Marc Bergeron, odontologist to the LML, had developed a technique for lifting and fixing injuries in soft tissue. Initially he’d devised it to remove bite marks from the bodies of victims of violent sexual assault. The method had also proved useful for excising and preserving tattoos and patterned injuries on skin. I’d seen Marc do it in hundreds of cases, had assisted him in several.
I got Bergeron’s kit from a cabinet in the first autopsy room, returned to room two, and spread the equipment on a stainless steel cart. By the time I’d gloved, the photographer had finished and LaManche was ready. He nodded that I should go ahead. Ryan and Bertrand watched.
I measured five scoops of pink powder from a plastic bottle and placed it in a glass vial, then added 20 cc’s of a clear liquid monomer. I stirred and, within a minute, the mixture thickened until it resembled pink modeling clay. I formed the dough into a ring, and placed it on the tiny chest, completely encircling the bruise. The acrylic felt hot as I patted it into place.
To accelerate the hardening process, I placed a wet cloth over the ring, then waited. In less than ten minutes the acrylic had cooled. I reached for a tube and began squeezing a clear liquid around the edges of the ring.
“What’s that?” asked Ryan.
“Cyanoacrylate.”
“Smells like Krazy Glue.”
“It is.”
When I thought the glue was dry, I tested by tugging gently on the ring. A few more dabs, more waiting, and the ring held fast. I marked it with the date, and case and morgue numbers, and indicated top, bottom, right, and left relative to the baby’s chest.
“It’s ready,” I said, and stepped back.
LaManche used a scalpel to dissect free the skin outside the acrylic doughnut, cutting deep enough to include the underlying fatty tissue. When the ring finally came free, it held the bruised skin tightly in place, like a miniature painting stretched on a circular pink frame. LaManche slid the specimen into the jar of clear liquid that I held ready.
“What’s that?” Ryan again.
“A solution of ten percent buffered formalin. In ten to twelve hours the tissue will be fixed. The ring will ensure that there’s no distortion, so later, if we get a weapon, we’ll be able to compare it to the wound to see if the patterns match. And, of course, we’ll have the photos.”
“Why not just use the photos?”
“With this we can do transillumination if we have to.”
“Transillumination?”
I wasn’t really in the mood for a science seminar, so I kept it simple. “You can shine a light up through the tissue and see what’s going on under the skin. It often brings out details not visible on the surface.”
“What do you think made it?” Bertrand.
“I don’t know,” I said, sealing the jar and handing it to Lisa.
As I was turning away I felt a tremendous sadness, and couldn’t resist lifting the tiny hand. It felt soft and cold in my fingers. I rotated the blocks circling the wrist. M-A-T-H-I-A-S.
I’m so sorry, Mathias.
I looked up to see LaManche gazing at me. His eyes seemed to mirror the despair I was feeling. I stepped back, and he began the internal exam. He would excise and send upstairs the ends of all bones cut by the killer, but I wasn’t optimistic. Though I’d never looked for tool marks on a victim this young, I suspected that an infant’s ribs would be too tiny to retain much detail.
I stripped off my gloves and turned to Ryan as Lisa made a Y-shaped incision on the infant’s chest.
“Are the scene photos here?”
“Just the backups.”
He handed me a large brown envelope containing a set of Polaroids. I took them to the corner desk.
The first showed the largest of the outbuildings at the chalet in St-Jovite. The style was that of the main house: Alpine Tacky. The next photo was taken inside, shot from the top of a staircase looking downward. The passage was dark and narrow, with walls on both sides, wooden handrails on the walls, and junk heaped at both ends of each step.
There were several pictures of a basement taken from different angles. The room was dim, the only light coming from small rectangular windows close to the ceiling. Linoleum floor. Knotty pine walls. Washtubs. A hot water heater. More junk.
Several photos zoomed in on the water heater, then on the space between it and the wall. The niche was filled with what looked like old carpets and plastic bags. The next pictures showed these objects lined up on the linoleum, first unopened, then laid out to expose their contents.
The adults had been wrapped in large pieces of clear plastic, then rolled in rugs and stacked behind the water heater. Their bodies showed abdominal bloating and skin slippage, but were well preserved.
Ryan came and stood over me.
“The water heater must have been off,” I said, handing him the picture. “If it was running the heat would have caused more decomposition.”
“We don’t think they were using that building.”
“What was it?”
