"Reichs, Kathy - Temperance Brennan 01 - Deja Dead" - читать интересную книгу автора (Reichs Kathy)

located in what is known as the QPP or SQ building, depending on your
linguistic preference. To anglophones, it is the Quebec Provincial
Police-to francophones, La Sfjret6 du Qu6bec. The Laboratoire de
M6decine Ugale, similar to a medical examiner's office in the States,
shares the fifth floor with the Laboratoire des Sciences judicialres,
the central crime lab for the province. Together the LML and the LSJ
make up a unit known as La Direction de I'Expertise judiciaire-DEJ.
There is a jail on the fourth and top three floors of the building. The
morgue and autopsy suites are in the basement. The provincial police
occupy the remaining eight floors.

This arrangement has its advantages. We're all together. If I need an
opinion on fibers, or a report on a soil sample, a walk down the
corridor takes me directly to the source. It also has its drawbacks in
that we are easily accessible. For an SQ investigator, or a city
detective dropping off evidence or paperwork, it is a short elevator
ride to our offices. Witness that morning. Claudel was waiting at my
office door when I arrived. He was carrying a small brown envelope and
repeatedly tapped its edze aeainst the palm of his hand. To say he
looked agitated would be like saying Gandhi looked hungry.

"I have the dental records," he said in way of greeting. He flourished
the envelope like a presenter at the Academy Awards.

"I picked them up myself." He read a name scrawled on the outside. "Dr.
Nguyen. He's got an office over in Rosemont. I would have been here
earlier but the guy's got a real cretin of a secretary."

"Coffee?" I asked. Though I'd never met Dr. Nguyen's secretary I felt
empathy for her. I knew she hadn't had a good morning. He opened his
mouth to accept or decline. I don't know which. At that moment Marc
Bergeron rounded the comer. Seemingly unaware of our presence, he strode
past the row of shiny black office doors, stopping one short of mine.
Crooking a knee, he placed his briefcase on the upraised thigh. I
thought of the crane maneuver in the Karate Kid. Thus poised, he clicked
the case open, rummaged among its contents, and withdrew a set of keys.

"Marc?" It startled him. He slammed the case shut and swung it down, all
in one movement.

"Bienjazt," I said, suppressing a smile.

"Mercl." He looked at Claudel and me, the briefcase in his left hand,
the keys in his right. Marc Bergeron was, by any standard,
peculiar-looking. In his late fifties or early sixties, his long, bony
frame was slightly stooped, bent forward at mid-chest as if perpetually
ready to absorb a blow to the stomach. His hair started midway back on
his scalp and exploded in a corona of white frizz. It brought him to
well over six foot three. His wire-rimmed glasses were always greasy and
speckled with dust, and he often squinted, as though reading the fine