As I added the date and began a form for the attic baby, Lisa took pictures of the two black pouches. Then she snapped on gloves, pulled a plastic sheet from a below-counter drawer, spread it across the autopsy table, and looked a question at me.

“Unzip them,” I said.

The rolled towels were as I remembered, one green, one yellow, both dappled brown by the liquids of death. Using two hands, Lisa transferred each to the table. I made notes as she shot more photos.

“We’ll start with the baby from the window seat.” I indicated the yellow bundle.

Using her fingertips, Lisa gently teased free and laid back the outer layer of toweling. Then she rolled the bundle sideways, slowly revealing its contents.

A human baby is a very small biomass. Following death, the scarcity of body fat may lead to mummification instead of putrefaction. Such had been the case in the window seat.

The little corpse was tightly compressed, the head down, the arms and legs flexed and crossed over each other. Desiccated skin, muscle, and ligament wrapped the thorax, abdomen, and limbs, and stretched across the delicate bones of the face. The empty orbits held masses that looked like shriveled grapes.

Lisa was reaching for the Nikon when Pomier stuck his head through the door and spoke to me. “Dr. LaManche has a question.”

“Now?” Slightly annoyed.

Pomier nodded.

Though anxious to begin my analysis, I knew the chief would never interrupt with anything trivial.

“Shoot from every angle, close-up and overview,” I said to Lisa. “Then get a full set of X-rays.”

“All the bones will be superimposed. There is nothing I can do about that.”

“Taking measurements from the X-rays may prove impossible. But do your best. If I’m not back when you finish, unroll and photograph the second baby. Any questions, you know where to find me.”

Lisa nodded.

“Let’s go,” I said to Pomier.

Every morgue is characterized by its own blend of odors, sometimes subtle, sometimes overpowering, but always present. These smells have been a part of my life for so long, I sometimes imagine them in my sleep.

Bodies recovered from water are among the most pungent. In the corridor, the stench of Santangelo’s drowning victim was overtaking the ever-present aromas of disinfectant and deodorizer.

The bludgeoning victim lay on the far table in room three. The woman’s face was swollen and distorted, her left side purpled due to livor mortis, the postmortem settling of blood in a corpse’s downside.

Robitaille was picking through the woman’s hair, searching her scalp section by section. Pelletier was examining her toes.

LaManche and the SIJ photographer were at the near table. She was very tall and very pale. A tag on her shirt said S. Tanenbaum. I didn’t know her.

Not so the third party. Andrew Ryan.

As we crossed to him, LaManche tucked the baby’s right hand back to her side, lifted and studied her left. He made no comment, jotted no note.