breakthrough? The slides told her nothing.
She looked up. She recalled the words Martine, her journalist friend, would use.
“Can you describe this to me in your own words?” Aimée said. “I’d like to hear it from you. First reactions . . . you know, for a sidebar giving the background.”
“Benoît sampled two different species of pigs,” he said. “As you can see, he discovered the same epidemiology.”
Huby ran his hands through his long brown hair.
“To you, that proves . . . ?”
“Not only to me, Mademoiselle, but to the scientific community. His slides show porcine liver tissue containing residues of heavy metals in quantities sufficient to damage the central nervous system.”
Her one year in med school hadn’t covered epidemiology.
Huby continued: “He used GFAA—graphite furnace atomic absorption—spectometry, the most sensitive spectroscopic technique for measuring concentrations of metals in aqueous and solid samples.”
Huby gestured to an off-white machine resembling a micro-wave, hooked up to a computer on the corner counter.
She didn’t know what any of that meant, except that it didn’t sound good. “Of course,” she nodded.
“But I knew you’d get a better sense of his findings from viewing the actual tissue samples.”
There must be some mistake, Aimée thought. Was the corpse she’d found last night the same man as this pig professor? Had the old security guard Darquin mistaken the name?
“For the journal, I need a different angle,” she said. “Describe the professor for me.”
“Eh?”
“His physical traits, how he worked, his schedule, his students.”
“See for yourself. Look at my copy.” Huby placed a thin journal titled Ecole Normale Supérieure Laboratoire News by the microscope.
She glanced at the cover. PROPERTY OF ASSISTANT PROFESSEUR HUBY was stamped on it.
Then his eyes narrowed. “But you know all this. I faxed you the article yesterday.”
She thought fast. “That is so, but I’m writing several different articles right now. Would you mind refreshing my memory?”
A photo on the cover showed several figures at a banquet table raising wine glasses. All men. All white men. Not the victim she’d discovered last night.
No wonder this didn’t make sense. The flics had identified the wrong man. Never mind the professor. How did this involve Mireille?
Any moment now, the real journalist would appear. She’d have to get out of here fast. But Huby had flipped the pages open and was pointing to another photo above an article.
“There’s Professeur Benoît in happier times. Such a loss. I’m determined to continue the professor’s work.”
To her dismay, Aimée recognized the man wearing a laboratory coat, squinting in the sun as he stood behind the skeletons of what appeared to be pigs. A large man, handsome and dark-complected. The man she’d found in the gatehouse with his ear severed.
“That’s why I consented to talk with you.” A sad expression appeared on his face. “It’s only right that the scientific community knows.”
She suppressed a shudder. “Any chance you could point me to his assistant? I believe her name’s Mireille?”
“But I assisted Professeur Benoît.”
“What about a half-Haitian woman? Didn’t she type up his notes and keep his records?”
“ Désolé. If she did . . . there was a young woman. . . .” He stared at Aimée.
“My height?”
“Like you,” he said, his words slower, “but a mulatto.”
“Where?”
He shrugged.
“Did you see her yesterday?”
“ Entre nous.” He leaned forward. “The professor let her stay in the gatehouse storage room. That’s all I know. After all his research, all his trials, now when he’s poised on the brink of announcing a discovery . . . it’s a terrible loss.”
“So you assisted Professeur Benoît,” she said, trying to put this together. “Were you his research partner?”
“His part-time assistant. And I felt privileged to help, let me
She looked up. She recalled the words Martine, her journalist friend, would use.
“Can you describe this to me in your own words?” Aimée said. “I’d like to hear it from you. First reactions . . . you know, for a sidebar giving the background.”
“Benoît sampled two different species of pigs,” he said. “As you can see, he discovered the same epidemiology.”
Huby ran his hands through his long brown hair.
“To you, that proves . . . ?”
“Not only to me, Mademoiselle, but to the scientific community. His slides show porcine liver tissue containing residues of heavy metals in quantities sufficient to damage the central nervous system.”
Her one year in med school hadn’t covered epidemiology.
Huby continued: “He used GFAA—graphite furnace atomic absorption—spectometry, the most sensitive spectroscopic technique for measuring concentrations of metals in aqueous and solid samples.”
Huby gestured to an off-white machine resembling a micro-wave, hooked up to a computer on the corner counter.
She didn’t know what any of that meant, except that it didn’t sound good. “Of course,” she nodded.
“But I knew you’d get a better sense of his findings from viewing the actual tissue samples.”
There must be some mistake, Aimée thought. Was the corpse she’d found last night the same man as this pig professor? Had the old security guard Darquin mistaken the name?
“For the journal, I need a different angle,” she said. “Describe the professor for me.”
“Eh?”
“His physical traits, how he worked, his schedule, his students.”
“See for yourself. Look at my copy.” Huby placed a thin journal titled Ecole Normale Supérieure Laboratoire News by the microscope.
She glanced at the cover. PROPERTY OF ASSISTANT PROFESSEUR HUBY was stamped on it.
Then his eyes narrowed. “But you know all this. I faxed you the article yesterday.”
She thought fast. “That is so, but I’m writing several different articles right now. Would you mind refreshing my memory?”
A photo on the cover showed several figures at a banquet table raising wine glasses. All men. All white men. Not the victim she’d discovered last night.
No wonder this didn’t make sense. The flics had identified the wrong man. Never mind the professor. How did this involve Mireille?
Any moment now, the real journalist would appear. She’d have to get out of here fast. But Huby had flipped the pages open and was pointing to another photo above an article.
“There’s Professeur Benoît in happier times. Such a loss. I’m determined to continue the professor’s work.”
To her dismay, Aimée recognized the man wearing a laboratory coat, squinting in the sun as he stood behind the skeletons of what appeared to be pigs. A large man, handsome and dark-complected. The man she’d found in the gatehouse with his ear severed.
“That’s why I consented to talk with you.” A sad expression appeared on his face. “It’s only right that the scientific community knows.”
She suppressed a shudder. “Any chance you could point me to his assistant? I believe her name’s Mireille?”
“But I assisted Professeur Benoît.”
“What about a half-Haitian woman? Didn’t she type up his notes and keep his records?”
“ Désolé. If she did . . . there was a young woman. . . .” He stared at Aimée.
“My height?”
“Like you,” he said, his words slower, “but a mulatto.”
“Where?”
He shrugged.
“Did you see her yesterday?”
“ Entre nous.” He leaned forward. “The professor let her stay in the gatehouse storage room. That’s all I know. After all his research, all his trials, now when he’s poised on the brink of announcing a discovery . . . it’s a terrible loss.”
“So you assisted Professeur Benoît,” she said, trying to put this together. “Were you his research partner?”
“His part-time assistant. And I felt privileged to help, let me
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