had not been swallowed by his generous torso, although his limbs were so thin they looked as though they belonged to another body, as if he were made up of separate parts.

  “It’s not that kind of story. It’s more . . . whimsical.” He s
eemed to be deciding something. “Very well, I’ll answer your question. I discovered my path”—he waited a beat, and then said, with absolute seriousness—“from a fortune cookie.”

  Cameryn was completely astonished by this, and it must have shown, because Dr. Moore said, “Don’t look so surprised, Miss Mahoney.”

  “It just—that doesn’t seem very scientific.”

  “You’re young, but as you mature you’ll discover that things—and people—are rarely what they seem.” As he talked, Dr. Moore began to busy himself positioning forensic instruments on the terry-cloth towel. “At the time, I was deciding between becoming a general practitioner”—he placed a bread knife on the cloth, straightening it so that it lined up precisely to the towel’s edge—“or a medical examiner. I found myself being drawn to the darker art of forensics. So the question before me was to either stay the course”—he set down a bone saw—“or convert to pathology. One night, I took my wife to a Chinese restaurant to talk about which direction I should go.”

  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 h
elp 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.”