“Did you see the sketch of Baby Doe in the paper this morning?” he asked. “The artist did a fine job. He worked off a photograph you took. It was a very good likeness.”

“I didn’t get a chance to see it yet, Dr. Moore.” Suddenly alarmed, she said, “I smell something. Is there a fire?” An acrid odor, like smoke from a campfire, had wafted its way through the autopsy room.

“No, Ben’s just cleaning up. It’s burn day.” Dr. Moore adjusted the loop around his neck so that the apron fit snugly.

“Burn day?”

“Ben’s throwing tissue into the incinerator. We do it once every three months. He’ll be done soon.”

“You’ve got a crematorium here?”

“No. We have an incinerator.” He turned to her then, examining her, the lenses of his glasses magnifying his eyes. She could see how bloodshot his eyes were. “At some point we have to dispose of all the parts left in the buckets-heart, brain, lung, liver. After eighteen months, they’re gone. Unless it’s a homicide. Those parts we keep forever.”

“There’s a lot of smoke. How much are you burning today? ”

“We’re losing about”-he thought for a minute, staring at the ceiling-“one hundred and twenty pounds of tissue. It’s quite a job. There are regulations on how much we can incinerate at once. Air-quality issues and such.”

“Oh.”

“Oh, indeed.”

Dr. Moore wasn’t playing any music. In the background Cameryn could hear the hum of the refrigerator where they kept the bodies lined up on gurneys in a neat row. She’d been in it before. Unlike the storage room, the cooler was thick with the odor of death, almost strangling. Once inside she always switched to breathing through her mouth, even though, until she walked out, she could almost taste those people.

“By the way, Miss Mahoney, did you know my friend Jo Ann Whittaker is the dean of forensics at CU?” He looked at her over his half-moon glasses. “It’s very unusual she would reach out to an incoming freshman.”

“I guess she saw me on television.”

"Do you know she’s very connected to the police as well?”

“Yes.”

“And how do you know that?”

“Because Jo Ann told me.”

It was true. Cameryn had been seated at her desk Saturday night when she’d heard the soft ping of her computer. She’d opened her e-mail. The new message had read:

Dear Ms. Mahoney,

I was sorry to receive an alert that you have a Jane Doe in Silverton. As a forensic pathologist and dean of the CU College of Forensics, I would like to offer you any help I could provide. I am closely associated with various law-enforcement agencies throughout Colorado. If you have need for assistance in any form, I assure you that whatever information you choose to share with me will be held in the strictest of confidence.

Jo Ann Whittaker

Quickly, Cameryn had replied:

Dear Ms. Whittaker,

Thank you for your concern. We still do not have the manner of death but should know more tomorrow after we complete a brain bucket. I do have a question about a different case.

She’d hesitated then, because she knew she shouldn’t give out information to anyone. Jo Ann Whittaker, though, was the one person she could talk to. A professional tucked all the way in Boulder, Jo Ann would never be able to connect the Silverton dots. Still, Cameryn understood what she had to share would have to be framed carefully. Slowly, she’d typed, Do the words ‘Keep Sweet’ mean anything to you? I’d appreciate any information you might have. Cameryn Mahoney (Please call me Cameryn)

Her finger hovered over the key only a moment before she hit “Send.” She had just finished pulling on her nightshirt when she’d heard another ping of the computer. The message read:

Dear Cameryn,

(Please call me Jo Ann.) Your question will take some time to research, but I should have an answer for you Monday afternoon. Until then,

Jo Ann

Jo Ann had contacted her again only an hour ago as she’d been driving down the Million Dollar Highway. The ping of her BlackBerry had told her it was an e-mail. Shifting her eyes, she’d glanced at it and seen that it was from Jo Ann Whittaker. Pulling onto the next overlook, she’d heard the engine of her car clatter in idle as she sat staring at the tiny screen, at the same time fingering Mariah’s silver ring in her pocket. The e-mail had read:

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.