Circle of Blood (Forensic Mystery)

don’t know . . . grim. I’ve been thinking about that kid all day.”
    “Me, too,” she said, relieved he thought she was processing because of Benjamin. The business of death didn’t bother her the way it did others, a point that both fascinated and repelled her friends. The subject had come up just two days earlier as she lunched in the school’s cafeteria. Crowded around Formica tables, stuffing their mouths with chicken fingers while they talked, the senior class had brimmed with college plans. Cameryn had just dipped a fry into her catsup when Crystal turned on her with almond-shaped eyes. “What about you, Cameryn? Are you still going to do all that death stuff?” When she’d nodded yes , the table had erupted. “How can you stand looking at such gross stuff?” was followed by “What about the maggots? Have you seen real maggots wriggling on a corpse?” after which came “I heard you already held a human liver and cut it up—that is so disgusting!” rounded out by a chorus of “How can you do that ?” For as long as she could remember, her fascination with forensics had marked her as different. But for Cameryn, to peer inside a human body was a privilege. She understood that forensics was the last chance for the deceased to tell their stories; if she listened closely, they could whisper their secrets and she would translate.
    “So, Justin, how come you’re parked out here just watching the folks go by?”
    Propping his wrists on the steering wheel, he said, “I guess sometimes there’s a bit too much wassail downed at this festival. My job is to keep an eye out for drunks. This crowd looks pretty tame, though,” he said, turning his palm up. “It’s an interesting fair. Who knew so many folks’d come out for a snowmobile parade.”
    “There’s also ice-sculpting and food and all kinds of stuff. Later on they’ll have the dogsleds go by. It’s really cool.”
    “Seriously? I thought they only had that kind of stuff in Alaska.”
    The second Saturday in December had been set aside for the festival. For as long as Cameryn could remember, she’d been out on the streets with the rest of them, sampling hot cider and watching winter games. This was the first time she’d ever forgotten.
    “I’m liking all these people,” said Justin. “Look at the rich folks there. . . .” He pointed to a couple, the man wearing an expensive-looking sheepskin coat, the woman swathed in fur. “I bet they’re from Telluride. That dude’s sunglasses cost more than my car. And check out all the snowboarders. I love those snowboard guys—their hats are crazy . I don’t get what’s up with the Gingham Girls, though. Are they in costume for something? ”
    “Who?”
    “There, at the Bent Elbow. By that white truck.”
    Cameryn squinted. She saw a group of men, their skin lined from years in the sun, their hair cut into flat tops so short they appeared almost bald. Two women huddled to the side, whispering. Each had a long braid wrapped around her head in a gigantic loop, and one wore old-fashioned glasses with plastic frames from what Cameryn guessed was the seventies. Long dresses, sewn from red-and-blue gingham, hung to their ankles, peeking out from beneath long woolen coats. They wore mittens instead of gloves.
    “Oh, those are polygamists from the Four Corners area. And they are women, not girls.”
    “You’re kidding. Those are real polygamists?” Justin’s dark brows shot up in his forehead.
    “Yeah. As in one guy with, like, seven wives.”
    “But those old men are geezers. How’d they get those girls—excuse me, women?”
    “I don’t think polygamy is about looks, Justin. I think they’re supposed to have all those wives so they can have a bunch of kids—it has something to do with their religion.”
    But Justin didn’t seem to be listening to the part about children. Instead, he studied the women, who had moved apart, their eyes scanning the crowd. “Huh. Seven wives per guy.” He grinned. “I like those odds. Where do I sign up?”
    Cameryn hit his shoulder. “Sorry, here in Silverton we only have true Mormons—one man married to one woman—so unless you move away, you’re out of luck. But we’ve got three Jehovah’s Witnesses and an honest-to-God witch.”
    “A witch?” Justin looked impressed. “Who?”
    “Look right there, at the woman standing next to that flower barrel. The one with the orange hair—that’s Theresa Kennedy. She does the whole thing