Deja Dead Page 0,146

we know, you know.”

“I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”

In less than half an hour I arrived at the lab. Ident had finished and sent the gloves to the biology section.

I looked at my watch—twelve-forty. I called the ident section at CUM headquarters to ask if I could see the photos taken at the St. Jacques apartment on Rue Berger. Lunchtime. The desk clerk would leave a message.

At one o’clock I walked over to the biology section. A woman with flyaway hair and a plump, Christmas angel face was shaking a glass vial. Two latex gloves lay on the counter behind her.

“Bonjour, Françoise.”

“Ah. I thought I might see you today.” The cherub eyes took on a worried expression. “I’m sorry. I don’t quite know what to say to you.”

“Merci. It’s okay.” I nodded at the gloves. “What have you got?”

“This one is clean. No blood.” She gestured at Gabby’s glove. “I’m just starting on the one from the kitchen. Would you like to watch?”

“Thank you.”

“I’ve taken scrapings from these brown spots and rehydrated the sample in saline.”

She examined the liquid and placed the vial in a test tube tray. Then she withdrew a glass pipette with a long, hollow projection, held it over a flame to seal it, and twisted off the tip.

“I’ll test for human blood first.”

Removing a tiny bottle from the refrigerator, she broke the seal and inserted the thin, tubular point of a fresh pipette. Like a mosquito sucking blood, the antiserum moved up the tiny pipeline. She sealed the other end with her thumb.

She then inserted the long beak of the pipette into the fire-sealed pipette, released her thumb, and allowed the antiserum to dribble out. She spoke as she worked.

“The blood knows its own proteins, or antigens. If it recognizes foreigners, antigens that don’t belong, it tries to destroy them with antibodies. Some antibodies blow up foreign antigens, others clump them together. That clumping is called an agglutination reaction.

“Antiserum is created in an animal, usually a rabbit or a chicken, by injecting it with the blood of another species. The animal’s blood recognizes the invaders and produces antibodies to protect itself. Injecting an animal with human blood produces human antiserum. Injecting it with goat blood produces goat antiserum. Horse blood produces horse antiserum.

“Human antiserum creates an agglutination reaction when mixed with human blood. Watch. If this is human blood a visible precipitate will form in the test tube, right where the sample solution and the antiserum meet. We’ll compare to the saline as a control.”

She tossed the pipette into a biological waste container and picked up the vial with the Tanguay sample solution. Using another pipette, she sucked the sample up the tube, released it into the antiserum, and set the pipette into a holder.

“How long will it take?” I asked.

“That depends on the strength of the antiserum. Anywhere from three to fifteen minutes. This is pretty good. Shouldn’t be more than five or six minutes.”

We checked it after five, Françoise holding the pipettes under the Luxolamp, a black card behind for background. We checked again after ten. Fifteen. Nothing. No white band appeared between the antiserum and the sample solution. The mixture stayed as clear as the control saline.

“So. It’s not human. Let’s see if it’s animal.”

She went back to the refrigerator and withdrew a tray of small bottles.

“Can you tell the exact species?” I asked.

“No. Usually just family. Bovid. Cervid. Canid.”

I looked at the tray. Written next to each bottle was an animal name. Goat. Rat. Horse. I pictured the paws in Tanguay’s kitchen.

“Let’s try dogs.”

Nothing.

“What about something like a squirrel or a gopher?”

She thought a minute then reached for a bottle. “Maybe rat.”

In less than four minutes a tiny parfait had formed in the tube, yellow above, clear below, a layer of foggy white between.

“Voilà,” said Françoise. “It’s animal blood. Something small, a mammal, like a rodent or a ground hog or something. That’s about all I’ll be able to determine. I don’t know if that helps you.”

“Yes,” I said. “That helps. May I use your phone?”

“Bien sûr.”

I dialed an extension down the hall.

“Lacroix.”

I identified myself and explained what I wanted.

“Sure. Give me twenty minutes, I’m just finishing up a run.”

I signed for the gloves, returned to my office, and spent the next half hour proofing and signing reports. Then I walked back to the corridor occupied by biology, and entered a door marked Incendie et Explosifs. Fire and Explosives.

A man in a lab coat stood in front of an enormous piece of