AMANCHE NODDED AS THOUGH I’D ANSWERED A QUESTION, not asked one. Obviously, he saw it, too.

“I noticed that earlier, thought the cloudiness was an artifact,” Leclerc said. “Now I’m not so sure.”

“Is there any way to visualize the area more clearly?” I asked.

Mrs. Tong went back to 2-D, and we viewed the 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 questions.”

“Anything new from Edmonton?”

“The RCMP sergeant I talked with this morning is arriving in Montreal tonight. We’ll meet tomorrow morning.”

Normally, Ryan would have invited me to join them. It was my case, too. He didn’t.

“What time?” I asked.

“Eight.”

“I’ll try to drop by.”

Back in X-ray, the scans of LSJML-49276 had been completed, and everyone was again gathered at the workstation. Mrs. Tong’s eyes were puffy, and her face had that blotchy after-crying look.

The image on the screen was in 2-D, an axial slice at the level of the chest. Leclerc was talking. “Air is present in both major bronchi and the esophagus. Both lungs appear aerated.”

Mrs. Tong hit some keys to bring up views of the abdomen.

Leclerc continued his monologue. “Air in the stomach.”

“So the baby was breathing and swallowing,” Pomier said.

“Perhaps.” LaManche’s saggy eyes looked weary in his saggy face. “Air can also be present due to decomposition. At autopsy, we will take samples for toxicological testing.”

LaManche didn’t have to elaborate. I knew that inhaled air would contain high levels of nitrogen and some oxygen, while gases resulting from decomposition would be mostly methane.

I also knew that, upon removal of the breastplate following the Y-incision, billowing of the lung parenchyma would indicate air in the lobes. And that, when placed in water or formaldehyde, aerated lungs would float.

Mrs. Tong didn’t need to hear any of that.

We analyzed the baby girl as we had the mummified boy. I measured her long bones and the basal parts of her occipital bone. We all observed her skeletal maturation and condition.

And came to the same sad conclusion.

LSJML-49276 was a full-term female infant exhibiting no malformation or skeletal trauma.

At one-forty A.M. we tucked the babies back into their tubs and bags for the return trip with Pomier to the morgue.

I arrived home at two-ten. Was asleep by two-fifteen.

Church bells blasted me awake. I swept my iPhone to the floor, trying to stop the bonging.

The digits on the screen said seven A.M.

I tried to recall why I’d set the alarm.

Ryan. Edmonton. RCMP. Right.

Groggy, I dragged myself to the bathroom, the closet, the kitchen. The pantry produced very old Frosted Flakes, the freezer ground coffee. The combo helped some. But when I’ve logged under five hours, caffeine and sugar can accomplish only so much.

Thirty minutes later, I was swiping my card at Wilfrid-Derome. OK. There are advantages to rising early. Parking was a snap.

After dumping my purse, I descended to the fourth floor and entered a door marked Section des crimes contre la personne.

The squad room contained about a dozen desks. Each held the usual cop stuff—phone, manila folders, mounded in- and out-baskets, gag trophies and mementos, mugs of half-drunk coffee.

A supervisor’s office was off to the right, and a copy room. Doors leading to interview rooms were to the left.

Only a few detectives were present, those who were running leads by phone or computer, one in a suit who I assumed was preparing for court. I wound my way toward the back corner.

“Hey, Rochette, today Tuesday?” asked a voice behind me. It was a detective named Chestang. “That mean rosebuds?”

“It’s Wednesday.” Like Chestang, Rochette was speaking loudly for my benefit. “Polka dots.”

Today’s teasing stemmed from an incident in which I’d been dragged from a fire and deposited bum-up. My leopard-skin panties had saluted the world. Though the episode had occurred several years earlier, it was still the top choice for source material.

Ignoring the witty repartee, I continued on course.

Ryan was at his desk, one haunch resting on the edge. A man sat opposite him. No yellow-striped pants or gray shirt, but I assumed he was the Mountie from Edmonton.

And no. He wasn’t wearing red serge, jodhpurs, and a Stetson. That garb is strictly ceremonial.

A word about the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, RCMP, or in French, the Gendarmerie royale du Canada, GRC. The world calls them Mounties. Internally, they refer to themselves as the Force. Too many Star Wars movies, you say? Nope. The tradition goes back much further.

The RCMP is unique in that it functions at the national, provincial, and municipal levels, providing federal policing services to all of Canada and, under contract, to three territories, eight provinces, more than 190 municipalities, 184 aboriginal communities, and three international airports.

While the two most populous provinces, Ontario and Quebec, maintain their own provincial forces, the Ontario Provincial Police and the Sûreté du Québec, all the others rely on the RCMP to some extent. In the three territories, Yukon, Nunavut, and the Northwest Territories, the Mounties are the only game in town.

Confusing? To complicate matters further, some large cities, such as Edmonton, Toronto, and Montreal, have their own municipal police departments.

Just think of the FBI, state troopers, the sheriff’s department, city cops. Same deal.

Ryan’s visitor was sitting with his back to me, elbow cocked over the arm of the chair. Graying temples suggested some mileage.

Hadn’t Ryan said the guy was a sergeant? So the Force wasn’t fast-tracking him into the OCDP, the Officer Candidate Development Program. I wondered if he’d plateaued in his career. If, like many NCOs, he’d grown resentful of the “white shirts,” as the noncommissioned called the commissioned officers.

Whatever. Though unimpressive if working at headquarters in Ottawa or at a divisional HQ, sergeant was a decent enough level for a member in the field.

So why was Ryan looking at the guy like he was barf on the sidewalk?

Drawing close, I took in more detail. Though of average height, the sergeant was powerfully built, with arms and a chest that stretched his shirt to the limit.

Ryan said something I didn’t catch. His visitor responded, tilting his head so that his chin went forward and up.

The odd mannerism jostled a gaggle of cells where a memory was stored.

I slowed. No way.

The sergeant reached out and placed a Styrofoam cup on Ryan’s desk. His left hand flashed into view for a moment.

My pulse went off the map.