The Circle of Blood

by Ferguson, Alane

  Dr. Moore put a blue paper mask on, tying it behind his head in a quick knot. The thin gray hairs bristled over the line of the string. “I heard you ask Ben if we could just begin with the gunshot wound to the head, but there is never a variation in an autopsy procedure,” Moore said. His voice was muffled. “We go by the book, piece by piece. Put on a mask, Miss Mahoney,” he said, shoving a blue paper mask in her hand. “Bone dust is not something you should inhale.” She’d been unaware the men had already donned their own masks. The blue paper collapsed, then expanded with their every breath, in and out, like a bellows.

  As the opera hit a crescendo, Dr. Moore gave a crisp nod to Ben, who pulled down the flap of skin from Mariah’s face, once again exposing her features. The flattened eyes had become even cloudier, as though a storm had rolled in. Looking at that face snapped Cameryn back to reality. What had she been playing at? Before, she’d allowed herself to get lost in the science, but the face brought her back again. This had been a human being. The freckles began at the bridge of Mariah’s nose and spread across her cheeks in a nebula that spiraled into her hairline. Someone had loved those freckles. A mother . . . a father . . . They needed to know what their daughter had done to herself, and Cameryn was withholding the answer. She was torn. Her need to tell was so strong the words rushed up her throat, but she held back, wary. You’ll think of a way. But not now.

  “All right, let’s see what we can see,” said Ben. Balancing Mariah’s neck on a block that raised the head five inches, Ben took his own scalpel and made a slice from the top of the right ear to the top of her left. With an expert motion, he peeled the scalp from the bone while Mariah’s head jiggled softly. Then, with strong fingers pushing beneath the loosened skin, he pulled Mariah’s scalp all the way forward, far enough to tuck beneath her chin. Strawberry hair puffed at her jawline and swirled past her collarbone. Blue veins branched out like rivers on a map. The back of the scalp was then folded toward the nape of the neck, exposing skull that was as white as mother-of-pearl.

  The Stryker saw whirred as Ben cut through Mariah’s skull in a line that went first across her brow bone all the way to the back of her head. When Ben put in the skull chisel and turned it hard, Cameryn heard a strange thwack as skull pulled from the durum. Another twist at the base, and the skull cap popped free.

  “I knew it,” said Ben. “You were right, Dr. Moore. We do need a brain bucket. This has gone to mush.”

  “The formalin will harden the brain so we can test bullet trajectory,” Dr. Moore translated. “Watch his technique, Miss Mahoney. There’s a trick to all this.”

  Ben said, “I got to slice it free. See? Now I’m cutting the spinal cord. And if I pull it just right”—he gently tugged at Mariah’s brain—“you get a brain out all in one piece. It’s just like birthin’ a baby.”

  “Now, hand the brain to Miss Mahoney,” instructed Moore.

  Cameryn felt her throat tighten. “What?”

  “I want you to take the brain from Ben. Hold it carefully and come to the bucket. And for Pete’s sake, don’t drop it.”

  Ben’s eyebrows shot into his hairline as he asked, “You sure about this?”

  “Yes. She wants to learn, and I want to teach.”

  Cameryn looked at her father, who seemed as surprised as she was. Without speaking he gave her a nod. She understood it to mean the choice was hers. Trembling, Cameryn cupped her palms together as Ben carefully released Mariah’s brain into her waiting hands. It was much heavier than she had anticipated, and her arms briefly sagged from the weight of it, but she quickly raised them as she took a step forward.

  It was hard for Cameryn to comprehend what was happening. The essence of Mariah was in her hands, wrinkled and flanged, its whirls and grooves tinged by marbles of blood. Mariah’s thoughts, her dreams, her memories had been stored in the gray-white matter. Cameryn felt what seemed like an electrical jolt passing between the organ and her own soul. If there was any spark left of Mariah, the ember would be there. I’m so sorry, Cameryn thought at the brain, not caring how stupid it might seem. I’m so sorry, Mariah. For the very first time, she meant it.

  “Come here and turn it upside down,” Dr. Moore instructed. “See this string?” He held it taut across the bucket’s rim. “I want you to balance that canal between the two hemispheres right along the line. That’s the way.”

