Deja Dead Page 0,88

attached to the other form. “Ossements trouvés dans un bois.” Bones found in the woods. My most common case. Could mean anything from a multiple ax murder to a dead cat.

I called Denis and requested radiographs of the infant, then went downstairs to look at the bones. Lisa brought a cardboard box from the morgue and placed it on the table.

“C’est tout?”

“C’est tout.” That’s all.

She handed me gloves, and I withdrew three clods of hard clay from the box. Bones protruded from each clump. I chipped at the soil, but it was hard as cement.

“Let’s get photos and radiographs, then put these in a screen and get them soaking. Use dividers to keep the chunks separate. I’ll be back down after the meeting.”

The four other pathologists at the LML meet with LaManche each morning to review cases and receive autopsy assignments. On the days I’m present, I attend. When I got upstairs LaManche, Natalie Ayers, Jean Pelletier, and Marc Bergeron were already seated around the small conference table in LaManche’s office. From the activity board in the corridor, I knew that Marcel Morin was in court, and Emily Santangelo had taken a personal day.

Everyone shifted to make room, and a chair was shuffled into the circle. Bonjour’s and Comment ça va’s were exchanged.

“Marc, what brings you in on a Thursday?” I asked.

“Holiday tomorrow.”

I’d completely forgotten. Canada Day.

“Going to the parade?” asked Pelletier, poker-faced. His French wore the trappings of the Quebec back country, making it difficult for me to unravel his words. For months I hadn’t understood him at all, and had missed his wry comments. Now, after four years, I caught most of what he said. I had no trouble following his drift this morning.

“I think I’ll skip this one.”

“You could just get your face painted at one of those booths. It might be easier.”

Chuckles all around.

“Or maybe a tattoo. Less painful.”

“Very funny.”

Feigned innocence, eyebrows raised, shoulders hoisted, palms up. What? Settling back, he clamped the last two inches of an unfiltered cigarette between yellowed fingers, and inhaled deeply. Someone once told me that Pelletier had never traveled outside Quebec Province. He was sixty-four years old.

“There are only three autopsies,” LaManche began, distributing the list of that day’s cases.

“Pre-holiday lull,” said Pelletier, reaching for his printout. His dentures clicked softly when he spoke. “Things’ll get busier.”

“Yes.” LaManche picked up his red marker. “At least the weather is cooler. Perhaps that will help.”

He went over the day’s melancholy roster, supplying additional information on each case. A suicide by carbon monoxide. An old man found dead in his bed. A baby tossed into a park.

“The suicide looks pretty straightforward.” LaManche scanned the police report. “White male . . . Age twenty-seven . . . Found behind the wheel in his own garage . . . fuel tank empty, key in the ignition, turned to the ‘on’ position.”

He laid several Polaroids on the table. They showed a dark blue Ford centered in a one-car garage. A length of flexible tubing, the type used to vent clothes dryers, ran from the exhaust pipe into the car’s right rear window. LaManche read on.

“History of depression . . . Note d’adieu.” He looked at Nathalie. “Dr. Ayers?”

She nodded and reached for the paperwork. He marked “Ay” in red on the master list, and picked up the next set of forms.

“Number 26742 is a white male . . . Age seventy-eight . . . Controlled diabetic.” His eyes skipped through the summary report, pulling out the pertinent information. “Hadn’t been seen for several days . . . Sister found him . . . No signs of trauma.” He read to himself for a few seconds. “Curious thing is there was a delay between the time she found him and the time she called for help. Apparently the lady did some housecleaning in between.” He looked up. “Dr. Pelletier?”

Pelletier shrugged and extended his hand. LaManche placed a red “Pe” on his list, then passed him the forms. They were accompanied by a plastic bag full of prescription and over-the-counter drugs. Pelletier took the materials, making a wisecrack which I missed.

My attention was turned to the stack of Polaroids accompanying the baby case. Taken from several angles, they showed a shallow creek with a small footbridge arching across it. A little body lay among the rocks, its tiny muscles shriveled, its skin yellowed like old parchment. A fringe of fine hair floated round its head, another rimmed its pale blue eyelids. The child’s fingers were splayed wide, as