The oval doubled back, continued to the right, then started probing downward.

Seconds passed. Eons.

And there it was. Jammed in the hollow of a U-shaped trap.

I felt sick to my stomach.

The towel was blue with a small appliqué on one side. It was tightly rolled, with the thick end pointing our way.

“Call the ME?” Ryan asked.

Ollie shook his head. “Let’s be sure. Don’t want to bring a doc out here for nothing.”

A voice in my head was rejecting the brutal reality of the visual input. No, God, no!

Ryan set the penlight on the floor and took a series of shots with his iPhone. Checked the results. “Got it.”

As I kicked aside clothing to clear floor space, Ryan reached in and removed the bundle. Both men looked at me. I dropped to my knees and took a steadying breath.

The fabric was degraded and easily torn. The layers were tightly adhered, sealed by fluids that had long ago dried and congealed. My fingers trembled as I tried to gain entry without doing damage.

The world went deadly quiet, all sound obscured by emotions inside me.

Finally the terry cloth yielded. I rolled the bundle sideways.

The bones were small and brown and curled around a fragmented skull.

“Jesus Christ!”

I looked up.

Ollie’s face was the color of oatmeal. I realized he hadn’t seen the other dead infants.

Moving as gently as possible, I rewound the towel.

“That’s four that we know of.” Ryan was using the light to make one last round in the opening.

“This murdering bitch left a trail of dead babies from Quebec to Alberta! And we can’t find her sorry ass?” Fired by loathing, Ollie’s words came out way too loud.

Ryan got to his feet. “We’ll find her.”

I rose and placed a calming hand on Ollie’s arm.

“Call the ME,” I said.

BY ONE-THIRTY RYAN AND I WERE SUITED UP AND STANDING beside a stainless-steel table with Dr. Dirwe Okeke, one of the Alberta ME’s newest hires. Okeke had done his prelims—photos, X-rays, measurements, descriptive observations. I’d done a little dry-brush cleaning and arranged the baby’s bones in anatomical position.

Rather than a pathologist, Okeke looked like he played defensive tackle for Edmonton High, and parents of opposing teams wouldn’t have demanded a birth certificate. He stood six-two, weighed 250. Had I seen him on the street, I’d have put his age at maybe eighteen.

When I’d phoned the ME office, a receptionist had listened to my story, then rolled my call to Okeke. He hadn’t interrupted as I’d introduced myself and explained the dead babies in Quebec and the one at Susan Forex’s house.

As expected, Okeke elected to visit the scene personally. He arrived in an Escalade with a front seat specially outfitted to accommodate whales. Two techs followed in a van.

When she saw Okeke, Devereaux’s attitude did a rapid 180 to meek. I couldn’t blame her. The good doc looked like he was of another species, huge and dark to her small and pale. Without moving or speaking, Okeke seemed to fill her wee bedroom to overflowing.