Circle of Blood (Forensic Mystery)

bootie and stood—she and the doctor were practically the same height. He might have been taller if his neck had not been swallowed by his generous torso, although his limbs were so thin they looked as though they belonged to another body, as if he were made up of separate parts.
    “It’s not that kind of story. It’s more . . . whimsical.” He seemed to be deciding something. “Very well, I’ll answer your question. I discovered my path”—he waited a beat, and then said, with absolute seriousness—“from a fortune cookie.”
    Cameryn was completely astonished by this, and it must have shown, because Dr. Moore said, “Don’t look so surprised, Miss Mahoney.”
    “It just—that doesn’t seem very scientific.”
    “You’re young, but as you mature you’ll discover that things—and people—are rarely what they seem.” As he talked, Dr. Moore began to busy himself positioning forensic instruments on the terry-cloth towel. “At the time, I was deciding between becoming a general practitioner”—he placed a bread knife on the cloth, straightening it so that it lined up precisely to the towel’s edge—“or a medical examiner. I found myself being drawn to the darker art of forensics. So the question before me was to either stay the course”—he set down a bone saw—“or convert to pathology. One night, I took my wife to a Chinese restaurant to talk about which direction I should go.”
    Cameryn couldn’t help it—the words “Your wife?” escaped from her lips.
    “Yes, I’m married.” He paused to look at her, his eyes fierce as if daring her to speak. “Forty-four years this May. Imagine that.”
    Cameryn felt herself blush. “Any kids?”
    “Three.”
    “Oh. I’m an only child.”
    “Which explains your precocious nature, although not your lack of tact.”
    “I’m sorry—I didn’t—”
    Dr. Moore shook his head and busied himself with his work.
    Overhead lights hummed in the cavernous space, like grasshoppers on a summer night, while every surface gleamed with steel that reflected circles bright as moons. She could hear the low rumble of voices in a back office and the rustle of Dr. Moore’s paper gown.
    “It’s always better to line up your instruments precisely. I want you to watch how I do this.”
    Relieved that he wasn’t angry, she walked to his side. He was bustling now. She watched as he set down the enterotome scissors, which she knew were for opening the intestines, followed by the Stryker saw, an electric saw used to cut through the skull without damaging brain tissue. With gloved hands he placed a Hagedorn needle, the heavy, curved needle used to sew up the deceased after the remains are put back into the organ-containment bag following an autopsy. The needle flashed at Cameryn like a disembodied smile.
    “So . . . what happened with the cookie, Dr. Moore?” she prodded gently.
    “Ah, yes, the fateful fortune cookie.” Turning back to the cupboard, he removed toothed forceps and a skull chisel, which chimed together in his hand. “At the end of our dinner I cracked the cookie open and pulled out that tiny piece of paper. It read, ‘You will touch the hearts of many . ’ ”
    She frowned, repeating the words. “You will . . .”
    “. . . touch the hearts of many . Of course that means one thing to most people, but I saw an answer in it. As a forensic pathologist I would touch many hearts. I would hold them in my hands.”
    Cameryn almost laughed but swallowed it back. It seemed crazy that this gruff man’s destiny had been molded by something so inconsequential. And yet Dr. Moore was not only a pathologist, he was also an artist, and in some ways a dreamer. Her eyes drifted back to the script on the wall: Hic locus est ubi mors gaudet succurrere vitae. The dead weren’t the only ones who delighted to teach the living, Cameryn realized. Dr. Moore did, too.
    “Did you ever doubt that you made the right decision? About going into forensics, I mean?”
    “Not once. What we do is a calling.” He set down the scalpel, which had a longer blade than most surgeons’ scalpels, its edge razor sharp. Four blue sponges rested one atop another next to a scale used to weigh organs. Cameryn couldn’t help but think of a child’s building blocks.
    “What’s the hardest part for you?” she asked.
    “The child-abuse cases, the utter waste of human life due to plain stupidity—that can keep me up at night. But there are compensations. We pathologists solve