Read Online Circle of Blood (Forensic Mystery) by Alane Ferguson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Alane Ferguson
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Moore’s going to give you grief for being the lead coroner on this one?”
In spite of herself, Cameryn smiled. The “guessing game” was one of her father’s strategies to get her to talk when she didn’t want to.
“No.”
“Are you worried that you haven’t finished your application for that forensic guru?”
“No. She’s supposed to e-mail me today.”
“Okay,” he went on, jutting out a thoughtful lower lip, “are you worried about what Justin said—that this is a murder and not a suicide?”
It was enough to wake her from her trance. Pulling away from the glass, she turned to look at him. “What did you say?”
“Bingo!” he said happily. “If you’re concerned whether you covered procedure well enough if the case goes to trial, don’t be. First of all, you did a fine job—everything by the book. Are you worried about a trial?”
She nodded, thankful for the excuse.
“But this is not a murder. Deputy Crowley was overreaching. ”
“Except . . . Justin said that girls cut hair as an act of vengeance.”
He smiled to himself. “Well, yes, it’s true that sometimes when it’s a girl-on-girl crime, the perpetrator will cut hair. It happens.” For a quick moment he scoped her face before training his eyes back to the road. “But it’s also true that girls cut off their hair in an act of despondency. Obviously, you have to be pretty darn despondent to kill yourself. And who are these mysterious girls that killed Baby Doe? We don’t exactly have street gangs in Silverton. No, there was a gun in her hand and a bullet in her head. Far more people die at their own hand than are murdered.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
Her blood began to flow again as she settled back into her seat. It was true—she’d allowed her mind to dwell on the worst thing it could possibly be, and here was her father, a professional, telling her the case was a suicide. Behind her in the bay of their station wagon lay the gurney. Strapped to it, in the blue body bag that rocked whenever they hit a bump in the road, lay Mariah, her body swaying ever so slightly. Cameryn found the motion, the sounds, unnerving—almost as though Mariah might be alive inside the body bag. But that was just her mind playing tricks—from cutting open bodies, she knew one thing: dead meant dead.
In her mind she could see Mariah’s face and her wide-set eyes that had stared into the falling snowflakes. Her father, once he’d arrived, had been the one to close those eyes. That was the scene her mind replayed—Patrick’s hand gently pressing against Mariah’s lids while Justin held the red-gold braid.
“I wish we had an identification on our Baby Doe. Jacobs told me they’ve done a search on missing persons and there’s no hit.”
“Why call her Baby Doe when she isn’t a baby?” Cameryn asked. “She’s what—fourteen, fifteen maybe?”
“I told you already, the decedent is Baby Doe because she was just a kid. In my book, that girl’s not old enough to be a ‘Jane.’”
Although Cameryn understood her father’s reasoning, she couldn’t help but bristle at the name ‘baby’ being applied to Mariah. Mariah had been a thief. She’d carried a gun. And yet Cameryn couldn’t say a word because officially, she’d never seen Mariah before in her life.
“You know, it’s strange that Baby Doe had no ID in her backpack or anywhere else on her,” Patrick went on. “Don’t you think?”
“Yeah. But maybe she didn’t want her family to know— that she was going to kill herself, I mean. Maybe she didn’t want to be found.”
“Maybe,” Patrick agreed.
The lack of identification, Cameryn realized, had been her one incredible stroke of good fortune. Mariah had ditched Hannah’s wallet before they’d searched her remains, which meant that Mariah must have tossed the wallet somewhere—in a trash can, maybe. The backpack had been strangely empty, too, another point Justin had commented on. Cameryn hadn’t
In spite of herself, Cameryn smiled. The “guessing game” was one of her father’s strategies to get her to talk when she didn’t want to.
“No.”
“Are you worried that you haven’t finished your application for that forensic guru?”
“No. She’s supposed to e-mail me today.”
“Okay,” he went on, jutting out a thoughtful lower lip, “are you worried about what Justin said—that this is a murder and not a suicide?”
It was enough to wake her from her trance. Pulling away from the glass, she turned to look at him. “What did you say?”
“Bingo!” he said happily. “If you’re concerned whether you covered procedure well enough if the case goes to trial, don’t be. First of all, you did a fine job—everything by the book. Are you worried about a trial?”
She nodded, thankful for the excuse.
“But this is not a murder. Deputy Crowley was overreaching. ”
“Except . . . Justin said that girls cut hair as an act of vengeance.”
He smiled to himself. “Well, yes, it’s true that sometimes when it’s a girl-on-girl crime, the perpetrator will cut hair. It happens.” For a quick moment he scoped her face before training his eyes back to the road. “But it’s also true that girls cut off their hair in an act of despondency. Obviously, you have to be pretty darn despondent to kill yourself. And who are these mysterious girls that killed Baby Doe? We don’t exactly have street gangs in Silverton. No, there was a gun in her hand and a bullet in her head. Far more people die at their own hand than are murdered.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
Her blood began to flow again as she settled back into her seat. It was true—she’d allowed her mind to dwell on the worst thing it could possibly be, and here was her father, a professional, telling her the case was a suicide. Behind her in the bay of their station wagon lay the gurney. Strapped to it, in the blue body bag that rocked whenever they hit a bump in the road, lay Mariah, her body swaying ever so slightly. Cameryn found the motion, the sounds, unnerving—almost as though Mariah might be alive inside the body bag. But that was just her mind playing tricks—from cutting open bodies, she knew one thing: dead meant dead.
In her mind she could see Mariah’s face and her wide-set eyes that had stared into the falling snowflakes. Her father, once he’d arrived, had been the one to close those eyes. That was the scene her mind replayed—Patrick’s hand gently pressing against Mariah’s lids while Justin held the red-gold braid.
“I wish we had an identification on our Baby Doe. Jacobs told me they’ve done a search on missing persons and there’s no hit.”
“Why call her Baby Doe when she isn’t a baby?” Cameryn asked. “She’s what—fourteen, fifteen maybe?”
“I told you already, the decedent is Baby Doe because she was just a kid. In my book, that girl’s not old enough to be a ‘Jane.’”
Although Cameryn understood her father’s reasoning, she couldn’t help but bristle at the name ‘baby’ being applied to Mariah. Mariah had been a thief. She’d carried a gun. And yet Cameryn couldn’t say a word because officially, she’d never seen Mariah before in her life.
“You know, it’s strange that Baby Doe had no ID in her backpack or anywhere else on her,” Patrick went on. “Don’t you think?”
“Yeah. But maybe she didn’t want her family to know— that she was going to kill herself, I mean. Maybe she didn’t want to be found.”
“Maybe,” Patrick agreed.
The lack of identification, Cameryn realized, had been her one incredible stroke of good fortune. Mariah had ditched Hannah’s wallet before they’d searched her remains, which meant that Mariah must have tossed the wallet somewhere—in a trash can, maybe. The backpack had been strangely empty, too, another point Justin had commented on. Cameryn hadn’t
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