The Christopher Killer Forensi. Dieser Artikel ist nicht verfügbar.The Christopher Killer Forensi

Fascinated by forensics, seventeen-year-old Cameryn Mahoney persuades her father, the county coroner in sleepy Silverton, CO, to take her on as his assistant. But she never expects her first case to involve the death of a friend! Rachel Geller, a beautiful young waitress, is found strangled in a field with a Christopher medal around her neck—clearly marking her as the fourth victim of a serial killer. Cameryn is determined to help find Rachel’s killer, and attending the autopsy gives her the first clue. But as she follows her instincts and gets closer to the killer, Cameryn suddenly finds herself on the verge of becoming his fifth victim!

Chapter Five

“YOU GUYS DON’T HAVE TO wait here with me,” Cameryn said, drumming the steering wheel nervously. “The bell’s going to ring any second, and . . . I don’t know, I just . . .” She didn’t finish the sentence. It felt like she couldn’t string her words together, or worse, her thoughts. It was hard to make anything inside her head line up. Instead, her syllables spun like autumn leaves caught in a whirligig of air. It was all the crazy talk of Jewel that was making her think sideways. She had to pull herself together.

“Don’t worry about me; I don’t care if I’m late,” Adam announced from the backseat. “I mean, I’m still trying to take it all in. Somebody’s dead.” He shook his head and exclaimed, “Man. It’s just like Jewel said last night.”

“We don’t know that—right now we don’t know anything except someone died. And, you guys know not to say anything to anyone at school, right?” Cameryn said for the third time. “Remember, my dad said he didn’t want reporters showing up. It’s still a crime scene. We’ve got to get it all sorted out.”

“We already promised we wouldn’t say a word,” Lyric replied. “Don’t worry, we’ll keep our mouths shut. But, you do realize this is going to be a Christopher killing. When the media catches wind of what happened, it’s going to get crazy. You need to prepare yourself.”

“It’s not the Christopher Killer,” Cameryn said, her voice sharp. “Okay, it’s a possible murder—and I say possible because we haven’t even been to the scene yet to know for sure—but that doesn’t mean it’s the murder. I mean, you just made a huge leap in logic. I want to stick to facts.”

“The fact is this—a murdered girl in the mountains is just what Dr. Jewel saw in his vision,” Lyric told her calmly. “The orange soil. The body by water. I don’t care if you believe me now or not, because you will believe as soon as you get there.”

But Cameryn would hear none of it. “Statistically, there have been lots of murders since Jewel made his prediction. And by the way, where was Dr. Jewel when he ‘saw’ all this, anyway?”

“New Mexico,” Adam answered. From his coat pocket he pulled out a cigarette and rolled it between his hands. Cameryn turned in her seat so she could watch him. “You’re not going to light that, are you?” she asked.

Adam shook his head. “See, right now Jewel’s holding a live psychic convention down there in Santa Fe. But you can’t let the distance throw you, because with mediums, space and time and all of those existential limitations no longer exist. It’s still hard to get my head around this. I knew Jewel had power, but I got to admit this is freaking weird.” He stopped rolling his cigarette and looked up through his curtain of hair. “Do you think the dead girl is someone from Silverton?”

Her heart skipped a beat. “No way,” she said. Cameryn didn’t know why she was so sure, but she was. “It’s got to be a tourist. We’ve still had a lot of people coming up on the train since the weather’s been so good. It’ll be an out-of-towner. And I’m getting out of the car—I think I need some air.”

As if on cue, the three of them spilled out of the car. It was harder for Adam. He exited legs-first, unfolding himself, piece by piece, as though he were a piece of collapsible gear that needed to be reassembled outside its box. Lyric reached around him to grab her backpack, and when she did, she accidentally bumped against him. “Sorry,” she said softly.

Crossing her arms, Cameryn leaned against the side of the Jeep and waited. It was only eight thirty and already the air was warming up. October weather in Silverton could be schizophrenic. The last few days had brought cool temperatures in the mornings and evenings only, when the sky was still purple-blue and the stars mere pricks of pale light. The middle of the day, however, had been uncharacteristically warm. The higher than normal temperatures, she knew, would make her father’s job—her job—that much harder.

She knew a body would decompose fast in the heat. Insects, especially blowflies, honed in on their mark within hours and laid their eggs into any available flesh. That was the science of it. A short while later maggots would emerge, a wriggling white mass capable of stripping a corpse to the bone within weeks, depending on temperature and humidity levels, which meant precious evidence could be lost quickly.

And that wasn’t even factoring in the animal activity that would inevitably occur when a body was left in the wild. Mentally she tried to prepare herself for what she might see, but how could she steel her insides for what lay at Smith Fork? Was it only last week that she’d seen the man in the bathtub? It seemed like a lifetime ago that she’d retched from the smell. Today, Cameryn realized, could be much, much worse.

Adam lit his cigarette with a plastic lighter, politely blowing the smoke away from Cameryn. His smoking irritated her. She wished the two of them would leave, but at the same time she liked them there with her—just one more contradictory set of emotions to sort through. The warning bell rang, followed by the bell signaling the start of school, and still her father had not come.

“What’s taking your dad so long?” Lyric asked, tapping her foot into the dirt. “I thought he was rushing right over to pick you up.”

Cameryn shrugged. “He might have stopped to get a white body bag. They’re supposed to use white ones when it’s a murder. That’s what the books say, anyway.” “Why white?” Adam asked. Already he was working on a second cigarette. A bit of paper had stuck to his bottom lip, which he carefully pinched off.

“Because evidence left inside the bag is easier to spot.”

Adam nodded. He took a drag and exhaled. “Man, how do you know this stuff?”

“I read,” she answered. “I study. I focus on things you can see, taste, smell, and test. Then I throw in a rosary for Mammaw and I’m good to go.”

“And they say I’m twisted.”

At that moment Patrick’s station wagon whipped around the corner and into the parking lot. From the way he clutched the steering wheel she could tell he was upset. “Dad!” she cried, waving frantically. “Over here!”

When he saw her he flipped a U-turn in front of the school, so close his wheel bounced up on the curb. He slowed down as he approached them. The passenger-side window was already down, and he scooped the air with his hand, ordering her in. “Come on, they’re waiting for us!”

A jolt of electricity shot through Cameryn as she hopped inside the car and buckled up. Adam and Lyric gave a wave as the station wagon pulled away. She watched them as they grew smaller in the distance, Adam, as tall and thin as a poplar tree next to Lyric’s full evergreen frame. Lyric’s backpack slumped between them like a tired dog.

The station wagon turned onto Greene, and soon the car was heading south along the Million Dollar Highway, so named because it cost the state well over a million dollars to carve it into the high mountains. Patrick said nothing; his posture behind the wheel was ramrod straight, and his head grazed the ceiling of the car, bending his hair back like the bristles of an old scrub...