Murder Below Montparnasse - By Cara Black Page 0,22
the angle. Do you recall any parked cars, a tree, a motorcycle—anything he could have fallen off of?”
“It happened so fast, although it felt like slow motion at the time.” She studied the photos. The position of René’s Citroën. “A white van pulled ahead of us.…” Her index finger stabbed at the photo. “Here. If the Serb was standing between this parked truck and this motorcycle.…” She paused to think for a moment. “He could have caught his sleeve on the truck’s side mirror. For reasons unknown, his heart stopped. Then the car’s vibrations on the cobbles caused him.…”
“To fall.” Serge nodded. “His accumulated weight could have torn his jacket pocket, and he landed as you drove by.”
Serge pointed to the photo of the body on the cobbles. The ripped jean jacket pocket.
“Brilliant. No one dies twice. At least not as far as I know.” Aimée grinned. “This puts Saj in the clear.”
Serge didn’t share her excitement. He tapped his pen. “Still doesn’t give me his cause of death.” His other gloved finger probed the Serb’s jawline. “He presents no wounds apart from the crushing attributed to the injuries sustained after death from René’s Citroën,” Serge said. “No bullet holes, knife marks, or concussion or injury to the brain.” He checked the autopsy clipboard. Turned some pages. “His organs, brain came out normal. No distinguishable cause of death.”
Not her problem.
“Aimée, I’ve never issued an inconclusive autopsy report in my career.”
“Perfectionist” was Serge’s other middle name, after Pierre. He was thorough, a recognized expert in the medical pathology field.
“C’est bizarre. But before I throw my hands up, I’ll do a microscopic examination of the organs for what could have caused sudden death. Inflammation in the heart, maybe, like myocarditis, or inflammation in the brain. Never obvious.”
“What if he was using a new designer crack or injectable synthetic cocaine cocktail?” She shivered, and not only from the chill of the cadaver room. “They wouldn’t show on the standard tests you performed. You should run one of those advanced tox screen panels for other drugs, too. Have you examined his tattoos for puncture holes? He’s got enough of them.”
“Speaking of crack, our department head’s cracking down on our pathology budget,” Serge said. “We’re allocated funds for only standard blood screens and tests.”
“Didn’t you misplace that memorandum, Serge?” Aimée winked. “Or it got lost in the shuffle when you were at the medical conference in, where was it, Prague, non?”
His dark eyes lit up. “You want me to bend rules, like you?”
“Live dangerously, Serge. You’ve only got one life. Add spice.”
“So you’re adding spice with Serb gangsters? You need to watch out, Aimée.”
Her hands trembled. She put them in her pocket. She was tired of hearing this. “Has his brother ID’d him?”
Serge took off his glasses again. Rubbed the other lens with the edge of his lab coat. “No family has claimed him so far.”
Odd.
“How did the flics ID him?” Aimée asked. “Driver’s license, carte d’identité?”
Serge paused, put on his glasses and consulted another chart. Flipped the pages. “You never saw this either, Aimée.”
A smudged copy of a receipt from a kebob takeout on rue d’Alésia for Feliks. He must have ordered ahead.
“So his stomach contents corroborate this?”
“See for yourself.” Serge gestured to a bowl.
“Non, merci,” she said. “How soon will you file the autopsy, Serge?”
“I’m not finished, Aimée. First, I need the cause of death.”
She wanted to grab him by the throat. Shake him. Didn’t he understand?
“Until you send in the prelim,” she said, keeping her voice even with effort, “Saj faces manslaughter for this mec. Please, Serge, you know it’s wrong to leave Saj hanging. Get the prelim paperwork to the lead investigator’s desk.”
“What’s a few hours? Saj still needs medical care.”
“Didn’t I tell you this Serb’s brother tried to talk his way into garde à vue—”
“Bon,” Serge interrupted, waving his rib cutters. “You’re babysitting the twins while we take a weekend in Brittany.”
“Wait a minute, I offered overnight—”
“A weekend alone with my wife, Aimée. Take it or leave it.”
She stifled a groan. Saj better appreciate this.
SHE CHEWED HER lip as she opened Leduc Detective’s frosted glass door. Saj wouldn’t face manslaughter charges—a good thing. Yet, considering the snail’s pace of paperwork required for a release, she couldn’t hold her breath. She hated waiting for the catch-up.
Stacks of printouts, color-coded folders, and copies of faxed proposals lay neatly on her desk. Maxence had been busy. Nice job. “You’re starting to dazzle me,” she said.
Maxence grinned. “There’s a message on the machine.”