long, basset face tense—“. . . tool involved.”
I nodded and went to change into scrubs. Ryan smiled and gave a small salute as I passed him in the corridor. His eyes were teary, his nose and cheeks cherry red, as though he’d walked some distance in the cold.
In the locker room I steeled myself for what was to come. A pair of murdered babies was horror enough. What did LaManche mean by an unusual tool?
Cases involving children are always difficult for me. When my daughter was young, after each child murder I’d fight an urge to tether Katy to me to keep her in sight.
Katy is grown now, but I still dread images of dead children. Of all victims, they are the most vulnerable, the most trusting, and the most innocent. I ache each time one arrives in the morgue. The stark truth of fallen humanity stares at me. And pity provides small comfort.
I returned to the autopsy room, thinking I was prepared to proceed. Then I saw the small body lying on the stainless steel.
A doll. That was my first impression. A life-size latex baby that had grayed with age. I’d had one as a child, a newborn that was pink and smelled rubbery sweet. I fed her through a small, round hole between her lips, and changed her diaper when the water flowed through.
But this was no toy. The baby lay on its belly, arms at its sides, fingers curled into the tiny palms. The buttocks were flattened, and bands of white crisscrossed the purple livor of the back. A cap of fine red down covered the little head. The infant was naked save for a bracelet of miniature blocks circling the right wrist. I could see two wounds near the left shoulder blade.
A sleeper lay on the adjacent table, blue and red trucks smiling from the flannel. Spread next to it were a soiled diaper, a cotton undershirt with crotch snaps, along-sleeved sweater, and a pair of white socks. Everything was bloodstained.
LaManche spoke into a recorder.
“ Bébé de race blanche, bien développé et bien nourri. . . . ”
Well developed and well nourished but dead, I thought, the outrage beginning to build.
“ Le corps est bien préservé, avec une légère macération épidermique. . . . ”
I stared at the small cadaver. Yes, it was well preserved, with only slight skin slippage on the hands.
“Guess he won’t have to check for defense wounds.”
Bertrand had come up beside me. I didn’t respond. I was not in the mood for morgue humor.
“There’s another one in the cooler,” he continued.
“That’s what we’d been told,” I said crisply.
“Yeah, but, Christ. They’re babies.”
I met his eyes and felt a stab of guilt. Bertrand was not trying to be funny. He looked as if his own child had died.
“Babies. Someone wasted them and stashed them in a basement. That’s about as cold as a drive-by. Worse. The bastard probably knew these kids.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Makes sense. Two kids, two adults who are probably the parents. Someone wiped out the whole family.”
“And burned the house as a cover?”
“Possible.”
“Could be a stranger.”
“Could be, but I doubt it. Wait. You’ll see.” He refocused on the autopsy proceeding, hands clutched tightly behind his back.
LaManche stopped dictating and spoke to the autopsy technician. Lisa took a tape from the counter and stretched it the length of the baby’s body.
“ Cinquante-huit centimètres. ” Fifty-eight centimeters.
Ryan observed from across the room, arms crossed, right thumb grating the tweed on his left biceps. Now and then I saw his jaw tense and his Adam’s apple rise and fall.
Lisa wrapped the tape around the baby’s head, chest, and abdomen, calling out after each measurement. Then she lifted the body and laid it in a hanging scale. Normally the device is used to weigh individual organs. The basket swung slightly and she placed a hand to steady it. The image was heartrending. A lifeless child in a stainless steel cradle.
“Six kilos.”
The baby had died weighing only six
I nodded and went to change into scrubs. Ryan smiled and gave a small salute as I passed him in the corridor. His eyes were teary, his nose and cheeks cherry red, as though he’d walked some distance in the cold.
In the locker room I steeled myself for what was to come. A pair of murdered babies was horror enough. What did LaManche mean by an unusual tool?
Cases involving children are always difficult for me. When my daughter was young, after each child murder I’d fight an urge to tether Katy to me to keep her in sight.
Katy is grown now, but I still dread images of dead children. Of all victims, they are the most vulnerable, the most trusting, and the most innocent. I ache each time one arrives in the morgue. The stark truth of fallen humanity stares at me. And pity provides small comfort.
I returned to the autopsy room, thinking I was prepared to proceed. Then I saw the small body lying on the stainless steel.
A doll. That was my first impression. A life-size latex baby that had grayed with age. I’d had one as a child, a newborn that was pink and smelled rubbery sweet. I fed her through a small, round hole between her lips, and changed her diaper when the water flowed through.
But this was no toy. The baby lay on its belly, arms at its sides, fingers curled into the tiny palms. The buttocks were flattened, and bands of white crisscrossed the purple livor of the back. A cap of fine red down covered the little head. The infant was naked save for a bracelet of miniature blocks circling the right wrist. I could see two wounds near the left shoulder blade.
A sleeper lay on the adjacent table, blue and red trucks smiling from the flannel. Spread next to it were a soiled diaper, a cotton undershirt with crotch snaps, along-sleeved sweater, and a pair of white socks. Everything was bloodstained.
LaManche spoke into a recorder.
“ Bébé de race blanche, bien développé et bien nourri. . . . ”
Well developed and well nourished but dead, I thought, the outrage beginning to build.
“ Le corps est bien préservé, avec une légère macération épidermique. . . . ”
I stared at the small cadaver. Yes, it was well preserved, with only slight skin slippage on the hands.
“Guess he won’t have to check for defense wounds.”
Bertrand had come up beside me. I didn’t respond. I was not in the mood for morgue humor.
“There’s another one in the cooler,” he continued.
“That’s what we’d been told,” I said crisply.
“Yeah, but, Christ. They’re babies.”
I met his eyes and felt a stab of guilt. Bertrand was not trying to be funny. He looked as if his own child had died.
“Babies. Someone wasted them and stashed them in a basement. That’s about as cold as a drive-by. Worse. The bastard probably knew these kids.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Makes sense. Two kids, two adults who are probably the parents. Someone wiped out the whole family.”
“And burned the house as a cover?”
“Possible.”
“Could be a stranger.”
“Could be, but I doubt it. Wait. You’ll see.” He refocused on the autopsy proceeding, hands clutched tightly behind his back.
LaManche stopped dictating and spoke to the autopsy technician. Lisa took a tape from the counter and stretched it the length of the baby’s body.
“ Cinquante-huit centimètres. ” Fifty-eight centimeters.
Ryan observed from across the room, arms crossed, right thumb grating the tweed on his left biceps. Now and then I saw his jaw tense and his Adam’s apple rise and fall.
Lisa wrapped the tape around the baby’s head, chest, and abdomen, calling out after each measurement. Then she lifted the body and laid it in a hanging scale. Normally the device is used to weigh individual organs. The basket swung slightly and she placed a hand to steady it. The image was heartrending. A lifeless child in a stainless steel cradle.
“Six kilos.”
The baby had died weighing only six
Similar Books
