The area was surprisingly active for nine P.M. on a Tuesday. Cars filled the streets, and pedestrians chugged along the walks—shoppers clutching plastic grocery bags; hospital visitors, empty-handed, probably heading home; backpacked students from Université de Montréal or Collège Notre-Dame.

St. Mary’s is not one of Quebec’s architectural gems. The main building is a multilevel concrete and redbrick box with a castlelike tower jutting up at its center. I beelined to the entrance and pushed through the glass doors.

The lobby was mostly deserted. An old man sat with legs outstretched, chin on chest, snoring softly. A woman pushed a stroller in endless circles, looking exhausted. Two orderlies discussed a physician’s printed order, or a menu, or a recipe for lentil soup.

LaManche stood on the lobby’s far side by a bank of elevators. Pomier was beside him, string-handled bags hanging from his curled fingers. With them was a tall man in wire-rimmed glasses whom I assumed was Dr. Leclerc.

When I joined the trio, Leclerc spread his feet and crossed his arms in a posture more characteristic of a bouncer than a physician.

“How many more?” Leclerc’s French hinted at stone gargoyles and arrondissements. I guessed he wasn’t from around these parts.

“We are all here,” LaManche said.

“This must be handled with the greatest of delicacy.”

“Of course.”

Leclerc shook his head, kept shaking it while repeatedly punching the button for an elevator. When the car came, I got in first and moved to the back. As we ascended, I scoped out our host.

Leclerc’s thin brown hair was parted with military precision. His lab coat was eye-blistering white, his khakis creased sharp enough to draw blood. I guessed flexibility was not the guy’s strong suit.

When the doors opened, Leclerc led us down a shiny tile corridor to an X-ray room reminiscent of the one at the LSJML. One difference: no changing rooms at Wilfrid-Derome. Our patients arrived and departed naked.

Through a window, I could see a woman seated beside a machine that looked like a large square donut with a narrow cot projecting from the hole. The woman’s hair was black, her skin the color of walnuts. From her scrubs, I assumed she was a radiology nurse or technician.

“Mrs. Tong will assist you. I have explained”—Leclerc’s lips twisted to one side as he sought the right word—“the situation.”

When Leclerc rapped on the glass, Mrs. Tong looked up. As she rose, set down her magazine, and crossed to the door separating us from the scanning room, Leclerc continued talking.

“I have authorized Mrs. Tong to do full-body MSCTs on both subjects. Each axial scan will be performed with sixteen-by-three-quarter-millimeter collimation. The apparatus is a Sensation 16 unit. I have instructed Mrs. Tong to use two filters, one for bone and one for soft-tissue analysis.”

Leclerc’s delivery was so stiff, he sounded like a recording. “Mrs. Tong has agreed to remain beyond her normal shift. Please do not delay her any longer than necessary. Please follow her directives.”