The Christopher Killer

The moment of truth

A Forensic Mystery by

Alane Ferguson

SPEAK
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 345 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3 (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd) Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd) Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi - 110 017, India Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd) Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

Registered Offices: Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

Copyright © Alane Ferguson, 2006
All rights reserved

THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS HAS CATALOGED THE VIKING
/
SLEUTH EDITION AS FOLLOWS
:
Ferguson, Alane.
The Christopher killer: a forensic mystery / Alane Ferguson.
p. cm.

Summary: On the payroll as an assistant to her coroner father, seventeen-year-old Cameryn Mahoney uses her knowledge of forensic medicine to catch the killer of a friend while putting herself in terrible danger.
[1. Coroners—Fiction. 2. Forensic sciences—Fiction. 3. Fathers and daughters—Fiction.
4. Mystery and detective stories.] I. Title.
PZ7.F3547Chr 2006
[Fic]—dc22 2005015806

ISBN: 978-1-4362-1266-3

The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

To my editor, Tracy Gates—
my partner in crime

“YES, I CAN BE THERE
in half an hour. Any idea of when he died?” Cameryn’s father murmured into the telephone. He sat at the kitchen table, his legs sprawled out from the wooden chair, his thick, uncombed hair bristling from his head like roofing thatch. The pencil scratched along the yellow pad as he listened. “That long in a bathtub filled with water? There’ll be a stink, then. Keep the doors and windows closed and seal off the hallway if you can.”

“A floater—that doesn’t sound good,” Cameryn said under her breath. From her forensic books she knew only too well what water did to skin. Outside, a bird warbled from a low-hanging branch. It was strange, Cameryn thought, the way routine things kept right on going even when a death call came in to the Mahoney home. An anonymous body sat bloating in a tub of water, and yet golden Colorado sunlight still poured into their kitchen, setting fire to the orange-red flowers that lined the window ledge. The
thwick, thwick, thwick
of sprinklers blended into the hum of a distant mower, while her grandmother, whom she called “Mammaw” after the old Irish way, chopped a green pepper in cadence with the ticking of the wall clock. No matter what ugliness appeared, life kept its rhythm.

Cameryn’s father, Patrick Mahoney, spoke again as his forehead furrowed into deep creases. “Well, you just tell the good sheriff he can wait for me to finish my breakfast. It’s only seven in the morning, and a few more minutes won’t make a whit of difference to the poor stiff in the tub. He’s past caring.” The person on the other end must have said something, because Patrick countered with, “I’m no ghoul, Deputy, I’m just the humble coroner. And just so you know, it’s always better to eat before a call—the taste of decay stays in the mouth too long after. Goodbye.” The phone clicked softly in its cradle and he looked up innocently, although Cameryn noticed his eyes twinkling.

“You shouldn’t be tormenting the new deputy, son,” Mammaw admonished in her soft Irish lilt. “You’ll scare him away, is what you’ll do. Not everyone can dance with the dead.”

“Ah, the boy needs to toughen up,” Patrick answered. “And I guess I’m a bit bent out of shape because the good sheriff was able to hire help while I’ve been left to carry the investigative load by myself.”

“That’s not the new deputy’s fault. Don’t be taking your frustrations out on him.”

Patrick looked up from beneath shaggy brows. “Let’s just say I’ve got other issues with Deputy Crowley. But enough about him—I want to enjoy what’s left of my morning.”

“You’re right,” Mammaw agreed, nodding. “Get the coffee going, girl!”

Cameryn, who’d already begun, pressed the button on the coffee grinder, then pulled the lid off and tapped the pulverized beans into a mound that looked like rich earth. It smelled good, too, dark and pungent.

“Make it extra strong, Cammie,” her father instructed as he picked up the newspaper and snapped it open. “A floater first thing in the morning is a hard way to begin.”

Cameryn moved on automatic pilot as she went through the motions of her one domestic skill. Her mind, though, worked the scene that her father would process in less than an hour. From her books she knew what happened to bodies left in water; mentally, she ticked off the steps her father would need to take as he took possession of the dead man. A cotton sheet, vinyl body bag, the digital camera, as well as the biohazard bags to contain any medication left in the room—all had to be loaded into the back of their old station wagon, the ancient car that doubled as the town hearse. Except for the camera, most of those items were stacked neatly on metal shelves in their garage along with the wheeled gurney and the box of latex gloves, ready to be pulled at a moment’s notice.

She turned just in time to notice Mammaw crack a shell with one hand, empty its contents into a glass bowl, and toss it into the sink. It rattled into the hole of the garbage disposal like a ball in a net.