  Carefully, she did. The brain floated in the clear liquid before gently sinking.

  “Why are you doing this?” she asked.

  “I want to see that bullet’s trajectory. Before you arrived, Miss Mahoney, I studied the barrel of the gun. There was no blowback that I could see, none whatsoever. The gunpowder residue around the bullet hole is suggestive as well. Since you lawmen come from a small town, you might not know that in suicides involving handguns, the victim usually drops the weapon or throws it up to several feet away when his or her arm flings outward. Sometimes, of course, a weapon stays in the decedent’s hand, but not often. For now, we wait. Come back when the brain has hardened and we’ll see what we can see.”

  “So . . . you think—” Cameryn stammered. She could feel her body go rigid.

  Dr. Moore pulled off his mask. His bullfrog neck seemed to swell with air as he said, “I want to get a report on what is underneath Baby Doe’s nails. I’d like to see if there is any gunshot residue or any fingerprints on those scissors. It could all come up clean and that will be that. But it’s possible your deputy’s right.” His thick white brows came together, and while he frowned, Cameryn focused on the mark his mask had made over the bridge of his nose, wanting to escape the words she knew were coming next. They came anyway.

  “This could be a homicide.”

  Chapter Nine

  “CAMMIE, WHAT’S WRONG?” Justin asked. “You look like you’re going to be sick.”

  “Too much brain bucket, I’ll bet,” offered Ben.

  Cameryn took a deep breath. “I just . . . I think I need the restroom. Excuse me.”

  No one argued as she stripped off her gown, tossing her latex gloves in the garbage along with her hair covering. Behind her, she heard the murmur of voices discussing blowback on the gun’s barrel, and the nicks left inside the skull by the ricocheting bullet. The voices grew softer as the door swung in and out; with each pass she could still hear the words “hard to interpret” and “slaying” until she was too far down the hall to make them out. She thought she’d escaped, but the words trailed after her like smoke.

  It wasn’t a restroom she needed—just time to think. She went as far as the lobby before dropping into an institutional chair. The chrome frame gleamed in the light, as shiny and cold as an autopsy instrument. She crossed her legs and watched her foot jiggle in the half-light until she commanded it to stop. If she was going to keep secrets, she’d have to become less transparent.

  For a moment she stood, and then, with no place to go, she sat down again. The material on the chair was a rough, institutional fabric with an out-of-date, stain-hiding pattern. Cheap magazine tables bisected the rows of chairs. A copy of Field & Stream adorned one, while a House & Garden lay open on the other. A battered copy of I Wasn’t Ready to Say Goodbye: Surviving, Coping and Healing after the Death of a Loved One lay splayed on a laminate coffee table. When she leafed through it, she saw the pages were puckered; salted—she guessed, by tears. She picked up the Field & Stream, read the cover, and set it down again.

  “I would have pegged you as more of a House and Garden type,” Justin said, surprising her from behind and then slipping into a chair beside her. “You know, cutting, stitching things up.” While his arms rested on chrome, his blue jeans-clad legs spread wide, unfolding as if to take up as much space as possible.

  “Very funny. Actually, out of these choices I’d have to say I’m more of a Field and Stream kind of girl. My mammaw still makes us eat fish every Friday, so for a while I got into catching them. But I don’t like to clean fish,” she said, wrinkling her nose. It was amazing, she realized, the w
ay she could flip her internal switch and hide what she was feeling. Not only from others, but from herself. “Gutting a fish—that’s where I draw the line.”

  “You want to open up bodies but you’re girly about a fish. You are a mass of contradictions, Cameryn Mahoney.”

  “Yeah. Maybe it’s because I have to eat the fish. No such problem with the decedents.”

  He studied her a moment before saying, “If people knew what happened to their bodies after death, they wouldn’t die.” Justin waited a beat. “Something’s happened with you,” he said. “I could tell when you had the brain in your hands. That stuff never bothered you before. What’s going on? ”

  “Nothing. I think I’m just hungry,” she told him, shaking her head. “I’ve only had one hot chocolate today.”

