Circle of Blood (Forensic Mystery)

hair, warm, golden skin, and brown eyes, as well as her mother’s diminutive height.
    “Dad,” she said into his parka, “I can’t breathe. And we need to start looking.”
    “Sorry.” He released her with a rough kiss to the top of her head. “You’re right, there’s still a job to do. I need to find the rest of this guy.” Squinting, he scanned the army of trees. “It is not going to be easy.”
    “I know.”
    The car had crashed on the Million Dollar Highway, a narrow, twisting two-lane road that folded back on itself like tossed-away ribbon. To the west, Colorado’s San Juan Mountains loomed above them, while to the east, the ground cut away into a deep valley riddled with spruce. “The problem is,” her father murmured, “that head could be anywhere. I’ve seen them sail a quarter mile or more, which means it could have gone down the mountainside. If it did, we’re screwed.”
    “We can at least figure out the trajectory.”
    “How’s that?”
    She told him the amount of blood contained in a skull and how, once it became airborne, blood trailed from the base of the neck like paint until the head landed back on the ground. Find the blood and track it to the end, following the splatter like a trail of crumbs. Her father seemed impressed, asking if she’d learned that from her forensic books. Unlike her grandmother, he approved of her dream of becoming a medical examiner.
    “That’s good, Cammie, but reality is harder than theory. I’ll do the search while you stay with the decedent until the sheriff arrives.” He looked at his watch, tapping its face with his fingertip. “Something must have happened to hold up Jacobs. He should’ve been here by now.”
    It took a moment for her to process what her father was saying. A chill crept through the soles of her cowboy boots and up past her faded jeans until it spread all the way into her chest. Once again, he was shutting her out. Before, they’d worked their cases as a team, but lately he’d been finding excuses to leave her at home. If she hadn’t taken the call about this morning’s crash, she suspected she would have been left behind on this one, too. “Wait,” she protested. “I don’t want to stay here with the body—I want to go with you.”
    “And I want you to stay here. Do the inventory, okay?”
    At that moment a semi appeared, blowing black smoke from an upright exhaust pipe. She heard a squeal as the driver engaged the brakes. The man, riding high in his cab, goggled the wreckage. Her father’s disgust deepened when the man honked his horn. “Keep moving! ” Patrick yelled, his arm circling like the blades on a windmill. “Go on!” Black smoke belched from the truck’s exhaust pipe as it strained to regain momentum up the steep hill. “People always want a bloody show. Cammie, get that sheet. This fellow shouldn’t be gawked at. I’ll be back as quick as I can.”
    “We’ll go twice as fast with me searching.”
    “I’ll take it from here,” he said pleasantly.
    Although lately he’d taken to wearing turtlenecks instead of his usual T-shirts, today he was dressed as he used to be: workmen’s boots and his frayed coroner’s cap with a star stitched in golden thread. But despite his familiar touches, there was something new in his demeanor. He, who had often pried into his daughter’s inner life, had himself become evasive. She could sense it.
    “Do you think I’ve lost my forensic touch?” she asked.
    “Hardly.” Opening the binder, he clicked his pen, signaling they were done. “Everyone knows you’re a prodigy.” He peered at the form, muttering, “Cameryn Mahoney, Angel of Death. You’ve got quite a reputation around town.” After scribbling a few lines, he held out the binder. “Okay, you’re up.”
    But she refused to extend her hand. Crossing her arms, she hugged her sides. Her father’s exasperation was etched in every line on his face. “Take it,” he commanded.
    “If you’re going to shut me out, you can at least tell me why.”
    “For Pete’s sake, you don’t need to see a severed head.” Jabbing the folder toward her, he said, “The face holds the soul, Cammie. Just—do the inventory.”
    “What’s the real reason?”
    Her father sighed. Slowly, the folder dropped to his side. Another truck crept by, its engine clattering like an old sewing machine, but this time they ignored the rubberneckers. “For one thing,” he finally said, “I promised your