Cochefert glared at the morgue attendants. His cold voice increased the chill of the modern, refrigerated autopsy room. “If anyone sells so much as a scrap of this body, you’ll be tossed on the dung heap.” Michel noted the attendant who looked away uneasily and knew Cochefert did too. The chief waited for the man to meet his gaze again, then laid his hand tenderly on the unknown girl’s shoulder. “This child’s body has been violated enough. Remember what I’ve said—all of you,” he added, looking around once more. “Now, get back to work.” The attendants glanced at Cochefert uneasily. No doubt some had work to attend to here, but none wanted to remain under his critical eye. After they filed out, Michel turned to him. “It’s been a decade since anyone’s been caught,” he said, though the morbid trafficking was probably just more secretive. “It is usually the killers whose bits and pieces people beg for, but victims’ remains are popular, too,” Cochefert muttered.