  “What a coincidence. I was just about to see if you’d like to have dinner.” He was smiling his Cheshire-cat grin. Justin, at times, could look every inch the bad boy he’d been before reinventing himself as a lawman.

  “What do you mean?”

  “For a forensic superstar you’re a bit slow on the uptake. I mean you’re hungry and we’re here in the big town of Durango, home of some truly great restaurants. I was thinking of Francisco’s on Main. It’s only eight thirty at night, still well within the accepted dinner hour in towns with a population of over, say, ten. I’ll take you home afterward,” he said. One eyebrow rose on his forehead, partially hidden by his fringe of dark hair. “Come on, I’ll even pay.”

  "Why?”

  “Because I want to talk to you,” he said. “About this case and . . . other things.”

  Cameryn felt her stomach flutter. “Um, I’ll have to ask my dad.”

  “I already did. They’re pretty much done in there. He said if you want to go, you’ve got the ‘all clear’ from him. Which is actually quite nice, since he hated my guts when I first came to town.”

  “Not hate. You’re exaggerating. He disliked you intensely, but it was never hate.”

  “Well, here’s the thing. When you’re at the bottom, there’s no place to go but up.”

  She smiled at this, her first real smile in what felt like forever. When she stood, Justin helped her with her coat, which he’d brought from the autopsy suite. “Your bag,” he said, presenting it to her, and soon they were out in the cold Durango night.

  “Hold on—you’re going to slip in those boots,” he warned. When he extended his arm, she took it, feeling silly yet wonderful at the same time. Being this close reminded her again of how tall he was. The snow had stopped falling while they’d been inside the autopsy room, and the sky had opened up to clear away the clouds. Overhead she could see pinpricks of stars struggling to break through the city’s glow. When she tipped her head back, her hair reached all the way past her hips. “Your hair is so long,” Justin said. He touched it. “Almost as long as Baby Doe’s.”

  “But hers was prettier,” Cameryn replied.

  “I like dark hair better.”

  He said this in her ear. A blush rose in her face, spreading from where his breath hit her cheek and moved all the way across her skin. She was still warm when they climbed into his car and drove onto Main Street.

  Justin said, “I’m from New York. I can’t believe I just called this a ‘big town.’”

  “Anything is big next to Silverton.” Cameryn rolled down the window. Craning her neck, she felt the cold as she drank in the smell of the city. Pungent car exhaust mixed with the odor of fast-food chains. Along Main, she saw freshly plowed snow already darkened from car emissions, as if waves had lapped against it from a dirty shore. She took it all in: the shoppers bustling by, overloaded with bags; lovers holding hands, while fathers herded children. Christmas decorations filled every window. The lights of Durango were yellow, like giant candles, warm and beautiful. She wanted to eat the air itself.

  “Shut that window—we’re gonna freeze,” Justin cried.

  “I want to take it all in.”

  “You’re crazy,” he told her. “Absolutely crazy.” When he laughed, the sound of it rushed over her. She could forget Mariah and Hannah and the bullet wound and her secrets. Justin was pushing the day’s darkness from her mind, and if she tried, she could make it disappear. Everything could still work out fine. Worrying about the case until she knew Dr. Moore’s verdict wouldn’t change a thing. No, she would let herself be carried by this new tide.

  He talked to her about a movie he’d rented and his latest passion, extreme snowboarding. She talked about her plans for college. It wasn’t until they’d settled into the booth, after they’d ordered their food, that she sensed he was about to say what he’d wanted to in Silverton. He put down the fork he’d been twisting between his fingers. A candle was burning in the middle of the table, casting shadows. “So . . . how’s it going with your mother?”

  Cameryn, who had been leaning forward on her elbows, pulled away. Straightening, she said, “Fine. Why?”

  “I’m the one who got the two of you together. I feel responsible.”

  “Don’t. I mean, my relationship with Hannah is fine.”

  “Man, talk about body language. You just got totally tense.”

  To distract herself, she took a sip of water. Setting down the glass, she waited, her hand crimping the cloth napkin she’d placed on her lap.

  “Anyway,” he said, “the truth is, I really didn’t want to talk about Hannah.”

  “Good,” she said, smiling. “’Cause neither do I. This has already been a hard day.”

