Murder on the Ile Saint-Louis by Cara Black Page B

person,” he replied.
    Aimée 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.

    AIMÉE 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, Aimée.”
    “Can you show me an autopsy report, Serge,” Aimée 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, Aimée.”
    “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. “Désolé. ”
    First she felt disappointment, then relief. Of course, the baby’s real mother was alive and would return; she might be at Aimée’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,” Aimée 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.”
    Aimée 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