Circle of Blood (Forensic Mystery)

had already begun to cloud, as though the irises had been infused with milk.
    “Cammie, do you have any idea how long she’s been dead?” Jacobs asked.
    Both Jacobs and Justin were looking at her, expecting answers. She took a series of short, deep breaths and commanded herself to think clinically. Crouching near Mariah’s head, Cameryn placed one hand on the cheekbones and the other on Mariah’s chin. She tried to pull the jaw apart, but it barely moved. She then moved it side to side, trying not to notice the tiny serrations on the edge of Mariah’s teeth and the blank way she stared at Cameryn.
    “What are you doing that for? ” Jacobs asked, peering at her over his glasses.
    It was important she mirror her father’s impassive face, his air of professionalism. Other feelings must be shoved underground. In what she hoped was a commanding voice she said, “There’s not much tissue on the jaw, so rigor shows up here pretty fast. She’s been dead about two hours. More or less.”
    “Crowley, check her backpack to see if you can find any ID. I’ll pat down her pockets and search her coat.”
    It was then that the thought, so obvious, slammed against her. How could she have been so stupid? Her mother’s wallet would be inside that backpack, or maybe tucked inside a pocket of the blue coat. There it would be, a clear direct piece of evidence linking the two. Like a drum, the thought beat through Cameryn: If they got to Hannah first, she would tell the story about Cameryn and the chase and they would all realize that she, Cameryn Mahoney, Assistant Coroner, had lied about knowing Mariah. That might be enough to make her lose her job. It was now or never.
    “Justin!” she cried.
    “What the—?” Justin looked inside the backpack. He peered closer, pulling the flap as far as it would go, angling it beneath the lights.
    “You got something?” Jacobs asked. “’Cause her pockets came up clean. No ID. You got anything that can tell us who this girl is?”
    “Wait, Justin—” Cameryn broke in. “I—”
    “Hold on.” Justin held up his hand. “I couldn’t find a wallet, but I found something else. Sheriff Jacobs, could you come here?” His forehead wrinkled as he stared inside the backpack, as if he couldn’t comprehend.
    Jacobs clomped over to where Justin stood. The mouth of the backpack gaped open, and Cameryn saw a flash of metal inside. “What is it, Deputy?”
    “Look at this.” From the depths of the backpack Justin withdrew a pair of scissors. The blades were long, silver, and old-fashioned, with a pattern etched on the handle in a delicate engraving.
    “So? Scissors don’t mean much.”
    “Yeah, but check this out.” And then, with latex-gloved fingers, Justin removed a three-foot-long braid of strawberry-blonde hair. It hung, swinging like a rope. “Cutting off a girl’s hair can be an act of vengeance,” he told the sheriff.
    Jacobs inclined his head. “How’s that?”
    It was so quiet in the alleyway that Cameryn was afraid they might hear the pounding of her heart.
    “Haircutting can be a sign of retribution,” explained Justin, his voice eager now. “When a crime is girl-on-girl, the perpetrator sometimes cuts off the victim’s hair.”
    “Whoa, whoa, whoa, you just made a giant leap there, Deputy. As far as I can tell, there is no retribution and there is no perpetrator . This girl put a bullet in her own head.” Jacobs squinted at Justin while Justin, still holding the braid, stared back.
    Finally, Justin said, “Maybe you’re right. But there’s a psychological aspect to the cutting.”
    “And you know this . . . how?” the sheriff asked.
    “From the police academy. And, like Cameryn, I’ve read books on the criminal mind.”
    The sheriff rubbed the back of his neck and let a small stream of air escape between his teeth. “We’re just a small town, Deputy. What I’ve learned is when you hear hoofbeats, think horses, not zebras.”
    Cameryn stood frozen. She watched as Justin held out the braid, which now hung limp from his hand. “You’re right, Sheriff—this might be a garden-variety suicide. But sometimes the hoofbeats do belong to the zebra.”
    “What are you saying, Deputy?”
    “I’m saying we might be looking at a murder.”

Chapter Six
    “YOU WANT TO tell me what you’re thinking? I keep trying to bring up interesting subjects, but you haven’t said three words. I might as well be talking to Baby Doe. That’s what I’m calling our