“Good shot,” Cameryn said with a laugh. “Did you play ball in Ireland?”

“In my day girls didn’t want to sweat—we were taught to take care of our families. Which reminds me—are you ready to learn how to properly crack an egg?”

Picturing the last time she’d tried to spread the shell single-handed and the mess she’d made, Cameryn shook her head no. Besides, she had bigger dreams than baking Pork in Guinness or Dublin Coddle—dreams of which her grandmother did not approve.

“Well? How about it, girl?” Mammaw pressed. “You’re almost eighteen. It’s time.”

Cameryn looked at the eggs and wrinkled her nose. “You know I hate to cook.”

“That’s because you’ve never tried.”

“No, that’s because there are more interesting things to do.”

Her grandmother looked at her sharply. “Like cutting into dead bodies?”

Cameryn swallowed back her irritation. “Yeah—the live ones kick too much.”

“So now it’s humor, is it? You don’t fool me, not for a minute,” Mammaw said, pointing at her with a dripping shell. “Go ahead and make your jokes, but I’m worried about you. Your soul’s getting dark lately. Don’t think I haven’t noticed. Why, in church last Sunday your lips barely moved when the creed was read. There was a time when you said the words louder than anybody. Now you just sit, your mind engrossed in God knows what.”

Cameryn yanked open the silverware drawer and pulled out a knife and fork. Standing by her father, she set the silverware on the table harder than she needed to. “My soul is fine,” she said.

“How can it be? Look at the ideas you take in. All those books you read on death and dying—blood spatter, bugs crawling over those poor devils. Oh yes, I’ve seen them.” Her grandmother made a
tsk
ing sound behind her teeth. “All along I told my Pat that he’s made a mistake encouraging you the way he does, but no one listens to me.”

“Ma, don’t start,” he moaned from behind the
Silverton News
.

“Start what? I’m having a conversation with my only grandchild in my own kitchen.”

Patrick snapped the paper even wider and buried himself behind its pages.
Thanks for the help, Dad,
Cameryn thought.

Her grandmother had wrapped herself in a new cotton robe. As usual, the sleeves were too long, and the bottom inch dragged across the kitchen floor like a terry mop. The too-big garment made her look almost childlike, although Cameryn knew that her grandmother was anything but when it came to the subject of her granddaughter’s future career. Mammaw hated forensics. Like a chicken pecking grain, her grandmother picked and nibbled at Cameryn’s dream, convinced as she was that it would somehow twist Cameryn’s soul.

“All I’m asking is this: Why can’t you set your sights on becoming a
real
doctor?”

“A forensic pathologist
is
a real doctor.” The irritation welled in her throat, and she could no longer swallow it.

“I mean a doctor who treats the living! With that brain of yours there are lots of things that you could do. You’re a headstrong girl, Cammie, but that stubbornness can take you down the wrong path.”

The heat rose inside her as she countered, “I’ve told you a hundred times that this is the path I want.”

“Don’t give me your cheek! It’s that streak from your mother that’s coming out, and that’s the streak that’ll get you in trouble!”

“For Pete’s sake, Ma,” her father cried, “leave her be!” He slapped the newspaper onto the table loud enough to make Cameryn jump. Suddenly he looked weary. “All I want to do is start my day in relative peace. I don’t need the sound of my mother and my daughter ringing in my ears when I leave. Give a man a break!”

Chastened, Mammaw lifted her whisk and began to beat the eggs so hard they turned to lemony foam in a matter of seconds. “I’m only speaking my mind,” she muttered straight into the bowl. “I only want what’s best for the girl.”

For a moment there was no sound in the kitchen except her grandmother’s whisk flicking in percussive rhythm. Cameryn stood, unsure of what to do while her grandmother’s pale face turned to stone. She wanted to—what? Not run away exactly, but to be left alone. It almost made her laugh when she heard others complain about their parents, especially their mothers. Mammaw was not only from another country but, for all intents and purposes, another century.

Her father sighed, then carefully folded his paper and smoothed it between his fingers. Finally, he said, “Cameryn, honey, why don’t you go outside and get me my folder, the one with the death certificates in it—you’ll find it in the front seat, passenger side. Will you do that for me?”

“Sure,” she said, relieved to be set free.

He grasped her hand as she went by and squeezed it gently. “And, um, take your time, okay?”

“Not a problem.” The screen door squealed as she stepped outside into the cool morning air. The voices of her dad and grandmother rose and fell behind her, like swells on the sea. “…I’m doing the best I can, Ma….”

