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.”
He didn’t look surprised but he sat forward, nodding his head. “Can you walk me through that?”
She smiled, glad that even now, as he was becoming a more well-rounded agent, he was always eager to learn more whenever he could.
"It fits Deluca almost exactly,” she said.
“Terminal patient, weeks from death, no family present, and he was actively declining.
Someone with access decides to move things along.
The logic is coherent, even if it's monstrous.
" She looked back at her phone. "But it doesn't hold for Osley. She wasn't dying, at all. She was eighty-three with bad knees and fading eyesight and her doctor had just given her a clean enough report. There was no mercy argument for Margaret Osley. She had time left. Maybe a good amount…and she wasn’t suffering.”
"And Marsh lands in the middle."
"Right. She was dealing with a lot and the managed care conversation had happened, but she'd pushed back on it firmly. She wasn't terminal. She wasn't in hospice, wasn't on a formal countdown. So I don’t believe whoever did this was selecting for proximity to death. That's not the criteria."
Novak leaned back in the chair, which gave a quiet creak. "Then what is?"
"Maybe what they share is this building.
Maybe the age range, and the fact that all three had made a deliberate choice to stay here.
Osley told her daughter. Marsh told her doctor.
Deluca was setting up home hospice rather than going into a facility.
All three had drawn a line and said this is where I'm staying. "
Hale's door moved again. A chair shifted on the other side of it, the small sounds of a man trying to hear a conversation from across a considerable distance.
"He's been doing that ever since we sat down," Novak said, quietly enough that it didn't carry.
"I know."
"You want to go poke him a little?"
"In a minute." She pulled the resident roster Purcell had included in the folder.
All forty-two apartments were occupied. She scanned the ages Purcell had noted next to each name.
"Two thirds of the occupied units are residents over sixty-five.
Purcell's flagged fourteen who are over seventy-five.
" She looked up, not realizing just how odd that seemed until she’d said it out loud.
"This building is full of people who fit the general profile of the three victims."
"But if there's a selection process," Novak said, "we don't know what it is yet."
"No, not definitively." Rachel looked around the lobby at the framed photographs, the polished brass, the elevator with its accordion gate.
The Hargrove had a quality she'd been trying to name since they'd walked in. It felt proprietary — as though it had long since formed opinions about how things ought to be conducted inside its walls, as if the place itself could think and have feelings. It just had that feeling. But now, with three deaths in six weeks…well, that was a disruption to the building’s usual, quiet elegance.
Hale came out of his office, apparently done with trying to be subtle and sneaky.
He walked to the credenza near the elevator, opened the lower cabinet, took out a bag of coffee, and stood with his back to them while he fussed with the machine on top.
He did all of this with the focused attention of a man who absolutely was not listening to what they were saying.
Then he went back into the office without glancing over, which was a worse performance than if he had simply looked over openly.
Rachel stood and straightened her jacket. "Let's go tell him we want to start talking to residents."
Novak closed his laptop and got to his feet. “This should be fun.”
"And I want to watch his face when we ask him which residents were closest to the three victims."
"What are you expecting?"
"I don't know yet," she said. "I still don’t think he’s responsible for any of this, but I also think he loves this building very much. And he looks like a man that sits on secrets, you know?”
Novak nodded and said, “I thought so, too. But hey…this was your idea. I’ll give you the honor of asking.”
And with that, they walked over to Hale to take the next step in a triple homicide case that seemed to be confined to these very regal walls.