Circle of Blood (Forensic Mystery)

“Sometimes an injury to the face comes from someone stompin’ on the back. This changes everything.”
    “It does,” said Dr. Moore. “What does that shape suggest to you?”
    “A cowboy boot,” Cameryn replied, so softly she wasn’t sure they could hear.
    Dr. Moore peered closer. His glasses had slipped but he pushed them up, impatient. “It does indeed, Miss Mahoney. There’s the tip, and there’s the heel. Well, it appears we have our answer. I’ll have to call the sheriff and tell him the manner of death. It looks like we’ve got ourselves a homicide.”

Chapter Twelve
    "WHERE’S DAD?” Cameryn asked. The kitchen door slammed behind her, pounding like the headache that hammered inside her skull.
    Her grandmother said, “Patrick’s back up to Ouray. And you’re late.” Although she usually wore slippers, tonight Mammaw was barefoot. Her toes, like her fingers, were as gnarled as ancient trees in miniature, and the soles of her feet made a padding sound as she walked across the linoleum to the sink. Mammaw’s hair must have been recently washed and towel-dried. The white ends stood up in stiff peaks from her head, like meringue, and the skin on her cheeks was flushed from the heat of her bath.
    Lifting a plate of Christmas cookies covered in plastic wrap from the counter, she extended it to Cameryn, saying, “I think it’s getting serious with that lady judge in Ouray, and that’s a mighty thing. These cookies are from Amy herself—Pat brought them home yesterday. The frosting’s a bit sweet but the cookies aren’t bad. At least she knows the basics of how to cook.”
    “Thanks, but no,” Cameryn said.
    “Don’t be stubborn, girl. The judge is trying to do right by you. She’s reaching out and . . . Cammie, what is it?” Her grandmother’s eyes filled with worry.
    “It’s just—they—we—we classified Jane Doe as a homicide. I guess I’m a little wound up. It’s been a hard day.”
    Her grandmother’s hand rose to her face. “Another murder in Silverton. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.” Her eyes were wide as she said, “I thought Patrick said the girl put the bullet in her own head.”
    “That’s what we thought at first. But more evidence showed up post mortem. Someone did it to her.”
    Setting down the plate, her grandmother narrowed her ice-blue eyes. “Does your father know?”
    “Dr. Moore said he would call the sheriff, so I’m assuming so,” Cameryn told her, hoisting her heavy backpack to her shoulder. “My battery died and I couldn’t call. Anyway, I’ve got homework to do.” She felt tired. Boneachingly tired. Her fear, her despair, her anger—all of it had come tumbling out on that ride home. Before, she’d drawn a line: If it’s a murder, then . . . But she was no longer willing to honor that division. Mentally, she’d moved the mark further. After all, a ring didn’t prove anything—Mariah had left it with Hannah of her own accord. Hannah’s mental illness didn’t prove anything— there were millions of people with bipolar disorder. She wanted to be in her room, alone, so that she could read the articles she’d printed, then stashed, on her mother’s illness. “The Role of Family and Friends in a Bipolar Person’s Life” was neatly tucked between her mattress and box springs.
    “Before you go hiding upstairs you should know they think they’ve discovered who she is,” Mammaw said.
    The breath sucked back in Cameryn’s throat as she asked, “What are you talking about? For Baby Doe? They’ve got a name?”
    “It was an anonymous tip. Someone gave the real name of Baby Doe, told where she lived, and hung up”—Mammaw snapped her fingers—“just like that. The sheriff confirmed it.”
    “So who is Baby Doe?” Cameryn demanded.
    “I don’t remember. Ask your father. The point is, they found her, and that’s a blessing. My gracious,” she exclaimed. “Someone’s driving up and I’ve got nothing but a robe on. Get the door, Cammie. If I’m not mistaken, the visitor is your Justin Crowley.”
    “He’s not my Justin Crowley,” she muttered, but her grandmother had already escaped up the stairs. In spite of herself, Cameryn finger-combed her hair. When she pulled open the door, the plastic lighted wreath rocked on its hook.
    “Cameryn, I’m glad you’re home,” Justin told her. He had on boots with heels so thick his head almost touched the top of the doorframe. Although the evening was cold, he wore no hat, and the