“But son, I love that girl, and someone’s got to pull her from the shadows….” They were fussing again. About her. She hated it when they did that.

Walking quickly, Cameryn passed rows of flowerpots her grandmother had planted at the first sign of spring. Now it was early October, which meant soon the plants would be brought into the warmth of their home to cheat death. Flowers and food—that’s what her grandmother was about. Cameryn and her father got along well enough, but her grandmother was something else entirely. They were opposites bound by blood.

The difference began in the way they looked. Both her grandmother and her father were pure Mahoney through and through. Patrick stood as tall as a grizzly, with a broad, barrel chest and pawlike fists that waved through the air whenever he talked. Although his hair had faded, it had once been a fiery red, and his heavy brows seemed to grow out farther every passing year. Her grandmother was a smaller version, with the same blunt nose and ice-blue eyes, the same jaw that squared when she was worked up over something, which seemed to Cameryn to be too much of the time.

Cameryn, on the other hand, was much more diminutive, which made her look as different as she felt—small and thin-boned, with long, curly black hair that reached all the way to her waist. Her hair and her brown eyes were a gift from her maternal side, as were the high cheekbones and golden skin passed down from a distant Cherokee relative. At least, that’s what she’d been told. She had almost no memory at all of her mother, whom her father rarely spoke of. When Mammaw did, it was only as a warning. “Don’t be doing that,” she’d say. “It’s what
she
used to do,” or, “No, girl, that’s what
she
thought.”

It would be easier, Cameryn knew, if her mother were dead. There would have been some finality in that. Instead, her mother had just disappeared one day, and after that, there were a few letters, and then…nothing. Hannah Mahoney was a stranger who hadn’t bothered to call or write in years, a ghost who never haunted. Once, when Cameryn was six, she and her father had curled up on their swing, watching the twilight deepen to the velvet of night until the stars appeared, first pale, and then bright as they burned into the night sky.

“Tell me about Mommy,” she’d asked.

Against the rhythm of the squeaking swing he told her about Hannah, how she had loved dogs and the color blue and other things Cameryn could no longer remember. But she still could recall snuggling into her father’s scratchy wool jacket and asking, “But why did she go? Where is she?”

“I—I don’t know. I just don’t know,” he’d whispered into her hair. “But I have to believe that one day soon she’ll come to us. She’ll get better and she’ll come home. You’ll see.”

As the years passed he spoke of her less and less, until he stopped mentioning Hannah’s name altogether. There’d been no divorce, no explanation, nothing. Sometimes, in the quiet of the night, she would allow herself to think of her mother, but only for a moment. It was better to focus on the practical, on the here and now, on things she could taste and see and touch. Her reality was the Mahoney Trinity—mother, son, and granddaughter—all living in the green-shingled house high in the San Juan Mountains in a town no bigger than a Post-it note.

Cameryn retrieved the folder from the front seat of the station wagon and returned to the kitchen, waiting long enough to be sure they weren’t still talking about her. They weren’t. It was quiet inside, except for the chopping sound of her mammaw’s knife on the wooden board and her father’s gentle slurping of coffee. While they went on with their morning, Cameryn let the plan form in her mind, the one she’d thought about before but that was now taking shape, a piece at a time. Just this morning the final piece had slipped into place. Exhaling a deep breath, she walked to the table and set down the folder.

“Thanks, Cam,” he said, without looking up. “Just wanted to be sure I wasn’t out of certificates.” He peered into the envelope and said, “Good. I’ve got two left.”

Cameryn took the coffeepot to the table and refilled her father’s mug. “What’s going to happen to the body when you’re done with it?”

“Oh, most likely a pauper’s grave. The sheriff thinks the man’s a transient so his body’ll probably end up unclaimed, with no one caring what time he died or that he died at all. You know,” he said, suddenly thoughtful, “it’s a sad world we live in when a human being leaves so little of a mark that no one even realizes it when he’s gone.”

Cameryn heard a snap as her mammaw pushed the button on the toaster. “You reap what you sow,” she said. “Now let’s talk about something more pleasant, like the weather, for instance. If you’d look out the window you’d see it’s like summer outside, warmer than it’s been this time of year for as long as I can remember. Here, girl, take this!” Her grandmother reached out the plate, loaded with food, and Cameryn took it and set it in front of Pat on the yellow gingham place mat. Yellow was her grandmother’s favorite color, one she wove through the room like a golden thread. “I like my kitchen cheerful,” she’d say, “because the kitchen is the soul of the house.” True to her word, the round oak table always had fresh yellow flowers in the middle, the blooms nodding lazily in the sun like sleepy heads.