questions.”
“Anything new from Edmonton?”
“The RCMP sergeant I talked with this morning is arriving in Montreal tonight. We’ll meet tomorrow morning.”
Normally, Ryan would have invited me to join them. It was my case, too. He didn’t.
“What time?” I asked.
“Eight.”
“I’ll try to drop by.”
Back in X-ray, the scans of LSJML-49276 had been completed, and everyone was again gathered at the workstation. Mrs. Tong’s eyes were puffy, and her face had that blotchy after-crying look.
The image on the screen was in 2-D, an axial slice at the level of the chest. Leclerc was talking. “Air is present in both major bronchi and the esophagus. Both lungs appear aerated.”
Mrs. Tong hit some keys to bring up views of the abdomen.
Leclerc continued his monologue. “Air in the stomach.”
“So the baby was breathing and swallowing,” Pomier said.
“Perhaps.” LaManche’s saggy eyes looked weary in his saggy face. “Air can also be present due to decomposition. At autopsy, we will take samples for toxicological testing.”
LaManche didn’t have to elaborate. I knew that inhaled air would contain high levels of nitrogen and some oxygen, while gases resulting from decomposition would be mostly methane.
I also knew that, upon removal of the breastplate following the Y-incision, billowing of the lung parenchyma would indicate air in the lobes. And that, when placed in water or formaldehyde, aerated lungs would float.
Mrs. Tong didn’t need to hear any of that.
We analyzed the baby girl as we had the mummified boy. I measured her long bones and the basal parts of her occipital bone. We all observed her skeletal maturation and condition.
And came to the same sad conclusion.
LSJML-49276 was a full-term female infant exhibiting no malformation or skeletal trauma.
At one-forty A.M . we tucked the babies back into their tubs and bags for the return trip with Pomier to the morgue.
I arrived home at two-ten. Was asleep by two-fifteen.
* * *
Church bells blasted me awake. I swept my iPhone to the floor, trying to stop the bonging.
The digits on the screen said seven A.M .
I tried to recall why I’d set the alarm.
Ryan. Edmonton. RCMP. Right .
Groggy, I dragged myself to the bathroom, the closet, thekitchen. The pantry produced very old Frosted Flakes, the freezer ground coffee. The combo helped some. But when I’ve logged under five hours, caffeine and sugar can accomplish only so much.
Thirty minutes later, I was swiping my card at Wilfrid-Derome. OK. There are advantages to rising early. Parking was a snap.
After dumping my purse, I descended to the fourth floor and entered a door marked Section des crimes contre la personne .
The squad room contained about a dozen desks. Each held the usual cop stuff—phone, manila folders, mounded in- and out-baskets, gag trophies and mementos, mugs of half-drunk coffee.
A supervisor’s office was off to the right, and a copy room. Doors leading to interview rooms were to the left.
Only a few detectives were present, those who were running leads by phone or computer, one in a suit who I assumed was preparing for court. I wound my way toward the back corner.
“Hey, Rochette, today Tuesday?” asked a voice behind me. It was a detective named Chestang. “That mean rosebuds?”
“It’s Wednesday.” Like Chestang, Rochette was speaking loudly for my benefit. “Polka dots.”
Today’s teasing stemmed from an incident in which I’d been dragged from a fire and deposited bum-up. My leopard-skin panties had saluted the world. Though the episode had occurred several years earlier, it was still the top choice for source material.
Ignoring the witty repartee, I continued on course.
Ryan was at his desk, one haunch resting on the edge. A man sat opposite him. No yellow-striped pants or gray shirt, but I assumed he was the Mountie from Edmonton.
And no. He wasn’t wearing red serge, jodhpurs, and a Stetson. That garb is strictly
“Anything new from Edmonton?”
“The RCMP sergeant I talked with this morning is arriving in Montreal tonight. We’ll meet tomorrow morning.”
Normally, Ryan would have invited me to join them. It was my case, too. He didn’t.
“What time?” I asked.
“Eight.”
“I’ll try to drop by.”
Back in X-ray, the scans of LSJML-49276 had been completed, and everyone was again gathered at the workstation. Mrs. Tong’s eyes were puffy, and her face had that blotchy after-crying look.
The image on the screen was in 2-D, an axial slice at the level of the chest. Leclerc was talking. “Air is present in both major bronchi and the esophagus. Both lungs appear aerated.”
Mrs. Tong hit some keys to bring up views of the abdomen.
Leclerc continued his monologue. “Air in the stomach.”
“So the baby was breathing and swallowing,” Pomier said.
“Perhaps.” LaManche’s saggy eyes looked weary in his saggy face. “Air can also be present due to decomposition. At autopsy, we will take samples for toxicological testing.”
LaManche didn’t have to elaborate. I knew that inhaled air would contain high levels of nitrogen and some oxygen, while gases resulting from decomposition would be mostly methane.
I also knew that, upon removal of the breastplate following the Y-incision, billowing of the lung parenchyma would indicate air in the lobes. And that, when placed in water or formaldehyde, aerated lungs would float.
Mrs. Tong didn’t need to hear any of that.
We analyzed the baby girl as we had the mummified boy. I measured her long bones and the basal parts of her occipital bone. We all observed her skeletal maturation and condition.
And came to the same sad conclusion.
LSJML-49276 was a full-term female infant exhibiting no malformation or skeletal trauma.
At one-forty A.M . we tucked the babies back into their tubs and bags for the return trip with Pomier to the morgue.
I arrived home at two-ten. Was asleep by two-fifteen.
* * *
Church bells blasted me awake. I swept my iPhone to the floor, trying to stop the bonging.
The digits on the screen said seven A.M .
I tried to recall why I’d set the alarm.
Ryan. Edmonton. RCMP. Right .
Groggy, I dragged myself to the bathroom, the closet, thekitchen. The pantry produced very old Frosted Flakes, the freezer ground coffee. The combo helped some. But when I’ve logged under five hours, caffeine and sugar can accomplish only so much.
Thirty minutes later, I was swiping my card at Wilfrid-Derome. OK. There are advantages to rising early. Parking was a snap.
After dumping my purse, I descended to the fourth floor and entered a door marked Section des crimes contre la personne .
The squad room contained about a dozen desks. Each held the usual cop stuff—phone, manila folders, mounded in- and out-baskets, gag trophies and mementos, mugs of half-drunk coffee.
A supervisor’s office was off to the right, and a copy room. Doors leading to interview rooms were to the left.
Only a few detectives were present, those who were running leads by phone or computer, one in a suit who I assumed was preparing for court. I wound my way toward the back corner.
“Hey, Rochette, today Tuesday?” asked a voice behind me. It was a detective named Chestang. “That mean rosebuds?”
“It’s Wednesday.” Like Chestang, Rochette was speaking loudly for my benefit. “Polka dots.”
Today’s teasing stemmed from an incident in which I’d been dragged from a fire and deposited bum-up. My leopard-skin panties had saluted the world. Though the episode had occurred several years earlier, it was still the top choice for source material.
Ignoring the witty repartee, I continued on course.
Ryan was at his desk, one haunch resting on the edge. A man sat opposite him. No yellow-striped pants or gray shirt, but I assumed he was the Mountie from Edmonton.
And no. He wasn’t wearing red serge, jodhpurs, and a Stetson. That garb is strictly
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