Circle of Blood (Forensic Mystery)

if he were swatting flies. “A prodigy should know to get into her scrubs instead of standing there with her mouth open. You’ll find them exactly where they were before, in that cabinet over there. Hurry. I’ve got a job for you. And I think it’s something even you have never seen before. Get ready, Cameryn. You’re about to go on quite a ride.”

Chapter Seven
    CAMERYN’S MIND RACED as she put on her forensic gear piece by piece, as though she were suiting up for battle. A pale green gown went on first. Next came a disposable black plastic apron, shiny as beetle wings, the strings of which she tied behind her, then in front, before knotting them together. She lifted a disposable cloth shower cap, the kind she’d seen doctors use in surgery, shoving her hair beneath it so that it ballooned out at her neck. Last, she removed a matching pair of booties to slip on later.
    Shutting the door behind them, her father and Ben had disappeared into a back room where Justin and the sheriff stood quietly talking. It felt odd to be alone with Dr. Moore. The doctor had an acid tongue, which made Cameryn apprehensive. It was best, she decided, to say nothing to him until she was spoken to, but when she looked up, she saw something she had never seen before. Words were painted on the walls in a spidery script against a scene of what looked to be mountain peaks. She squinted, trying to understand. Hic locus est ubi mors gaudet succurrere vitae.
    “Dr. Moore?” she asked. “What is that? What does it mean?”
    He turned off the spigot and stared at her, water dripping from his thick rubber gloves. “You’re going into medicine and you don’t know Latin?” he asked, staring at her over his reading glasses, which had slipped down his bulbous nose.
    “The priest uses Latin sometimes in a High Mass, but I never know what he’s saying.”
    Dr. Moore crossed his arms over his ample middle. Had he been more jovial and sported a white beard, he could have been a mall Santa. His white hair formed a wreath around his bald head while his half-moon glasses winked in the light, making him look almost friendly. But Cameryn knew better. Dr. Moore was a brilliant, demanding, work-obsessed man who, despite his prickly nature, she was beginning to like. Still, she remained cautious around him. One time he’d thrown her out of his autopsy suite, an event she never wanted to repeat.
    He began to open metal cupboards over the autopsy sink. “If you want to get ahead in medicine, I suggest you take at least a cursory course in Latin. Most medical names have Latin roots,” he told her, pulling out a cotton towel and spreading it on a metal countertop.
    “Latin isn’t offered at Silverton High.”
    “Why am I not surprised? It’s yet another example of our education system going to hell in a handbasket. Ah, well,” he sighed. With his arm, he swept an arc toward the wall as he announced, “That verse can be found in autopsy theaters across the world. Since we didn’t seem to have a budget for such things, I painted it myself. The phrase is most commonly translated: ‘This is the place where death delights to help the living.’ ”
    “You’re a painter, too?” Cameryn asked, startled. “I didn’t know that.”
    Dr. Moore’s voice was dry. “It may surprise you, Miss Mahoney, to realize I have a life outside these walls.”
    Of course he did—she knew that. But she found it hard to imagine what Dr. Moore did when he was away from the autopsy suite. Squatting, she adjusted a paper bootie, and when she looked up at him from this angle, the man seemed different. The profound grooves that had formed at the sides of his mouth exaggerated both his underbite and his perpetual frown, and yet . . . there was something changed in his eyes. They seemed to be smiling, as though Cameryn amused him somehow. He’d never looked so approachable. Without thinking, she blurted, “Dr. Moore, can I ask you something? Even though it’s personal?”
    “ May you,” he said tartly. “I’ll decide the answer when I hear your question.”
    “How did you know you wanted to be a forensic pathologist? My mammaw says I should be a ‘real’ doctor instead of a medical examiner. Everyone says that.”
    Dr. Moore pushed his glasses up his nose, staring at her for a moment. “How I got into this line of work is a story I don’t often share.”
    “I won’t tell anyone. Believe me, Dr. Moore, I can keep a secret.” She pulled on her second