Page 8 of Her Last Doubt

She was still looking at the street below when Novak appeared in the kitchen doorway.

"Anything in the bedroom?" she asked.

"Nothing that wasn't already in Purcell's notes. No signs of entry, no disturbance. And according to the ME’s notes, her body showed no defensive injuries.”

Rachel nodded, looking all around the living area again. She decided not to share her angel of mercy thoughts yet, though she couldn’t help but wonder if Novak had already considered it.

“Any ideas about next steps?”

Rachel figured that if they really wanted a clearer picture on the lives and the health of the victims, the most reliable source was all around them.

“Yeah,” she said. “Let’s go find somewhere to work. I’d like to speak with the residents, but I want to check all three victims in the bureau database first.”

“You know, that lobby downstairs looked pretty nice,” he said with a grin.

“It did. You think Hale would be cool with us using it?”

“Only one way to find out,” Novak said, heading for the door.

CHAPTER FIVE

They took the two chairs nearest the window — the ones that had probably never been sat in for any practical purpose — and spread out in the lobby. They’d decided not to even ask Hale, assuming that even if he did have a problem with it, he’d probably not say anything because he’d not want to cause a scene.

Novak had his laptop balanced on his knees. Rachel had pulled up the same files on her phone. She was looking at the folder Detective Purcell had sent over to Novak that morning with a brief message that read: Let me know what you need and I'll get it to you. It was a simple message, but it was a relief to know that the local PD, even if just one determined detective, was willing to help and cooperate.

Across the lobby, and to the right of the alcove that held the mailboxes, Hale's office door was open about four inches. Rachel was aware of it without looking directly at it. She could pretty much feel his eyes crawling over them, peeking from inside.

"Let’s start with Deluca," she said. "Since he's the middle one. The victim somewhere in the middle is statistically more likely to offer up clues."

Novak pulled up the file and got right to it. "Frank Deluca, eighty years old. Retired civil engineer, lived in 4-F for sixteen years. He was a widower; his wife died about four years ago. One son, lives in Seattle, hadn't visited in roughly two years according to Purcell's notes." He scrolled on, sifting through the material. "He had a terminal pancreatic cancer diagnosis about four months before he died. His GP referred him to an oncologist but Deluca declined further treatment. He was in the process of arranging home hospice care at the time of his death."

"So he was actively dying."

"Looks like it. Weeks, maybe a couple of months at most. The ME who handled him initially called it natural causes, consistent with the diagnosis and his overall condition." He clicked to the next page and continued. "When Farrar reviewed the file she found mild petechial hemorrhaging and faint bruising along the nasal bridge. She's describing her conclusions carefully…not definitive, but she's not backing off it either."

"What did he look like physically?"

"Significant muscle wasting, weight loss consistent with late-stage disease. But cognitively clear, from what I see here. His doctor's notes from six weeks before he died describe him as alert, oriented, making his own decisions without difficulty."

Rachel made a note on her phone and moved to Osley's file. "Okay. Margaret Osley, eighty-three, 9-B, fourteen years in the building. Retired schoolteacher, widowed about eighteen months before she died. Miller was the husband's name. Her health profile is — honestly pretty solid for her age. Controlled hypertension, mild arthritis in both knees, and that’s it. She was on three medications." She looked at Novak over her phone. "Sounds like she was in decent shape, really.

"So she wasn't anywhere near Deluca's situation."

"Not even in the same conversation." Rachel kept reading. "Her GP saw her six weeks before she died and noted she was in good general health. No referrals, no specialist involvement, no flags of any kind. The only notation of significance is that Osley had recently told her daughter she intended to remain in her apartment long-term and was not interested in pursuing assisted living. That tidbit comes from the daughter herself." She set her phone on her knee for a moment. "It says here that her daughter is the one who pushed for a second look at the case after Marsh died, for whatever that's worth."

She was impressed with the level of detail Purcell had put into these notes. Rachel rather hoped she’d get to meet her eventually. As she thought about this, Hale's office door shifted. Not much, barely an inch, but Rachel caught the movement at the edge of her vision. She didn't look over; she didn’t see the point in giving him the satisfaction.

Novak had pulled up Marsh's file. "And then we have Sylvia Marsh. Seventy-eight, the youngest of the three by four years. She lived in the building for twelve years. Retired librarian, divorced, one son in Charlotte. She had the most complicated health picture by a significant margin. The five prescriptions covered slight cardiac issues, moderate COPD, and a sleep disorder, along with the medications managing side effects from some of the others. She used a walker for anything beyond short distances inside the apartment."

Rachel was reading along with him and commented, "Her pulmonologist had raised the subject of a managed care facility about two months before she died. She declined and told him she was managing adequately at home. And the ME findings on her are the clearest of the three…by a good amount. Bruising around the nose and mouth, petechial hemorrhaging in both eyes, pressure bruising along both cheekbones. Farrar's conclusion is suffocation by soft object, most likely a pillow. She's confident enough on Marsh that she's willing to put it in writing."

Novak looked over at her, away from his screen. "The pillow on her bed had a compression pattern that the initial team photographed and didn't flag. Farrar flagged it."

Rachel nodded slowly. In the lobby, the front door opened and a man in his eighties came in wearing a heavy overcoat and carrying a folded newspaper under his arm. He crossed toward the elevator without acknowledgment, pressed the button, and stood waiting with stilled patience; it was clear that he had done it ten thousand times. The brass gate rattled open and he stepped in and it closed behind him and the lobby went quiet again.

“What are your initial thoughts?” Novak said.

“I’m leaning towards angel of mercy killings.”