Monsieur’s legs are stunted, but he has the body, arms, and hands of a normal man with better than average strength.
“Gilles,” he cried, “I want you to photograph something up here.” Then to Rousseau: “I’m going to try to make a plaster cast of the shoeprint.”
“You’re the boss, professor, but have you ever made a cast of a turd?”
“There’s a first time for everything, Rousseau.”
The Morgue was a modern building erected on the Île de la Cité following the demolition of the medieval slums vividly described in Hugo’s Notre Dame de Paris . Upon entering, a visitor could look up and read the noble sentiments of The Republic: “Liberty! Equality! Fraternity!” Some might ponder a grim truth implicit in the revolutionary motto, for in this place the dead barons, bourgeoisie, and beggars were liberated from class distinctions and thus equal in fact rather than theory.
The Morgue was open to the public from morning to closing at six P.M. The morbidly curious with time on their hands came to gawk. They milled round the gas-lit corridors, gathering before immense plate glass windows, shivering in the cold air and inhaling the sharp odor of chlorine disinfectant, rubbernecking at the frozen macchabées —Parisian slang for corpses—whose naked bodies were propped up for display on steel slabs. Refrigeration was a recent improvement over the older preservation method: cold running water that gave the corpses a bloated, discolored appearance and chemicals that exuded an eerie, grayish-green mist round the bodies.
Many of the corpses on display were suicides fished out of the nearby river; some were murder victims whose bodies had been dumped by their killers. Regardless, all remained unidentified; the authorities hoped that viewers might recognize a loved one, friend, acquaintance, or co-worker. Indeed, some came to the Morgue searching for a lost relative, viewing the cadavers in the hope that identification might provide certainty and some closure to their personal tragedy. But, as with public executions, most just came for the show.
The Morgue attendant parked the meat wagon in a dark, narrow, cobblestoned passageway and unloaded the torso onto a trolley. He wheeled the corpse through a guarded back entrance closed to the public; Achille displayed his credentials and followed along with Gilles toting his camera and tripod. They passed through a murky corridor until they made a sharp right turn and entered a small, low-ceilinged dissection room.
The place reeked of carbolic disinfectant and formaldehyde. A bloodstained dissecting table stood in the middle of the room under a blazing gaslamp. Next to the table was a tray covered with neatly arranged scalpels, probes, forceps, clamps, and sutures. A mahogany and glass instrument cabinet occupied a corner of the drab, green-painted wall behind the dissection table. Two vividly colored folding anatomical charts with cutaway views—one male, one female—hung from the wall.
The gray-haired pathologist greeted them with a cold, bored stare. He had cut up too many corpses, a slave to routine like a factory worker who, over the years, had turned innumerable bolts on countless widgets. In contrast, Alphonse Bertillon was animated and enthusiastic.
Bertillon was an up-and-comer in his mid-thirties with a neatly trimmed beard, curious eyes, and a brisk manner. His brilliant career had begun ten years earlier, as a records clerk. Immediately recognizing the need for a better system of filing and organization, he pushed his new ideas on his superiors until they gave way from sheer exhaustion.
Young Bertillon was a force of nature, like a youthful Bonaparte telling old generals how to do their jobs. Having cleaned up the records system, he turned his attention to a better method of identification. Before long, the police had adopted his anthropometric system, incorporating multiple photographs, careful attention to features, and numerous, precise
“Gilles,” he cried, “I want you to photograph something up here.” Then to Rousseau: “I’m going to try to make a plaster cast of the shoeprint.”
“You’re the boss, professor, but have you ever made a cast of a turd?”
“There’s a first time for everything, Rousseau.”
The Morgue was a modern building erected on the Île de la Cité following the demolition of the medieval slums vividly described in Hugo’s Notre Dame de Paris . Upon entering, a visitor could look up and read the noble sentiments of The Republic: “Liberty! Equality! Fraternity!” Some might ponder a grim truth implicit in the revolutionary motto, for in this place the dead barons, bourgeoisie, and beggars were liberated from class distinctions and thus equal in fact rather than theory.
The Morgue was open to the public from morning to closing at six P.M. The morbidly curious with time on their hands came to gawk. They milled round the gas-lit corridors, gathering before immense plate glass windows, shivering in the cold air and inhaling the sharp odor of chlorine disinfectant, rubbernecking at the frozen macchabées —Parisian slang for corpses—whose naked bodies were propped up for display on steel slabs. Refrigeration was a recent improvement over the older preservation method: cold running water that gave the corpses a bloated, discolored appearance and chemicals that exuded an eerie, grayish-green mist round the bodies.
Many of the corpses on display were suicides fished out of the nearby river; some were murder victims whose bodies had been dumped by their killers. Regardless, all remained unidentified; the authorities hoped that viewers might recognize a loved one, friend, acquaintance, or co-worker. Indeed, some came to the Morgue searching for a lost relative, viewing the cadavers in the hope that identification might provide certainty and some closure to their personal tragedy. But, as with public executions, most just came for the show.
The Morgue attendant parked the meat wagon in a dark, narrow, cobblestoned passageway and unloaded the torso onto a trolley. He wheeled the corpse through a guarded back entrance closed to the public; Achille displayed his credentials and followed along with Gilles toting his camera and tripod. They passed through a murky corridor until they made a sharp right turn and entered a small, low-ceilinged dissection room.
The place reeked of carbolic disinfectant and formaldehyde. A bloodstained dissecting table stood in the middle of the room under a blazing gaslamp. Next to the table was a tray covered with neatly arranged scalpels, probes, forceps, clamps, and sutures. A mahogany and glass instrument cabinet occupied a corner of the drab, green-painted wall behind the dissection table. Two vividly colored folding anatomical charts with cutaway views—one male, one female—hung from the wall.
The gray-haired pathologist greeted them with a cold, bored stare. He had cut up too many corpses, a slave to routine like a factory worker who, over the years, had turned innumerable bolts on countless widgets. In contrast, Alphonse Bertillon was animated and enthusiastic.
Bertillon was an up-and-comer in his mid-thirties with a neatly trimmed beard, curious eyes, and a brisk manner. His brilliant career had begun ten years earlier, as a records clerk. Immediately recognizing the need for a better system of filing and organization, he pushed his new ideas on his superiors until they gave way from sheer exhaustion.
Young Bertillon was a force of nature, like a youthful Bonaparte telling old generals how to do their jobs. Having cleaned up the records system, he turned his attention to a better method of identification. Before long, the police had adopted his anthropometric system, incorporating multiple photographs, careful attention to features, and numerous, precise
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