Circle of Blood (Forensic Mystery)

hardened up,” he said, smiling grimly, “which is exactly what we want. If I had tried to cut Baby Doe’s brain before the formalin did its work, it would have fallen apart on the table. Now it’s nice and firm. Perfect.”
    The surface of the brain looked similar to Mariah’s intestines, with its fissures and squiggly canals compressed together in a tight sphere. From her books she knew the names of the areas: the central sulcus, the parietal lobe, the occipital lobe, the cerebellum. But the brain was mystic as well—Mariah’s thoughts had been contained there, in that wrinkled human organ. Dr. Moore stood cradling the essence of Mariah in his very hands.
    “Turn on the water, will you, Miss Mahoney?” he said, holding the dripping brain dead center over the bucket. “I need the water lukewarm. We’ve got to rinse off the brain before I can start. Make sure it isn’t too hot, or the tissue will cook. A brain is surprisingly delicate.”
    “Okay, I’ll be careful.” The sink was deep and made of stainless steel. Turning the handle, she adjusted the stream until the temperature felt right. “It’s ready,” she told him, and a moment later Dr. Moore was beside her, closer than she wanted as he plunged Mariah’s brain into the water as if it were a head of lettuce. With a quick motion he took the brain back to the autopsy table, placing it atop the perforated holes.
    “Let me get a rod. You get your camera. Ben will need to take a set of photographs, too.”
    “Dr. Moore?” she asked as she went to her backpack to retrieve the camera.
    "Yes?”
    Cameryn swallowed, trying to act casual, determined not to appear as nervous as she felt. She removed the camera and came back to the autopsy table to where the doctor stood, waiting. “Did you get any results from the gunshot-residue test?”
    “I did.”
    “And . . . what did they say?”
    “The results were negative.”
    Negative. A stone sank into her chest. If the kit had shown a positive for the residue, the question of Mariah’s death being a suicide would be over. It would be proof that Mariah had held the gun in her own hand when she pulled the trigger. Instead, no residue on a victim’s hand was a red flag that pointed to homicide. “So,” she said, “do you think . . . ?”
    “I think it’s inconclusive. We’re dealing with a .22-caliber weapon. As I told you, a .22 is notorious for its lack of residue. So there are no definitive answers there,” said Moore. “That’s why I’m going for clarification with the rod.”
    She could hear Ben whistling as he made his way down the hall. “Hey there, Cammie. I’m glad you waited for me. I was doing some incineratin’ and it gets hot .” Today Ben wore yellow scrubs, the color of lemons. Peeling off his gloves, he gave her a bright smile, a smile that was reflected in his almond-shaped eyes. “I hear we got ditched by the rest of the gang. No matter, me and the doc’ll teach you ourselves.”
    “I’m all ready to go here,” said Moore. “Let’s get on with it.”
    The rods came in a rainbow of colors, like Pixy Stix, so that, Dr. Moore explained, if they had to track more than one bullet’s path they could keep them straight. Since there’d been only a single bullet, he was able to pick whatever color he liked, and he’d chosen red plastic, a long stick as thick as a pencil and blunt at the tip. Cameryn and Ben hovered close as Dr. Moore moved Mariah’s brain so that the bullet hole was directly in front of him. Then, with a careful movement, Dr. Moore gently pushed the rod into the bull’s-eye where the bullet had pierced Mariah’s brain. He worked slowly, carefully. “We couldn’t have done this in the old days,” he said. “Do you see how I never force the rod?” he asked her, his face so close to the brain his nose practically grazed its surface. “The hole is my guide. Although this looks simple, this is a deceivingly delicate procedure.” Finally, he stopped. The rod stuck out a good twelve inches like a single, spiked quill.
    “That’s it. Take your photographs,” Dr. Moore instructed.
    Obedient, Cameryn and Ben snapped picture after picture, the light bouncing off the glistening surface. When they were finally done, she and Ben straightened and lowered their cameras to their thighs, like characters in a Western ready to holster their guns.
    “Well, looks like you were right, Doc,” Ben said, nodding. “Me—I couldn’t look at a bullet hole and tell.