Dear Cameryn,
It’s Monday afternoon and I am, unfortunately, running behind. I don’t have all the facts yet, but I can say I have discovered some interesting news about the words ‘Keep Sweet’ that I think you will find most enlightening. I will share what I know this evening. Can you divulge any more information about the case?
Jo Ann
Although her mammaw talked of God and angels, Cameryn had never really believed in signs. Yet the e-mail had promised an answer and that, in and of itself, was a small miracle. She’d read it once, twice, three times through before looking out her windshield. In a mountain crevice she saw broken tree limbs, victims of a small avalanche. There was a graveyard feeling to that wash of trees; the ones that had died had been reduced to gray skeletons, their arms bleached like bones. Other trees on the edge were leaning, touching, as though the stronger held the weaker. Like Cameryn held up Hannah, she thought. But now Cameryn needed someone powerful to hold her up. She knew she’d found strength in the person of Jo Ann. Slowly, on the tiny keypad, Cameryn had written:
Dear Jo Ann,
I’m on my way to do the brain bucket so we’ll connect this evening. I really am excited to find out what you’ve discovered. Thank you so much for your interest and your help.
Cameryn
The thought that someone was on her side had calmed her. As Cameryn had pulled back onto the highway once more, she’d felt the knot inside her relax. What good would it do, worrying and making plans, until she had all the facts? The brain bucket could reveal the death as a suicide; after that she would find a way to get the ring to the sheriff, which meant all the worrying she’d done up till then would be for nothing. Jane Doe’s death had to be suicide. Cameryn was sure of that. And now it sounded as though the ring would yield an important clue, which could point them all in the right direction.
“So it’s Jo Ann, is it?” Dr. Moore said now, breaking into her thoughts. “You’re on a first-name basis with the dean and you’re only seventeen. It’s clear that you, Miss Mahoney, are a rising forensic star. If Jo Ann Whittaker is shepherding you, then you’re in the very best of hands. So-are you ready to begin this task?” He gestured toward the counter, and Cameryn was surprised to see Mariah’s brain exactly where they had left it. The chemical had whitened the brain slightly, turning it a pearly beige. Picking up the bucket, Moore took Mariah’s brain to the sink. “You might want to watch how I do this, Miss Mahoney,” he said. “There’s a real finesse to the procedure.”
Carefully, Dr. Moore lifted the lid from the specimen jar and set it to one side. Then, with both hands, he removed Mariah’s brain to hold it over the plastic container while the formalin fell off the sides in a shower of tiny droplets. The string slipped back into the bucket, drifting gently, slowly, until it settled on the bottom like a single strand of hair.
“The brain’s 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. But this here’s just the way you thought it would be. That’s why you’re the man.”
Cameryn glanced from face to face. The cold feeling spread inside her once again. “What?” she asked.
“The rod, Miss Mahoney.” With a gloved finger, Dr. Moore touched the rod’s tip. “You see it, don’t you? It points down. The bullet trajectory slants toward Baby Doe’s collarbone.”
“What does that mean?” she asked. But before she heard the answer, she already knew.
“It means that this girl didn’t do this to herself,” Ben said simply.