infant’s neck in slices. It didn’t help much. The radio opacity appeared centered in the trachea or esophagus. Beyond that, we could make out little detail.
“Perhaps dust or sediment filtered in through the mouth following decomposition,” LaManche suggested.
“Perhaps.” I didn’t believe it. The white glow was intense, suggesting solidity.
For a full minute we all stared at the monitor. Then I made a decision. “May I borrow a scalpel and forceps?”
“Of course.” Leclerc hurried off, reappeared in moments, and handed the instruments to me.
As the others watched, I returned to the scanner and unpocketed and snapped on gloves.
Forgive me, little one .
While steadying the baby with my left hand, I drew the scalpel blade across the shriveled little throat with my right.
The papery tissue split with a soft pop. Laying the scalpel aside,I picked up and inserted the forceps. Three quarters of an inch down, they met an obstruction.
I separated the tines, closed them, and gently tugged. The mass didn’t budge.
Barely breathing, I opened the tips wider, wiggled them deeper, and pulled again.
The obstructing object yielded its grip on the trachea and slid upward with a dry scratching sound. Advancing by millimeters, I teased it through the incision and dropped it onto my palm.
Dingy white. Gauzy and crinkled.
I poked at one edge with the tweezers. A filmy layer lifted, revealing a dotted perforation.
Sweet mother of God!
A cerebral flare exploded, an image too horrible to contemplate.
I had to stand a moment, fighting the ice in my chest, the burning behind my lids.
When I’d regained my composure, I looked again at the baby.
I am so sorry. So very, very sorry .
One deep breath, then I rejoined those waiting behind the glass.
Wordlessly, I uncurled my fingers, revealing the horrific thing in my hand. Everyone stared, puzzled.
LaManche spoke first. “Wadded toilet tissue.”
I could only nod.
“Forced down the child’s throat to stop his breathing.”
“Or crying.”
That was it for Mrs. Tong. She began to weep. Not big blubbery sobs but hiccupy whimpers. As the others stood in awkward silence, I placed a hand on her shoulder.
She turned her head and gazed up at me over one shoulder. “Someone killed this little angel on purpose?”
My look was answer enough.
In a low and very even voice, I said to LaManche, “Detective Ryan will want to know.”
“Yes. Please transmit this information to him.”
As I hurried through the door, Leclerc asked Mrs. Tong if she would like to go home.
“Not on your life.”
The corridor was deserted. Ignoring the hospital’s no-cell-phone policy, I scrolled to and tapped Ryan’s private number on my iPhone. His mobile rang, then rolled to voice mail.
Damn .
I left a message: “Call me back. Important.”
I looked at my watch. Eleven-ten.
I walked to the end of the hall. The place was a ghost town.
I walked back toward X-ray. Checked the time again.
Eleven-fourteen.
I paced. Eleven-twenty-two.
Where the hell was he?
I was about to give up when Ryan finally called. I launched right in. “At least two of the babies were full-term. We’ll know about the third one shortly.”
“Any medical problems?”
“No. The window-seat baby is a boy.” I told him about the bunched-up toilet paper.
For a long moment only background noise buzzed across the line. Voices. Clinking glassware.
“That it?” Clipped. Ryan was fighting to check his emotions, as I had.
“We’re scanning the bathroom-vanity baby now.”
I waited for a response, got none.
“Anything on your end?” I asked.
“Trees ID’ed the mug shot. Ditto the ER doc and the landlord. It was Ruben at the hospital and Ruben living in the apartment in Saint-Hyacinthe. Paxton says—”
“He owns the building.”
“Right. Paxton now says he originally rented to Smith. Then Smith sort of dropped out of the picture. As long as Rogers kept ponying up the bucks, he didn’t ask
“Perhaps dust or sediment filtered in through the mouth following decomposition,” LaManche suggested.
“Perhaps.” I didn’t believe it. The white glow was intense, suggesting solidity.
For a full minute we all stared at the monitor. Then I made a decision. “May I borrow a scalpel and forceps?”
“Of course.” Leclerc hurried off, reappeared in moments, and handed the instruments to me.
As the others watched, I returned to the scanner and unpocketed and snapped on gloves.
Forgive me, little one .
While steadying the baby with my left hand, I drew the scalpel blade across the shriveled little throat with my right.
The papery tissue split with a soft pop. Laying the scalpel aside,I picked up and inserted the forceps. Three quarters of an inch down, they met an obstruction.
I separated the tines, closed them, and gently tugged. The mass didn’t budge.
Barely breathing, I opened the tips wider, wiggled them deeper, and pulled again.
The obstructing object yielded its grip on the trachea and slid upward with a dry scratching sound. Advancing by millimeters, I teased it through the incision and dropped it onto my palm.
Dingy white. Gauzy and crinkled.
I poked at one edge with the tweezers. A filmy layer lifted, revealing a dotted perforation.
Sweet mother of God!
A cerebral flare exploded, an image too horrible to contemplate.
I had to stand a moment, fighting the ice in my chest, the burning behind my lids.
When I’d regained my composure, I looked again at the baby.
I am so sorry. So very, very sorry .
One deep breath, then I rejoined those waiting behind the glass.
Wordlessly, I uncurled my fingers, revealing the horrific thing in my hand. Everyone stared, puzzled.
LaManche spoke first. “Wadded toilet tissue.”
I could only nod.
“Forced down the child’s throat to stop his breathing.”
“Or crying.”
That was it for Mrs. Tong. She began to weep. Not big blubbery sobs but hiccupy whimpers. As the others stood in awkward silence, I placed a hand on her shoulder.
She turned her head and gazed up at me over one shoulder. “Someone killed this little angel on purpose?”
My look was answer enough.
In a low and very even voice, I said to LaManche, “Detective Ryan will want to know.”
“Yes. Please transmit this information to him.”
As I hurried through the door, Leclerc asked Mrs. Tong if she would like to go home.
“Not on your life.”
The corridor was deserted. Ignoring the hospital’s no-cell-phone policy, I scrolled to and tapped Ryan’s private number on my iPhone. His mobile rang, then rolled to voice mail.
Damn .
I left a message: “Call me back. Important.”
I looked at my watch. Eleven-ten.
I walked to the end of the hall. The place was a ghost town.
I walked back toward X-ray. Checked the time again.
Eleven-fourteen.
I paced. Eleven-twenty-two.
Where the hell was he?
I was about to give up when Ryan finally called. I launched right in. “At least two of the babies were full-term. We’ll know about the third one shortly.”
“Any medical problems?”
“No. The window-seat baby is a boy.” I told him about the bunched-up toilet paper.
For a long moment only background noise buzzed across the line. Voices. Clinking glassware.
“That it?” Clipped. Ryan was fighting to check his emotions, as I had.
“We’re scanning the bathroom-vanity baby now.”
I waited for a response, got none.
“Anything on your end?” I asked.
“Trees ID’ed the mug shot. Ditto the ER doc and the landlord. It was Ruben at the hospital and Ruben living in the apartment in Saint-Hyacinthe. Paxton says—”
“He owns the building.”
“Right. Paxton now says he originally rented to Smith. Then Smith sort of dropped out of the picture. As long as Rogers kept ponying up the bucks, he didn’t ask
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