Circle of Blood (Forensic Mystery)

enough to tuck beneath her chin. Strawberry hair puffed at her jawline and swirled past her collarbone. Blue veins branched out like rivers on a map. The back of the scalp was then folded toward the nape of the neck, exposing skull that was as white as mother-of-pearl.
    The Stryker saw whirred as Ben cut through Mariah’s skull in a line that went first across her brow bone all the way to the back of her head. When Ben put in the skull chisel and turned it hard, Cameryn heard a strange thwack as skull pulled from the durum. Another twist at the base, and the skull cap popped free.
    “I knew it,” said Ben. “You were right, Dr. Moore. We do need a brain bucket. This has gone to mush.”
    “The formalin will harden the brain so we can test bullet trajectory,” Dr. Moore translated. “Watch his technique, Miss Mahoney. There’s a trick to all this.”
    Ben said, “I got to slice it free. See? Now I’m cutting the spinal cord. And if I pull it just right”—he gently tugged at Mariah’s brain—“you get a brain out all in one piece. It’s just like birthin’ a baby.”
    “Now, hand the brain to Miss Mahoney,” instructed Moore.
    Cameryn felt her throat tighten. “What?”
    “I want you to take the brain from Ben. Hold it carefully and come to the bucket. And for Pete’s sake, don’t drop it.”
    Ben’s eyebrows shot into his hairline as he asked, “You sure about this?”
    “Yes. She wants to learn, and I want to teach.”
    Cameryn looked at her father, who seemed as surprised as she was. Without speaking he gave her a nod. She understood it to mean the choice was hers. Trembling, Cameryn cupped her palms together as Ben carefully released Mariah’s brain into her waiting hands. It was much heavier than she had anticipated, and her arms briefly sagged from the weight of it, but she quickly raised them as she took a step forward.
    It was hard for Cameryn to comprehend what was happening. The essence of Mariah was in her hands, wrinkled and flanged, its whirls and grooves tinged by marbles of blood. Mariah’s thoughts, her dreams, her memories had been stored in the gray-white matter. Cameryn felt what seemed like an electrical jolt passing between the organ and her own soul. If there was any spark left of Mariah, the ember would be there. I’m so sorry, Cameryn thought at the brain, not caring how stupid it might seem. I’m so sorry, Mariah. For the very first time, she meant it.
    “Come here and turn it upside down,” Dr. Moore instructed. “See this string?” He held it taut across the bucket’s rim. “I want you to balance that canal between the two hemispheres right along the line. That’s the way.”
    Carefully, she did. The brain floated in the clear liquid before gently sinking.
    “Why are you doing this?” she asked.
    “I want to see that bullet’s trajectory. Before you arrived, Miss Mahoney, I studied the barrel of the gun. There was no blowback that I could see, none whatsoever. The gunpowder residue around the bullet hole is suggestive as well. Since you lawmen come from a small town, you might not know that in suicides involving handguns, the victim usually drops the weapon or throws it up to several feet away when his or her arm flings outward. Sometimes, of course, a weapon stays in the decedent’s hand, but not often. For now, we wait. Come back when the brain has hardened and we’ll see what we can see.”
    “So . . . you think—” Cameryn stammered. She could feel her body go rigid.
    Dr. Moore pulled off his mask. His bullfrog neck seemed to swell with air as he said, “I want to get a report on what is underneath Baby Doe’s nails. I’d like to see if there is any gunshot residue or any fingerprints on those scissors. It could all come up clean and that will be that. But it’s possible your deputy’s right.” His thick white brows came together, and while he frowned, Cameryn focused on the mark his mask had made over the bridge of his nose, wanting to escape the words she knew were coming next. They came anyway.
    “This could be a homicide.”

Chapter Nine
    “CAMMIE, WHAT’S WRONG?” Justin asked. “You look like you’re going to be sick.”
    “Too much brain bucket, I’ll bet,” offered Ben.
    Cameryn took a deep breath. “I just . . . I think I need the restroom. Excuse me.”
    No one argued as she stripped off her gown, tossing her latex gloves in the garbage along with her hair covering. Behind her, she heard the murmur of voices