stranger to your town?” he asked as he worked.
“Yeah, we’ve never seen her,” answered Jacobs. “It’s our Christmas festival, so there were a lot of strangers in town.”
Dr. Moore plucked eyebrow hairs from Mariah’s left eyebrow. “That’ll make it harder to figure things out,” he said, folding the hairs into tissue.
“You ready for the clothes now, Doc?” Ben asked as he set the coin envelope next to the others.
Dr. Moore nodded. As if on cue, the team stepped forward to help unwrap Mariah’s clothing, piece by piece. The process reminded Cameryn of undressing a doll. Mariah’s head bobbed as they removed the jacket, tugging it awkwardly over stiff hands. Inside a pocket she found a pair of blue knit gloves, which she also bagged. Next came the shoes—Cameryn unlaced them, placing each in a separate paper sack. The socks with an orange daisy print encircling each ankle came next, one bag for each sock, the bags labeled separately. The jeans were harder to remove, but Ben tugged at the cuffs, and soon they, too, slipped down Mariah’s legs. They were placed in a large paper supermarket bag stamped ALBERTSONS.
“We get them from the store ’cause they work just as well as the large evidence bags, except they’re practically free,” said Ben, following her gaze as she read the logo.
“This office tries to save where it can,” Moore interjected. “We’ve learned to make do. Lift her up so I can remove the shirt.”
Beneath the top was a modest bra, which Ben unfastened with a single expert motion. It looked different from the kind Cameryn wore. This brassiere had no lace or ribbon rosettes—just basic, unadorned fabric, plain and utilitarian. Cameryn couldn’t help but be surprised, too, by Mariah’s old-fashioned white cotton panties, the kind that went all the way to Mariah’s waist and to the top of her thigh. These were the style her mammaw would wear. As Ben pulled them down, Cameryn once again reminded herself of a hard fact: there was no privacy in death.
Dr. Moore placed a small terry-cloth towel over Mariah’s hips and pulled out the rape kit, removing long Q-tips and glass slides from a box. At that moment Cameryn could feel a hand on her forearm. It was Justin.
“Come help me log in the evidence bags?” he asked her softly.
“Okay. Sure. If you think they need to be done right now.”
“I do,” he said.
She understood that Justin was trying to protect her from the indignities of the rape kit. “Here,” he said, “I’ll read them off and you write them down.”
Her mind was divided, half of her writing while the other half was attuned to what was happening to Mariah. As she recorded the bags and coin envelopes, Cameryn listened to Dr. Moore swabbing Mariah’s internal cavities, including her mouth. She heard the hiss of aerosol as he applied fixative to the slides and the hum of the blue light as Ben passed it over Mariah’s naked body, searching for more trace evidence.
“No sign of any trauma,” rumbled Moore.
“I’m getting nothing, too,” agreed Ben. Sheriff Jacobs said something inaudible, and her father whispered in reply. She took a quick glance and saw Patrick and the sheriff leaning close, their hands clasped behind them while Dr. Moore jabbed a needle into the intersection where Mariah’s thigh met her crotch. The syringe was filled with blood, purple-red, which he once again handed to Ben.
Justin kept his voice low. “They’re finishing up the stuff for toxicology. Moore’s just pulled blood from the femoral artery. Next is the urine, which means they’re almost done. We’ll be able to open her up real soon. Whoa,” he said.
“What?”
“That is one extreme needle Moore’s using—at least eight, maybe ten inches long. He didn’t used to do it that way.”
She couldn’t help but turn and watch as Dr. Moore poked a long needle between Mariah’s legs. A syringe was soon filled with urine, destined for the
“Yeah, we’ve never seen her,” answered Jacobs. “It’s our Christmas festival, so there were a lot of strangers in town.”
Dr. Moore plucked eyebrow hairs from Mariah’s left eyebrow. “That’ll make it harder to figure things out,” he said, folding the hairs into tissue.
“You ready for the clothes now, Doc?” Ben asked as he set the coin envelope next to the others.
Dr. Moore nodded. As if on cue, the team stepped forward to help unwrap Mariah’s clothing, piece by piece. The process reminded Cameryn of undressing a doll. Mariah’s head bobbed as they removed the jacket, tugging it awkwardly over stiff hands. Inside a pocket she found a pair of blue knit gloves, which she also bagged. Next came the shoes—Cameryn unlaced them, placing each in a separate paper sack. The socks with an orange daisy print encircling each ankle came next, one bag for each sock, the bags labeled separately. The jeans were harder to remove, but Ben tugged at the cuffs, and soon they, too, slipped down Mariah’s legs. They were placed in a large paper supermarket bag stamped ALBERTSONS.
“We get them from the store ’cause they work just as well as the large evidence bags, except they’re practically free,” said Ben, following her gaze as she read the logo.
“This office tries to save where it can,” Moore interjected. “We’ve learned to make do. Lift her up so I can remove the shirt.”
Beneath the top was a modest bra, which Ben unfastened with a single expert motion. It looked different from the kind Cameryn wore. This brassiere had no lace or ribbon rosettes—just basic, unadorned fabric, plain and utilitarian. Cameryn couldn’t help but be surprised, too, by Mariah’s old-fashioned white cotton panties, the kind that went all the way to Mariah’s waist and to the top of her thigh. These were the style her mammaw would wear. As Ben pulled them down, Cameryn once again reminded herself of a hard fact: there was no privacy in death.
Dr. Moore placed a small terry-cloth towel over Mariah’s hips and pulled out the rape kit, removing long Q-tips and glass slides from a box. At that moment Cameryn could feel a hand on her forearm. It was Justin.
“Come help me log in the evidence bags?” he asked her softly.
“Okay. Sure. If you think they need to be done right now.”
“I do,” he said.
She understood that Justin was trying to protect her from the indignities of the rape kit. “Here,” he said, “I’ll read them off and you write them down.”
Her mind was divided, half of her writing while the other half was attuned to what was happening to Mariah. As she recorded the bags and coin envelopes, Cameryn listened to Dr. Moore swabbing Mariah’s internal cavities, including her mouth. She heard the hiss of aerosol as he applied fixative to the slides and the hum of the blue light as Ben passed it over Mariah’s naked body, searching for more trace evidence.
“No sign of any trauma,” rumbled Moore.
“I’m getting nothing, too,” agreed Ben. Sheriff Jacobs said something inaudible, and her father whispered in reply. She took a quick glance and saw Patrick and the sheriff leaning close, their hands clasped behind them while Dr. Moore jabbed a needle into the intersection where Mariah’s thigh met her crotch. The syringe was filled with blood, purple-red, which he once again handed to Ben.
Justin kept his voice low. “They’re finishing up the stuff for toxicology. Moore’s just pulled blood from the femoral artery. Next is the urine, which means they’re almost done. We’ll be able to open her up real soon. Whoa,” he said.
“What?”
“That is one extreme needle Moore’s using—at least eight, maybe ten inches long. He didn’t used to do it that way.”
She couldn’t help but turn and watch as Dr. Moore poked a long needle between Mariah’s legs. A syringe was soon filled with urine, destined for the
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