The Circle of Blood

by Ferguson, Alane

  “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.

  “Do you know Willie Wheeler? He’s the man who runs the gift shop on Eleventh.”

  “Yeah.” Cameryn nodded. “I know him. If you live in Silverton you end up knowing everybody.”

  “Willie Wheeler called the station today. He read the article in the paper and saw the sketch. He had some information.”

  “He did?”

  “I took the report. Willie said—he said he saw your mother with the decedent. He said he saw Hannah and Esther talking in Hannah’s car the day Esther’s body was found.” Justin narrowed his eyes. “Do you know anything about that?”

  Cameryn could not respond. She stood, frozen, her back as cold as the siding on the house.

  “This is serious. The case has been bumped up to a homicide investigation. Your mother needs to come forward and say what she knows. You’ve been spending a lot of time with Hannah lately. Did she tell you she met this girl?”

  There was nothing Cameryn wanted more than to escape. Hannah, so flighty and distracted, could very well crack under Justin’s questioning. She might tell about the “Keep Sweet” ring. The ring Cameryn carried in her pocket. Or the wallet. The wallet she’d chased and lied about.

  “Cameryn, are you listening to me? I’m asking you direct: Did your mother say anything at all to you about meeting Esther?”

  Her head, as if on its own accord, shook no.

  “You’re sure,” Justin pressed. “You’re absolutely sure.”

  Cameryn nodded. Now she was lying to Justin. One lie on top of another, like stones, so many, so large they’d turned into a wall.

  “I already went to the Wingate but Hannah wasn’t there. I’ve called but she hasn’t picked up. Do you know where she is?”

  This she could answer truthfully. “No. I had school and then the brain bucket and I just got home. The battery on my BlackBerry died—if Hannah tried to reach me, I didn’t get the message.” Focus on the lights, the blinking colors on his face. Not on the cracks that were breaking inside her. She could feel them spreading, like a foundation rocked by an earthquake. If she didn’t take control, these fissures would make her crumble.

  For an instant Cameryn closed her eyes, aware of the ring in her pocket, small and round. When she opened them, she could see Justin and his look of disbelief. He stared, his eyes dark in the half-light. Cameryn made herself look back.

  “All right,” he said at last. “Then we’ll leave it at that.” He dropped his arm and stepped away, freeing her. “If you hear from Hannah, tell her I need to talk to her,” he said, sounding as though he was sorry he came. Well, she was sorry, too. Everything had started to spin out of control, and she didn’t know how to pull it back.

  “Good night, Cameryn.” Justin jumped down the last two stairs. Soon his engine roared to life and he was backing out, his headlights sweeping across their lawn as he pulled onto the street. His taillights lit up like angry red eyes, and he was gone.

  Numb, she went inside the kitchen. Her grandmother was making small sounds from her room, getting dressed, Cameryn figured. By stepping only on the edges of the stairs where they wouldn’t squeak, Cameryn made her way quietly to her own bedroom, silently, carefully, so as not to alert her mammaw, who might still want to talk. She didn’t turn on the lights as she stepped inside, guided by the glow from her screensaver. Fish swam in the computer screen’s artificial water, moving through the underwater light.

  She flopped onto her bed, burying her face into her pillow. Pain, already seeping through her soul, burst through the wall in her heart. There was a witness. The very thing she’d been afraid of had happened. Things had turned even more complicated and would only get worse. It was time, she knew, for her mother to come forward, because the noose was tightening inch by inch. She would have to talk her mother into it.

  Pulling her phone from its cradle, Cameryn punched in her mother’s number, but immediately Hannah’s voice message came on. Cameryn hung up, unsure of what to do next. She thought of the articles on bipolar disorder beneath her bed, but was too tired to read them. She was too tired to think, too tired to force her mind to wake up and calculate the worst possible outcome of each choice available. The witness, the brain bucket, and the word murder swirled through her head in a sick kaleidoscope. There was nowhere to turn, nothing to do.

  Two notes chimed from her computer telling her an e-mail had arrived. As though she were moving underwater, Cameryn made her way to her desk. It was a message from Jo Ann:Cameryn,

  I called my friend at the bureau and discovered there is quite a history to the words “Keep Sweet.” Keep Sweet is a saying used by Fundamentalist Mormons. These Fundamentalists are an offshoot and are not part of the mainstream Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. They absolutely do not belong to the real Mormon Church—it’s important to make that distinction. The Fundamental
ists believe in something called “the Principle”—which means that a man must marry at least three wives in order to enter their highest heaven, the Celestial Kingdom. According to my friend, “Keep Sweet” is part of a slogan that also says, “perfect obedience brings perfect faith.” This saying is aimed exclusively at girls.

  It sounds as though the Fundamentalist life, especially for the women, is a hard one. At a very young age the girls undergo something called “The Placement.” The Placement is done by their Prophet, who is whichever man is currently ruling over his people. Girls as young as twelve are married off to old men. Young boys are sent away at puberty—often called the “lost boys” because they are taken from their community and left to fend for themselves. (Obviously, the older men must get rid of the younger males, since only a few men have all the women.) Although it varies by community, some rules are exceedingly harsh. There have been reports of severe abuse, but it is difficult if not impossible to track this, since the Fundamentalists live in towns that are closed to outsiders. Does the term “Keep Sweet” involve a forensic case you’re working on?

  I hope this information is of help. I look forward to hearing from you.

  Jo Ann Whittaker

  A thought electrified Cameryn as she grabbed her phone and punched in her mother’s number once again.

  Pick up, pick up, pick up! she commanded.

  “Hello?”

  “Mom! It’s me Cameryn. Are you home?”

  “Yes.”

  “Stay there. I have something important to tell you. We have to talk and I’m coming over right now. Mom, I think I know who killed Mariah! ”

  Chapter Thirteen

  MRS. KENNEDY, THE owner of the Wingate, was in the parlor reading a book when Cameryn let herself in.

  “Your mother’s popular this evening. She’s already got a visitor. Go right on up.”

  “Who’s with her?” Cameryn asked.

  “Would you like some tea?” Mrs. Kennedy deflected the question. “I was just making—”