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“That’s pretty obvious,” he commented. “That can’t have been from cops, forensics or the coroner. But then again, how the hell would the cops have missed it?”
“Hey, even I missed it when we came in,” she said. “I only saw it just now because of the headlights outside splashing right across them.”
Rachel used the same flashlight she’d used to look around outside to get a better look at the prints. They were too large to belong to Donna Newsom based on what Rachel recalled about the woman’s small figure. She supposed theycouldhave belonged to a cop or even to Chris Newsom. But that didn’t quite make sense. Why would a handprint be that far up? Why would there be prints there at all?
“Hold up a second,” Jack said. “I’m not going to wait for forensics to come back after calling them. Hopefully there’s a print kit out in the trunk.”
He hurried outside, a bit more careful than normal, to make sure he touched the door only by the handle—a handle forensics had already dusted for prints. As Jack made his way out to the car, Rachel studied the fingerprints, trying to make sense of their location. She supposed someone may have put them, there by trying to keep them from falling. Maybe a careless cop had stumbled and went falling, catching themselves and—
No,she thought.No, that’s not right.
She instantly recalled the scene out at Archer Street earlier in the day. The dizzy spell, the brief fear that she was going to fail Jack and pass out. But it was the feeling of becoming dizzy that she focused on. Starting at those fingerprints, she wondered if her hunch was indeed correct. If this man was terminal—hell, if he had an affliction just like hers—maybe he was having a hard time getting around. Maybe he’d been in such a hurry to leave that he’d gotten dizzy or otherwise discombobulated. If so, he could have easily fallen forward and caught himself against the glass door. Of course, the glass may have broken if he’d hit it hard.
The situation could have gone several different ways.But her theory did at least explain why the fingerprints would be so high. She watched as Jack opened the trunk down in the driveway while the other car parked behind them. She then once more looked up to those prints smudged on the glass, feeling certain they’d been put there by the killer.
CHAPTERNINETEEN
Rachel once again watched the night pass by as Jack put more miles between them and the Newsom residence. He’d gotten a clear print of the pink, but they’d both noted the slight smudges along the edges. It might be enough to get a hit from the database, but there was no way to be sure until Jack got the print back to the forensics department at the field office.
Rachel knew that there was one more stop to make before the field office, though. And while she knew it was absolutely the right decision, she couldn’t help but feel slighted. And maybe a little selfish.
“You know,” she said as Jack drew closer to her house. “I think I could get in and out without Anderson being none the wiser.”
“It’s not Anderson I’m worried about,” he said. “He’s not the only one that knows about your condition and time away. It’s sort of made the rounds. If the wrong person sees you at the office—especially at three in the morning—that’s the end of it. For you, and probably for me, too.”
She nodded and said,“Well, it was worth a try. Speaking of Anderson and how it might be over for you… do you think he has any idea?”
“About what?”
“About us.”
“Oh. No, I don’t think so. But if he does, I think the consequences of you tagging along with me today might be a little worse in the long run.”
They fell into silence as they drew closer to her house. Rachel knew these weren’t barbed comments, that Jack wasn’t trying to explain to her just how much risk he was taking by letting her come along with him on this case. But she did feel extremely guilty about it. Maybe she was doing the wrong thing here. Maybe she was placing the case in front of everything else—her health, Jack’s job… everything.
God, what am I doing?
Jack reached out and took her hand, clasping it over the console like teenagers that were bringing a date to an end. “Are you okay?” he asked.
“I think so,” she said, though she had no idea how to express what she was thinking. If she brought up her worries about jeopardizing his job, he’d have none of it. And the last thing she wanted was to create strife between them in an already stressful situation. So instead, she switched the topic… which, for her, was just as difficult as the conversation she was originally trying to avoid.
“I’ve decided to start chemotherapy,” she said, seemingly out of the blue.
“Yeah?” Jack asked, trying but failing to hide his surprise. “When did you decide that?”
“Earlier today. I can walk you through my thought process later… when we have the time and you’re not in the middle of a case. I’m going to make the call tomorrow—well, today, I guess—and see what needs to be done to get it all set up.”
He squeezed her hand as her street came into view. He turned, and a soft sadness filled the car. She wasn’t sure how to feel about just how much she hated being away from him.
“Keep me posted on the print results.”
“I will, one hundred percent. I’m also going to take another crack at getting the judge to release those medical records. Three victims now…”
“And the killer is very likely sick himself.”
He nodded but without much enthusiasm. She’d shared her theory with him as they left the Newsome residence. He’d listened with great interest, but she was pretty sure he wasn’t yet convinced. “I’ll include that in the pitch,” he said, “but you know just as well as I do that those prints aren’t going to be enough to sell it.”
He pulled into her driveway and parked. She knew he was impatient to get to the office and run the print. Hell, she was too. Of course, she couldn’t go. So she found herself anxious to get out of the car so he could get there as quickly as possible.
