kilos. Thirteen pounds.
LaManche recorded the weight, and Lisa removed the tiny corpse and placed it on the autopsy table. When she stepped back my breath froze in my throat. I looked at Bertrand, but his eyes were now fixed on his shoes.
The body had been a little boy. He lay on his back, legs and feet splayed sharply at the joints. His eyes were wide and button round, the irises clouded to a smoky gray. His head had rolled to the side, and one fat cheek rested against his left collarbone.
Directly below the cheek I saw a hole in the chest approximately the size of my fist. The wound had jagged edges, and a deep purple collar circled its perimeter. A star burst of slits, each measuring one to two centimeters in length, surrounded the cavity. Some were deep, others superficial. In places one slit crossed another, forming L- or V-shaped patterns.
My hand flew to my own chest and I felt my stomachtighten. I turned to Bertrand, unable to form a question.
“Do you believe that?” he said dismally. “The bastard carved his heart out.”
“It’s gone?”
He nodded.
I swallowed. “The other child?”
He nodded again. “Just when you think you’ve seen it all, you learn that you haven’t.”
“Christ.” I felt cold all over. I hoped fervently the children were unconscious when the mutilation took place.
I looked across at Ryan. He was studying the scene on the table, his face without expression.
“What about the adults?”
Bertrand shook his head. “Looks like they were stabbed repeatedly, throats slashed, but nobody harvested their organs.”
LaManche’s voice droned on, describing the external appearance of the wounds. I didn’t have to listen. I knew what the presence of hematoma meant. Tissue will bruise only if blood is circulating. The baby had been alive when the cut was made. Babies.
I closed my eyes, fought the urge to run from the room. Get a grip, Brennan. Do your job.
I crossed to the middle table to examine the clothing. Everything was so tiny, so familiar. I looked at the sleeper with its attached footies and soft, fleecy collar and cuffs. Katy had worn a dozen of them. I remembered opening and closing the snaps to change her diaper, her fat little legs kicking like mad. What were these things called? They had a specific name. I tried to recall but my mind refused to focus. Perhaps it was protecting me, urging me to stop personalizing andget back to business before I began to weep or simply went numb.
Most of the bleeding had been while the baby lay on his left side. The right sleeve and shoulder of the sleeper were spattered, but blood had soaked the left side, darkening the flannel to shades of dull red and brown. The undershirt and sweater were similarly stained.
“Three layers,” I said to no one in particular. “And socks.”
Bertrand crossed to the table.
“Someone took care that the child would be warm.”
“Yeah, I guess,” Bertrand agreed.
Ryan joined us as we stared at the clothing. Each garment displayed a jagged hole surrounded by a star burst of small tears, replicating the injuries on the baby’s chest. Ryan spoke first.
“The little guy was dressed.”
“Yeah,” said Bertrand. “Guess clothing didn’t interfere with his vicious little ritual.”
I said nothing.
“Temperance,” said LaManche, “please get a magnifying glass and come here. I’ve found something.”
We clustered around the pathologist, and he pointed to a small discoloration to the left and below the hole in the infant’s chest. When I handed him a glass, he bent close, studied the bruise, then returned the lens to me.
When I took my turn I was stunned. The spot did not show the disorganized mottling characteristic of a normal bruise. Under magnification I could see a distinct pattern in the baby’s flesh, a cruciate central feature with a loop at one end like an Egyptian ankh or Maltese cross. The figure was outlined by a crenulated rectangular border. I handed the glass to Ryan
LaManche recorded the weight, and Lisa removed the tiny corpse and placed it on the autopsy table. When she stepped back my breath froze in my throat. I looked at Bertrand, but his eyes were now fixed on his shoes.
The body had been a little boy. He lay on his back, legs and feet splayed sharply at the joints. His eyes were wide and button round, the irises clouded to a smoky gray. His head had rolled to the side, and one fat cheek rested against his left collarbone.
Directly below the cheek I saw a hole in the chest approximately the size of my fist. The wound had jagged edges, and a deep purple collar circled its perimeter. A star burst of slits, each measuring one to two centimeters in length, surrounded the cavity. Some were deep, others superficial. In places one slit crossed another, forming L- or V-shaped patterns.
My hand flew to my own chest and I felt my stomachtighten. I turned to Bertrand, unable to form a question.
“Do you believe that?” he said dismally. “The bastard carved his heart out.”
“It’s gone?”
He nodded.
I swallowed. “The other child?”
He nodded again. “Just when you think you’ve seen it all, you learn that you haven’t.”
“Christ.” I felt cold all over. I hoped fervently the children were unconscious when the mutilation took place.
I looked across at Ryan. He was studying the scene on the table, his face without expression.
“What about the adults?”
Bertrand shook his head. “Looks like they were stabbed repeatedly, throats slashed, but nobody harvested their organs.”
LaManche’s voice droned on, describing the external appearance of the wounds. I didn’t have to listen. I knew what the presence of hematoma meant. Tissue will bruise only if blood is circulating. The baby had been alive when the cut was made. Babies.
I closed my eyes, fought the urge to run from the room. Get a grip, Brennan. Do your job.
I crossed to the middle table to examine the clothing. Everything was so tiny, so familiar. I looked at the sleeper with its attached footies and soft, fleecy collar and cuffs. Katy had worn a dozen of them. I remembered opening and closing the snaps to change her diaper, her fat little legs kicking like mad. What were these things called? They had a specific name. I tried to recall but my mind refused to focus. Perhaps it was protecting me, urging me to stop personalizing andget back to business before I began to weep or simply went numb.
Most of the bleeding had been while the baby lay on his left side. The right sleeve and shoulder of the sleeper were spattered, but blood had soaked the left side, darkening the flannel to shades of dull red and brown. The undershirt and sweater were similarly stained.
“Three layers,” I said to no one in particular. “And socks.”
Bertrand crossed to the table.
“Someone took care that the child would be warm.”
“Yeah, I guess,” Bertrand agreed.
Ryan joined us as we stared at the clothing. Each garment displayed a jagged hole surrounded by a star burst of small tears, replicating the injuries on the baby’s chest. Ryan spoke first.
“The little guy was dressed.”
“Yeah,” said Bertrand. “Guess clothing didn’t interfere with his vicious little ritual.”
I said nothing.
“Temperance,” said LaManche, “please get a magnifying glass and come here. I’ve found something.”
We clustered around the pathologist, and he pointed to a small discoloration to the left and below the hole in the infant’s chest. When I handed him a glass, he bent close, studied the bruise, then returned the lens to me.
When I took my turn I was stunned. The spot did not show the disorganized mottling characteristic of a normal bruise. Under magnification I could see a distinct pattern in the baby’s flesh, a cruciate central feature with a loop at one end like an Egyptian ankh or Maltese cross. The figure was outlined by a crenulated rectangular border. I handed the glass to Ryan
Similar Books