  “Autopsies are pretty rough. Right,” he said. Justin looked as nervous as Cameryn felt. He picked up the fork again, twirled it, then set it down. “But here’s the thing.” He cleared his throat. Cameryn noticed with amusement he was actually fidgeting. “I . . . I did want to talk about Kyle.”

  The warm feeling she’d been nurturing sank like water into sand. Kyle O’Neil—an Eagle Scout, straight-A student, and football star—had taken Cameryn to Silverton’s Hillside Cemetery and kissed her there. He’d also tried to kill her. A sociopath, Kyle had murdered her favorite teacher, and when Cameryn figured it out, Kyle had gone after her. Then vanished. No one had found a trace of Kyle since he’d disappeared, even though his picture had been plastered all over the Internet. Fox News had done a report, and Cameryn was interviewed on camera. It was this news piece that had put her onto the radar of Jo Ann Whittaker, the university professor who might offer her a full-ride scholarship. So at least, in the end, Kyle had been good for something.

  “Has he been caught?” she asked, tensing.

  “No. The FBI had a bead on him in Texas, but by the time they got there, he was gone. It’s like this guy vanishes into thin air.”

  She shrugged. “Okay. He’s gone. How much does a snowboard cost?”

  “Cammie . . .”

  “Look,” she said, “lots of girls go out with guys who try and kill them. It happens all the time.” She attempted a smile, one Justin did not return.

  “Stop trying to turn this into a joke,” he said. “This is serious. What happened to you in that shed—when Kyle tried to fry you with that thing—”

  “The klystron tube. It was a microwave called a klystron tube.”

  “Whatever. My point is that attempted murder is a big deal. Some people go into post-traumatic stress disorder from just half the stuff you’ve been through.”

  This was not where she’d thought the conversation was headed. “I’m pretty tough.”

  “But I can see it. It’s like you’re trying to pretend things never happened when they did. Listen, I checked, and there’s money in the victim-assistant program for a counselor. I think maybe you should take advantage of the funds.”

  It took a moment for her to process what he was saying. “Is that what you’re doing? You took me out just to make sure I’m all right? You think I’m going mental or something?”

  He looked at her, confused. “No. No, no, no. I don’t think—It’s just—I want to make sure you’re okay. I care ab
out you.” Her reached out his hand and placed it on top of hers. “Really.”

  There was music in the background, some Latin number whose notes peaked over the hum of the crowd. The acoustics were muddied by the sound bouncing off the tile that adorned the walls, the floor, even the tabletop itself. Thankfully, at that moment, their server appeared, setting down their food. Cameryn kept her eyes glued to the salad placed before her. Her mind, though, remained on high alert, because Justin’s hand was still on hers. She could feel his calluses on her skin, like sandpaper.

  When their server had gone, he squeezed the ends of Cameryn’s fingers. “I’m sorry,” he said. He pulled his hand away, suddenly awkward. Cameryn dropped her hand to her lap.

  “I didn’t mean to make you angry,” said Justin.

  “Who says I’m angry?”

  “Your face says you’re angry. You’re pissed that I asked you to go to counseling. Hey, I’d take some therapy myself, as long as it was free.” Justin laughed self-consciously. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his neck like a cork on water.

  “I get it, Justin. No worries. I’ll check into it,” she lied.

  “I can tell there’s a lot going on in your head.”

  “Are you turning into a psychic like Lyric?”

  “Of course not,” he said. His grin was slightly off center. “But I see things. It’s like—when I said Baby Doe might have been murdered, your face went blank. It happened in the autopsy suite, too.”

  “I sound mysterious.” She picked up her fork and stabbed a cherry tomato. “It’s like you think I have something to hide.”

  “Do you?”

  “No.” Cameryn could look at him now, at his blue-green eyes, a mix of water and grass, thickly fringed by lashes her mammaw said were wasted on a man. Inside, she felt strangely calm. She liked him, that was true, but she couldn’t abide the way he saw through her. No one else, not even Lyric, had been able to perceive her soul like Justin. In a way she felt naked. Somewhere deep inside, she was afraid of what else Justin might see. It was wrong to think she could escape from her troubles with him. He wouldn’t let her pretend.