“It’s so sad, the way she cut off her pretty hair.” As Hannah pressed her fingertips into her forehead, Cameryn tried to quell the sick feeling roiling in her stomach.
“Mom-how did you know about the hair?”
“What?” Hannah’s face looked flat and empty, far away, as if her soul hung miles above the mountain clouds. “Oh, the cook from High Noon Burgers, Barry something-he’s Mrs. Kennedy’s son. She told me this morning. I guess it’s hard to keep a secret in a small town.”
“You’re right. Secrets never stay buried in Silverton,” Cameryn repeated. She decided to believe this. For now, she would trust her mother and everything Hannah said. Standing, Cameryn reached down and awkwardly kissed the top of her mother’s head. “Get some rest.”
“It’s hard to keep secrets,” Hannah said, in a voice barely above a whisper. Her forehead wrinkled and her face became soft in appeal. “But, Cammie, if you love me… then you have to keep mine.”
Chapter Eleven
“WELL, WELL, WELL, Miss Mahoney, you’re back,” said Dr. Moore. “And you brought your morgue shoes. Your camera, too, I hope.”
“Yes,” she said. She looked at the floor and was immediately glad she’d remembered to wear her old running shoes to the autopsy suite. The linoleum was riddled with droplets of blood, which created a strange effect; it looked to Cameryn like a red galaxy had erupted on the floor. Dr. Moore’s eyes followed hers as she took in the floor. “You missed a messy autopsy this morning,” he said. “Ben will be here soon to mop it up.”
During her lunch hour Justin had called to tell her he and the sheriff were meeting with some men from the Colorado Bureau of Investigation, an announcement that sent a wave of fear through her. But when Justin added, “Jacobs called in the CBI to help identify Baby Doe-I guess they have some sort of strategy,” Cameryn had felt herself relax. The CBI men weren’t asking about Hannah.
“As you can probably tell, it’s already been a long day,” said Dr. Moore. Although it was only three thirty in the afternoon, the strain of the day showed on his face-it was pink, shiny with sweat. The sockets of his eyes had darkened while the veins in his temples visibly throbbed. But it was Dr. Moore’s plastic apron that revealed what kind of work he’d been subjected to before her arrival. The apron was streaked with blood, some in vertical stripes, but most lined in horizontal rows that stretched across his chest and belly, each line dotted with splatters the size of quarters. It looked like a musical score, sprinkled with notes from a song. The music of death.
“Is there a problem, Miss Mahoney?”
“I’m sorry. It’s just-there’s so much blood.”
“A drunk ran a red light and hit a pedestrian head-on a few blocks from here. The drunk, of course, is fine and recovering in Mercy Medical. The decedent is already in the cooler.”
“That’s so awful,” she breathed.
“The inequities of death. You have to harden yourself or you’ll never get through.” He looked at her wearily. “You can put your backpack on the desk along with your coat. Suit up so we can get started, although I don’t think you’ll need more than a paper apron and gloves. You’ll be more of an observer today.”
Cameryn dropped her belongings, then walked to the locker and put on a disposable apron. Silently stripping away his bloody apron, Dr. Moore opened a cabinet and threw the garment into a biohazard container marked for washing. The gloves were tossed into the garbage can. He pulled out fresh gloves and a new, folded plastic apron, which he looped over his head before knotting the waist ties behind his back.
“Did you see the sketch of Baby Doe in the paper this morning?” he asked. “The artist did a fine job. He worked off a photograph you took. It was a very good likeness.”
“I didn’t get a chance to see it yet, Dr. Moore.” Suddenly alarmed, she said, “I smell something. Is there a fire?” An acrid odor, like smoke from a campfire, had wafted its way through the autopsy room.
“No, Ben’s just cleaning up. It’s burn day.” Dr. Moore adjusted the loop around his neck so that the apron fit snugly.
“Burn day?”
“Ben’s throwing tissue into the incinerator. We do it once every three months. He’ll be done soon.”
“You’ve got a crematorium here?”
“No. We have an incinerator.” He turned to her then, examining her, the lenses of his glasses magnifying his eyes. She could see how bloodshot his eyes were. “At some point we have to dispose of all the parts left in the buckets-heart, brain, lung, liver. After eighteen months, they’re gone. Unless it’s a homicide. Those parts we keep forever.”
“There’s a lot of smoke. How much are you burning today? ”
“We’re losing about”-he thought for a minute, staring at the ceiling-“one hundred and twenty pounds of tissue. It’s quite a job. There are regulations on how much we can incinerate at once. Air-quality issues and such.”
“Oh.”
“Oh, indeed.”
Dr. Moore wasn’t playing any music. In the background Cameryn could hear the hum of the refrigerator where they kept the bodies lined up on gurneys in a neat row. She’d been in it before. Unlike the storage room, the cooler was thick with the odor of death, almost strangling. Once inside she always switched to breathing through her mouth, even though, until she walked out, she could almost taste those people.
“By the way, Miss Mahoney, did you know my friend Jo Ann Whittaker is the dean of forensics at CU?” He looked at her over his half-moon glasses. “It’s very unusual she would reach out to an incoming freshman.”
“I guess she saw me on television.”
"Do you know she’s very connected to the police as well?”
“Yes.”
“And how do you know that?”
“Because Jo Ann told me.”
It was true. Cameryn had been seated at her desk Saturday night when she’d heard the soft ping of her computer. She’d opened her e-mail. The new message had read:
Dear Ms. Mahoney,
I was sorry to receive an alert that you have a Jane Doe in Silverton. As a forensic pathologist and dean of the CU College of Forensics, I would like to offer you any help I could provide. I am closely associated with various law-enforcement agencies throughout Colorado. If you have need for assistance in any form, I assure you that whatever information you choose to share with me will be held in the strictest of confidence.
Jo Ann Whittaker
Quickly, Cameryn had replied:
Dear Ms. Whittaker,
Thank you for your concern. We still do not have the manner of death but should know more tomorrow after we complete a brain bucket. I do have a question about a different case.
She’d hesitated then, because she knew she shouldn’t give out information to anyone. Jo Ann Whittaker, though, was the one person she could talk to. A professional tucked all the way in Boulder, Jo Ann would never be able to connect the Silverton dots. Still, Cameryn understood what she had to share would have to be framed carefully. Slowly, she’d typed, Do the words ‘Keep Sweet’ mean anything to you? I’d appreciate any information you might have. Cameryn Mahoney (Please call me Cameryn)
Her finger hovered over the key only a moment before she hit “Send.” She had just finished pulling on her nightshirt when she’d heard another ping of the computer. The message read:
Dear Cameryn,
(Please call me Jo Ann.) Your question will take some time to research, but I should have an answer for you Monday afternoon. Until then,
Jo Ann
Jo Ann had contacted her again only an hour ago as she’d been driving down the Million Dollar Highway. The ping of her BlackBerry had told her it was an e-mail. Shifting her eyes, she’d glanced at it and seen that it was from Jo Ann Whittaker. Pulling onto the next overlook, she’d heard the engine of her car clatter in idle as she sat staring at the tiny screen, at the same time fingering Mariah’s silver ring in her pocket. The e-mail had read: