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

“Who does he work for?”

“It does not matter.” Okeke flapped his clipboard toward the sad little bones. “How did he learn of this baby? Of the others?”

“He knew about the Quebec cases?” I couldn’t keep the shock from my voice.

“He did.” Okeke’s angry eyes drilled me with a look. It was an intimidating sight.

“He got nothing from me. Or Ryan.” Curt. The implied accusation piqued me.

“Neither Dr. Brennan nor I speak to the press about ongoing investigations.”

Okeke turned the angry eyes on Ryan. “Yet this man knew.”

“Information about this baby had to come from Devereaux or Forex.” Ryan spoke in a low and very even voice. “Or from one of your technicians, though that does not explain the Quebec angle.”

Ollie knew all of it, I thought. Didn’t say it.

“Why would a member of my staff do such a thing?”

Ryan rotated a thumb against his fingertips. “Someone rings White, claims to have insider information about a woman leaving a trail of dead babies across Canada. Says the scoop goes to the highest bidder. Thinking the story might have legs, White agrees to pay.”

Okeke shook his head in disgust. “Such thirst for the lurid and heinous. Like your famous Butterbox Babies. A book, even a movie. Why?”

Okeke referred to the case of the Ideal Maternity Home, a Nova Scotia facility for unwed pregnant mothers operated from 1928 until 1945 by William Peach Young, an unordained minister and chiropractor representing himself to be a Seventh-day Adventist, and his wife, Mercedes, a midwife. After years of delivering babies and placing them up for adoption, accumulated allegations of profiteering and of high infant mortality rates brought the home under scrutiny.

The investigation revealed that the Youngs had purposely killed “unmarketable” babies by feeding them only molasses and water. A deformity, serious illness, or “dark” coloration meant no placement potential, no revenue, and therefore, death through starvation.

Dead babies were buried on the property in small wooden grocery boxes typically used for dairy products: thus the term “Butterbox Babies.” Others were tossed into the sea or burned in the Ideal Maternity’s furnace. Estimates suggested between four and six hundred infant deaths at the home.

“I want to know who did this.” Anger thumped a vein in Okeke’s right temple.

“As do we,” I said.

“You will inform the RCMP sergeant who was present at the scene?”

“Mmm.”

A dripping faucet made soft thups in the stainless-steel sink. Finally, Okeke circled the desk to snatch up his pen.

“I found something in the towel,” I said.

Both men followed me to the counter, leaned in, and studied the truncated message.

“The beginning of the first word and the end of last word are missing,” I said.

“Not necessarily.”

I was about to query Ryan’s meaning when my iPhone offered another performance of the Irish National Anthem.

Ollie.