Okeke’s dark eyes darkened. “Where is this woman now?”

“We’re looking for her,” Ryan said.

Okeke was about to ask another question when a phone shrilled loudly. “Excuse me.”

Two steps brought Okeke to a desk beside a sink at the back of the autopsy room. For me, the trip would have required five.

Okeke stripped off a glove, punched a button, and lifted the receiver. “Yes, Lorna.” Pause. “I choose not to speak with anyone at this time.”

Lorna said something. I assumed she was the receptionist who triaged my call.

“Who is this man?” There was another, longer pause. “Where did Mr. White obtain this information?”

As he took in Lorna’s response, Okeke’s eyes rolled to me. “Put him through.”

Lorna did.

“Dr. Okeke.”

White’s voice had greater power than Lorna’s. The buzzy whine carried past Okeke’s ear.

“I can’t release that information, sir.”

The next whine ended on a high note, suggesting another question.

“I’m sorry, that’s confidential.”

Anxious to proceed with the analysis, I crossed to the counter to untangle the towel that had wrapped the baby. It was like the movie Groundhog Day, autopsy room four all over again. Same cautious twisting and pulling. Same fear of causing damage.

Oblivious to Okeke’s end of the conversation, I focused on inserting my fingers, lifting, inserting deeper, lifting more. Millimeter by millimeter, the gunk yielded and the kinks came free.

I vaguely registered that, in the background, Okeke’s answers were growing increasingly clipped. I kept teasing and tugging.

Eventually, the towel lay flat with only one corner stuck. I pulled gently. With a Velcro-like frip, the fibers disengaged. I laid back the flap.

Yep. Groundhog Day. But this time my find wasn’t a bag of sand and small green pebbles.

Pasted to the underside of the corner was a scrap of paper. I tried freeing an edge with the tip of one gloved finger. No go. The thing had become one with the terry cloth.

I adjusted the Luxo lamp and leaned close. There was lettering, uppercase, black, on a blue background. Above the lettering was what might have been a white border.

I rotated the towel to try to make sense of the message. LA MONFWI.

I was running possible meanings, adding letters on both ends, when Okeke’s comment brought my head up sharply.

“I was told you were calling with information about Annaliese Ruben.”

Ryan looked my way. His brows rose slightly. So did mine.

Okeke waited out a whine. “May I ask why you are interested, sir?”

The whine launched into a long explanation. Okeke did not let it finish. “Are you a reporter, Mr. White?”

Again the whine droned on. This time Okeke cut it off by slamming the receiver into its cradle.

Okeke attempted to make a note on his clipboard, shook his pen, then winged it onto the desk. It bounced to the floor. He made no move to retrieve it.

“That was a journalist?” I guessed.

“A Mr. White. If that is his real name.”