“Ach,” she said. “A fully formed baby?”

“Four to six months old.”

“Intact.”

“Yes.”

“Interesting,” she said. “In view of the rumors about that place.”

She returned to her cottage cheese. It took me a moment to decode her remark.

“It was an abortion mill?”

“Not exclusively, my dear.”

“But …”

“If you were a girl from a well-to-do family who’d gotten into a predicament, the talk was Swedish could be exceptionally discreet. The founders were well-meaning Lutheran missionaries, seeking to help the poor. Over the years, any religious affiliation was dropped and priorities changed.”

“They went for-profit?”

“What else? One thing they didn’t have was a pediatrics department. Or a conventional maternity ward. So I really can’t see how a baby would ever come in contact with the place.”

I described the blue box, asked if she knew what it was.

“I’ve never heard of such a thing. We wrap our bodies in shrouds, then bag them. Typically, mortuaries pick them up, there’d be no reason to use solid brass containers.”

“Maybe it was designed for something else and whoever buried the baby improvised.”

“Hmm,” she said. “Yes, why not—how about storage for tissue samples? A precaution when dealing with infectious material. Back in those days all kinds of nasties were rampant—TB, polio. My old friend, pertussis. I don’t see bronze serving any particular antiseptic purpose but someone could’ve had a theory.”

“Makes sense. Did you know any of the staff?”

“My work was always here.”

Not really an answer. I said, “But you know quite a bit about the place.”

She smiled. “It’s not only psychologists who know how to listen.”

“Who did the talking?”

“A friend of mine attended there briefly.”

“Why only briefly?”

She used her fork to section a perfect cube of Jell-O. “I’d imagine something drew his attention elsewhere.”

“Was he bothered by what went on?”

She speared the Jell-O, ate, drank tea. “I can’t remember what was related to me back in the Jurassic era.”

“I’ll bet you can, Salome.”

“Then you lose the bet.”

“Was it the abortions?”

Carving and piercing another cube, she withdrew the tines slowly. Red liquid oozed onto her plate. “I don’t need to tell you, Alex. Those were different times. In any event, I can’t see any direct link between Swedish Hospital and a full-term baby.”

I said, “Eleanor Green.”

The fork wavered. She put it down. “Who’s that?”

“A pediatric nurse. She lived in the house where the bones were found.”

“If you already have a name, why all the circumlocution? Go and track her down.”

“She seems to have disappeared.”

“Nurse on the run.” She chuckled. “Sounds like a bad movie.”

I said, “The friend who told you about Swedish—”

“Is gone, Alex. Everyone from my wanton youth is gone, leaving me the last woman standing. That’s either my triumph or cause for clinical depression, take your pick.”