AL07 - Murder on the Ile Saint-Louis

as the bored attendant scratched his neck and checked his watch, as her tears had dropped into the aluminum trough by her father’s blackened, twisted fingers.

She took a deep breath and opened the morgue door.

AIMEE STOOD ALONE in the green-tiled viewing cubicle of the morgue basement. On the other side of the window lay a young waxen-faced corpse, a white sheet folded down to her neck, livid stains appeared on the skin of her cheek and neck, but Aimee could see that her eyes were deep set and her cheekbones were prominent. Unforgiving, stark white light bathed her features; there was a bruise on her temple, a mole on her chin, and she had straw blond hair that hadn’t been completely combed back, falling in greasy strands over her temple. Her partly visible ear showed raw, jagged edges and there was a frothy blood bubble on her neck. Weren’t they supposed to clean up the corpse to protect the family’s feelings?

Aimee didn’t recognize her. She’d had a hunch, but she’d been wrong. Why had she expected a corpse to sit up and talk, to give her a clue to the baby’s identity? Nothing tied them together.

“I’m sorry,” Aimee whispered, her breath fogging on the glass, “whoever you are.”

The door opened and she heard shuffling footsteps behind her. A blue-uniformed flic from whom the telltale aroma of Vicks emanated—used by new recruits to combat the odor—approached her.

“Mademoiselle, can you identify the victim?”

I am so sorry but I can’t help you.” “

A young man in a zip-up sweatshirt, brown hair curling behind his ears, edged into the room.

“Then if you’ll follow me, Mademoiselle, I’ll see you out,” the flic said.

She turned to leave, heard a small gasp, and saw the man clap his hand over his mouth.

“Monsieur, do you recognize the victim?” the flic asked.

He shook his head, looking away. He had a copy of Le Parisien in his back pocket.

“You seem upset,” the flic said, gauging his reaction.

“It’s unnerving to see a dead person,” he replied.

Aimee followed the flic but not before she noted that the man had recognized the corpse.

“Mademoiselle, this way please,” the flic said, hurrying her past several other sad- eyed people standing in the hallway.

AIMEE INQUIRED AT three offices before she found Serge Leaud in the morgue foyer, which was lined with busts of medical pioneers, talking with a group of white-coated technicians. She hated bothering Serge, her friend as well as a medical pathologist, but she had to clear up the nagging doubt she felt.

“What if?” kept running through her brain. She had to find out if the woman had recently given birth. She caught Serge’s eye, mouthed, “Please.” And waited.

Serge shifted from foot to foot, his gaze flitting from her to his colleagues, one hand in the pocket of his lab coat, the other stroking his black beard. A moment later, he excused himself and joined her.

No customary kiss on the cheek greeted her; instead, he displayed a harried frown.

“The chief’s here and my blood-screen panel’s waiting,” he said. “I’ve only got a minute, Aimee.”

“Can you show me an autopsy report, Serge,” Aimee said, lowering her voice, “for the young woman found in the Seine by Pont de Sully.”

Serge nodded to a white-coated staff member who passed them.

“Let’s talk over there.” He jerked his thumb toward the corner. “You mean for the Yvette?”

She knew that was what they called all unidentified female corpses.

She nodded.

“I’m not supposed to do this, Aimee.”

“Help me out,” she said, “and we’ll call it quits.”

He owed her. His mother-in-law and wife both down with grippe, Serge tied up at work, and no Sunday babysitter available, she’d answered his plea and agreed to take his toddler twin boys to the Vincennes Zoo. The highlight of the day had been the ride on the Metro, and the twins, fascinated with trains, had refused to leave the station. The afternoon was spent greeting trains and saying good-bye to every engine. She’d finally bribed them with Mentos to go home. She’d been exhausted, wondering how his wife coped every day.

“The autopsy’s later this afternoon,” Serge said. “Desole.”

First she felt disappointment, then relief. Of course, the baby’s real mother was alive and would return; she might be at Aimee’s now. Yet Michou would have called if she had turned up. A prickling sense that it all connected troubled her.

“No ID, and waterlogged fingerprints.”

“Was the skin on the hand so sloughed off she’ll need the ‘treatment’?”

Serge shrugged.

She knew the treatment, a technique used on waterlogged corpses that consisted of slicing the wrist to peel back the skin of the hand so the technician, inserting his own gloved hand inside the skin, could exert sufficient pressure for a print. Gruesome.

“It’s a hard call,” Serge said. Creatures have nibbled on the fingertips and there are injuries on the hand from the buffeting of the waves. We’ll inject saline for the soft tissue pads to plump them out. And if we’re lucky, we’ll get prints.”

He shook his head. “A sad case, I’d say.” He pulled a sheaf of papers from his pocket. ”I have a prelim report. It indicates suicide. So young.” His brow furrowed as he thumbed through the pages. He flipped one over and read on.

“But the bruise I saw on her temple might mean she was attacked,” Aimee said.

“It could have been caused by contact with the stone bank after she hit the water.”

“And the blood froth?”

“I’d say blood pooling in the ear first, associated with drainage. Or feasting by the river creatures.”

Aimee suppressed a shudder.

“You mean they showed that side because . . .”

“The other side was worse.” Serge exhaled. “The river squad, well . . .” he paused. “Let’s say the turbulent current and sewer grate against which she’d lodged made it difficult to pull her out.”

He shook his head again. “I’ve seen it before. Suicide d’amour, a love affair gone wrong, depression. No one to talk to.” Serge read further. “Where was her mother, her aunt? That’s what’s so sad. She’s like any twenty-something you see on the street: lace camisole, espadrilles, jeans.”

Her ears pricked up. “Jeans? What kind?”

“Hmmm . . . Lick, some designer brand my wife wears.”

“That’s all?”

He riffled through the pages of the preliminary report. “It says here that she wore earrings . . . beaded. No, my mistake. No beads on the earrings, sorry. Blue beads were embroidered on the jean cuffs.”

Like the ones on the denim jacket? Aimee’s pulse raced. There it was, the link she had sensed.

“Look, Aimee, I’ve done you a favor, and I haven’t asked you any questions, but what’s this woman to you?”

“A baby was left in my courtyard. Someone called me and begged me to protect her.” She pulled the plastic bag from her backpack. “Look, Serge, this denim jacket is embroidered with blue beads; it was wrapped around the baby.”

Serge stared. “Et alors?”

She controlled her apprehension. “What if these beads match the ones on the cuffs of the jeans?”

Serge’s beeper, pinned to the lapel of his white lab coat, vibrated.

“Can’t you check, Serge?”

“Aimee, you’re asking me to wade in deep water for a few beads,” he said. “And I’m late.”

“If the beads don’t match, no one will be the wiser,” she said. “But if they do . . .”

“Why would I stick my neck out?”