Louis Shalako
“Okay. So, Doctor Bourdillon is in charge of the
Surgical and Anatomy Department. This is where the students get into all the
really interesting stuff, like dissecting corpses for fun and profit. He’s in a
hell of a lot of trouble, what with half the world reading that story in the paper—the
one about Maintenon and that freezer full of stiffs.”
Bingo, as the saying went—
“Oui, Monsieurs. It would seem that Monsieur Savard,
president of the hospital foundation, also reads Le Temps. Naturally, he inquired as to whether the department had
taken any kind of inventory, or exactly what kind of records were kept, er,
when the cadavers came and went, and all that sort of thing.” More casual
curiosity than anything, but it had sure set a fire under someone’s tail.
“Yes, gentlemen, it would seem that our good Doctor
Bourdillon went into the back room and started pulling out drawers…” He paused,
literally, for the drama—this one was a real character, all right. “…and, well,
you can probably guess the rest.”
“There’s your first hundred. Ah, please—go on.”
Hubert pulled out a few more small bills, keeping them in hand for the moment.
“I would love to have your phone number—just so we can talk later on. So, how
many do they figure are missing.”
No answer.
The bills were carefully folded and then shoved deep
down into a hip pocket, a little awkwardly considering the confines of the back
seat. Alphonse had the seat all the way back as well.
“Oh, I don’t know about that.” He took a breath.
“Three stiffs, just like it said in the paper.”
“Okay, so why don’t you tell us…ah, just exactly
what kinds of records are kept, assuming you know anything about that at all—”
The man nodded.
“Sure. Uh, yes, they do keep records. They have a
stack, copies of death certificates, as a matter of fact. They have to be able
to identify the body, leading to the proverbial toe-tags of popular fact and
fiction. They like to have the medical history of the various bodies. If
someone died of cancer or a heart attack, the students can cut them up and have
a look for themselves. Yes, sir, in alphabetical order, in a steel filing
cabinet. Someone donates their body to medical science, that’s somebody’s momma
or poppa, or maybe even someone’s little sister, right. Daddy’s little girl,
just died of brain cancer or something. They are entitled to their human
dignity. The funeral home delivers them right to our back door. They know
enough not to embalm them. Some of them are true paupers, and they can’t afford
a nice funeral in the first place. They can do all that stuff right here, when it’s
applicable. I mean, they do cut them up and make slides of tissue samples,
stuff like that. Bits of kidney, liver, brains and lungs, right. Pickled in
formaldehyde. Poop samples, even. They look at them through microscopes and
make little drawings and stuff. They’ve got a cold room with a bunch of
stainless steel drawers and any number of stiffs in there. Some of them are
full and some of them are, ah, partials.
A few bits and pieces missing, you know. Ah…if someone is teaching musculature,
the students don’t necessarily need all the internal organs to cut up a leg or
a shoulder. Waste not, want not, right. At some point, we end up with
skeletons, with little holes drilled in the ends of the bones, and they’re
wired together and hung on a frame. Everybody loves a good skeleton. A lot of
stuff does get a decent burial at some point, when it’s no longer useful. It’s
like meat that’s been freezer-burned and the students are looking at cell walls
and stuff under the microscope. The chaplain blesses all that stuff as it goes
out the back door. No, I think the real problem, is that they have a few dead
bodies missing, and more than anything, they would very much like to avoid any
kind of big stink over it. They would prefer not to get sued by the next of kin
for a million francs, eh. As for phone numbers, why not just call up Savard.
Don’t let on you’ve been talking to anyone here. Tell him you’re calling around
to all the universities, the larger hospitals, and don’t just fake it—he’s
savvy enough to check up on you guys too.” Word would get around all too
quickly in such a case.
“Interesting.” Hubert held up the bills, rubbing
them between his fingers. “What else can you tell us. Who else works in that
department. Where exactly do you work—I mean, how would you be in a position to
know this sort of stuff.”
The man thought it over. He already had a hundred
francs—for five minutes work—and was the risk really worth it. The cops already
knew a little too much about him—why give them any more. They also, knew his
face and where to look for him. Only he knew if the information was any good.
It was like the thoughts were written all over him.
He was hooked well enough.
“Honestly, guys, there’s, fuck, at least a dozen
people, mostly doctors, instructors in all the courses. They come and go as
they please. Janitors, they have the run of the building, and they all have
their own sets of keys. Security guards…I could cough up names all day long,
why bother when it’s mostly irrelevant. It’s just a list of names.” The names
of department heads, various administrators, those were on plaques over their
office doors, all one had to do was to take a walk through the building. “I’m
not accusing anyone in particular. I’m just saying they have a problem.”
Hubert pulled a business card out for the gentleman.
“Okay. So, if this checks out, how are we supposed
to get in touch with you?” It was worth a try—
“It will check out. Trust me on that one.”
“All right, Monsieur Nope, as you say. If you can think of anything else, give us a call.
I’m Hubert, that’s me on the card. Okay?”
“I’ll think about it.” He turned. “I’ll call you,
say in about a week.”
“You might even get that other hundred.”
“I’m quite looking forward to it, gentlemen.”
“Hold on.” Hubert whipped out the team photo. “Recognize
any of these people?”
He took a quick look.
“No, not really. They all kind of look the same,
don’t you think.”
“Okay.” It was worth a try.
He popped the door and stepped out, hurrying away,
heading in the direction away from the hospital. He’d probably circle the block
and come back with a coffee and a bagel or something, thought Hubert.
“He’s obviously done all of this before.”
“Hmn. That’s just what I was thinking. But, there
are informants all over the place. We all have them, right. Easy cash, or so it
would seem. Assuming you know anything, anything at all.” Garnier, tired of
craning and straining, settled into the seat. “He’s somebody’s little buddy all
right.”
In which case, he was safe enough, as cops generally
didn’t mess with another cop’s source unless it was a truly serious matter.
Alphonse hit the starter and fired her up.
They were out of there.
END
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Chapter Thirteen.
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| Oh, the suspense. |
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