Circle of Blood (Forensic Mystery)

puzzles by reading the entrails of human beings. We are the soothsayers of our world.”
    “What about me?” she asked softly. “Is forensics what I should do?”
    He looked at her, his expression once again sharp. “There is no way I could possibly answer that question. And, although I’ve enjoyed our little chat, it’s time to prepare for the next step.” He raised one hand in its heavy blue glove, revealing its palm textured like pebbles on a beach. “Are you ready for your assignment?”
    “Of course.” Quickly she tugged on her own thick latex gloves, pulling the ends over the paper gown’s sleeves to make a seal. “What is it you want me to do?”
    His wooly eyebrows raised into his forehead, causing the skin to ripple into his bald head. “You, Miss Mahoney, are going to prepare a specimen jar.”
    “A specimen jar,” she repeated, trying not to sound too disappointed.
    “But this is a big specimen. I want you to prepare the largest jar—the one marked ‘165 ounces.’ It’s clear, with a lid. You’ll find it in that back cabinet there.” He pointed. “The ten percent formalin solution is right next to it—the white bottle with the blue writing. You’ll also find some precut pieces of string. Grab one.”
    Curious, Cameryn asked, “What specimen are we preparing? ”
    “The decedent’s brain,” Dr, Moore said, sounding delighted. “The whole entire organ needs to be suspended in the formalin so it can harden.”
    It took a minute for Cameryn to register this. “The brain? What for?”
    “So we can put in rods to chart the bullet’s trajectory. There’s always the possibility of testifying at a future trial, which means we need to cover every base.”
    “But . . . I thought,” she stammered. “This is a suicide. My dad said so.”
    “Is it? Well, my mistake.” The edge was back in his voice as he said, “I didn’t know you could render a diagnosis without a full autopsy. Why don’t you have your father fill out these papers and save the state of Colorado a lot of time and money? My wife has a roast waiting.”
    Cameryn bit her lip. “That’s not what I meant—”
    “Then get out the formalin.”
    She heard a clunk as the gurney struck the door and Ben appeared, smiling broadly. She could tell from his expression he had overheard the last part of the conversation and was pleased with her assignment.
    “Ooohhh, so you’re gonna show Cammie how to make a brain bucket! ” he cried as he wheeled Mariah into the autopsy suite. “That’s a good idea, ’cause the film shows that bullet bounced through her head every which way.” To Cameryn, he added, “Dr. Moore’s got the best technique I’ve seen. The last ME just chucked ’em right in a bucket without the string. You got to have the string or the brain settles on the bottom and goes all flat, which messes up the samples. Moore’s an artist.”
    “That’s enough, Ben,” Moore grumbled. “Go weigh the decedent. And don’t forget my music. How about some Bizet?”
    “No problem,” Ben replied. Then, his voice low, he said, “The man likes his Carmen, as in the opera. I prefer Carmen Electra myself.”
    “And get the rest of the crew in here,” Dr. Moore barked.
    Ben’s head bobbed in reply. “Right. The sheriff and them are just calling to see if they can get an ID on the girl.”
    Snorting, Dr. Moore said, “Who are you kidding? They’re in my office, eating your pizza. I saw the box.”
    Ben shrugged nonchalantly. Patting his stomach, he said, “I always like to share. Let me get that music going for you.”
    Soon the rich notes of the opera filled the room like incense. Ben wheeled the gurney onto a large metal plate that rested in the floor, which was in actuality a scale. “Ninety-three pounds,” he announced, squinting at the numbers. “She was a little thing. Would you write that down for me, Cammie? Yeah, it’s that clipboard over there. Uh-huh, that’s the one. There’s a pen at the top.”
    “Go and help the man,” ordered Dr. Moore, who was now turning on a hose that filled a large, rectangular pan that would be used to rinse off organs.
    Cameryn walked past the body bag and tried not to picture the face beneath the vinyl, but in her mind’s eye she could see the blank, glacial eyes and the lips slightly parted. What she couldn’t get past was the way Dr. Moore had put murder back on the table. Her stomach turned to water while she went through the motions of writing down