“Most likely,” Dr. Moore corrected.
“Right. See, Cammie, with a suicide, the bullet almost always goes into the head straight. Sometimes, if the vic hesitates, then they kinda flinch the gun, and the bullet shoots right up to the top of their skulls. So when you’re dealing with a suicide, the trajectory goes straight across to the other ear or maybe up to the top of the head. But a self-inflicted bullet never goes down.”
“Rarely,” said Moore. “I’ll take a few specimens from the wound site, and then we’ll loaf the brain. That means,” he said for Cameryn’s benefit, “that I’ll slice the brain in pieces roughly the thickness of Texas toast. I’ll be able to precisely chart the bullet’s progression.”
Inside, Cameryn was shaking. Her thoughts were ribbons now, curling through the air in all directions, but she had to pull them back. She had to think. “That doesn’t seem ver y… I mean, a trajectory doesn’t seem like proof.” She held a finger to her own head, placing it to her temple as though it were a barrel to a gun. Angling her hand, she made her finger point downward. “I could do it that way.” She was feeling desperate now. Dr. Moore and Ben were looking at her, hard, as if they could see her fear, so she tried to talk more slowly, to take the frenzy out of her voice. “And what about the scissors? Were there any prints on the handle?”
“Nope,” said Ben. “They were clean as a whistle. Which is kinda odd since you’d think Baby Doe’s prints would have shown up.”
“Except, she could have worn her gloves when she cut off her hair,” Cameryn argued. “She had a pair of knit gloves in her coat pocket. Maybe that’s why there weren’t any prints.”
“You make some good points, Miss Mahoney,” Dr. Moore said, his keen eyes trained on hers. “That’s why, when we’re done here, I want to take another look at Baby Doe. Sometimes death reveals her secrets with the aid of decomposition. Are you ready to revisit the dead?”
“Of course,” she said, with more enthusiasm than she felt.
When he had finished with the brain, Dr. Moore and Ben headed for the locker, motioning Cameryn to follow them. Her feet felt heavy as she walked toward the cooler. She knew what lay inside: behind that polished steel door rested Mariah with a white cotton sheet draped over her naked body, and next to her would be another corpse, and another, lined up against the wall in perfect white rectangles.
A blast of cool, fetid air hit her directly in the face as she stepped inside. Ben had already lifted up the corner of the sheet to fold it down to Mariah’s waist. “And there it is, Doc,” he said reverently. “Look at that.”
Cameryn took a step closer. The blood-soaked white string Ben had used to close the "Y” incision looked crude against Mariah’s pale skin, as if Frankenstein himself had tried to hem a garment. But that wasn’t the target of Ben’s gaze. He was looking at Mariah’s face.
“Well, well, well,” Dr. Moore said. “Putrification does her work again. Once decomposition begins, Miss Mahoney, bruising that was previously undetected by the human eye can surface. It looks like Baby Doe was hit on her face, right before she died.”
“I think it looks more like a scrape,” Ben said thoughtfully, touching the red mark that had spread across Mariah’s cheekbone. “Let me check something out.”
With an expert motion he flipped Mariah over so that her back lay exposed, mottled red from where the blood had pooled from post-mortem lividity.
“Whoo-wee, strike three. Do you see that?”
Although she didn’t want to, Cameryn forced herself to look. There was an outline, a print stamped on Mariah’s dappled skin. Like a silk-screen image, she saw the bruise that had appeared after death like a message in a Magic 8-Ball, a finger pointing the way to a verdict she could not accept.
Ben said, “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.