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Rachel nodded, and Jack said,“Yes, that’s correct. Do you have any idea how long Dickerson interacted with her?”
“No. I can dig through the records to see, but we’re talking about another hour or so.”
“That’s okay, for now,” Jack said. “Let’s just keeping making our way through this list.”
Two more names were called out before the woman at the hospital made another confirmation.“Yes. Got it right here. Caroline Adams. She was admitted three months ago due to fluid on the chest… a complication of breast cancer. And I do see right here that she was in the hospital for eight days. Looks like Donna would have been one of her night nurses for the entire stay.”
Rachel sat down at the table and listened as Jack made his way through the rest of the list. There was one last match, and it just happened to be the final one Rachel had come across: Mark Rosenthall.
“He was in the hospital as recently as five weeks ago,” the woman on the other end said. “Complications resulting from advanced bowel cancer. His records indicate that he was only here for two days and was then released. There’s a little note here in his records that… Jesus, it’s actually signed off on by Donna.”
“And what’s it say?” Jack asked.
“It says‘Especially problematic. Violent outbursts and anger. Had to call security.”
Rachel and Jack looked at one another, Rachel sipping from her coffee. Jack ended the call and pocketed the list they’d been working on together.
“Especially problematic,”Jack recited.Violent outbursts and anger.I think we’ve gota good place to start.”
CHAPTERTWENTY
Rachel dreaded telling Grandma Tate that she was going out to look into a few names related to the case. But Grandma Tate had very little to say about it. Even as she told Rachel to please be careful and to try to be home when Paige got off the bus, Rachel picked up hints of disappointment in her tone. So when she and Jack left the house, Rachel was feeling not only guilty but also a little unnerved from all of the medical records she’d read through.
While she’d been briefly speaking with Grandma Tate, Jack called the bureau and requested location information on their three potential suspects. He’d not gotten the information on all three of them by the time they got into his car, but they did have the most promising one.
Mark Rosenthall lived in the Fan district, just about half a mile away from Virginia Commonwealth University. A late summer day, it was one of the prettier parts of Richmond—a sight that didn’t quite fit with the somber mood the medical records had put her in. And now, with both the bureau resources and medical records at their disposal, they were able to get a fairly accurate picture of Rosenthall as they drew closer to his house along the cobblestoned streets.
“Looking at these medical records that were just sent over,” Rachel said, “it looks like Rosenthall was bounced between Matthews and Leery because he was confrontational with both of them. There’s no police record, so I assume nothing serious came out of it. There’s a note here from Leery that suggests Rosenthall’s anger could very well be one of many small symptoms related to the bowel cancer.”
“You mentioned feeling angry yourself,” Jack pointed out. “And you’re not…”
“What?”
She could tell that he was thinking his words out before speaking, not wanting to say something that might seem offensive or sensitive.
“Well, you’re still mostly healthy. You aren’t as far along as him. If he is of the mind that he’d been dealt an unfair hand, wouldn’t it make sense that he stays angry a lot of the time?”
“I think it’s common, yeah… just based on things I’ve read. Near the end, studies have shown there’s either an almost subtle feeling of acceptance or anger that expresses itself in uncharacteristic ways.”
Explaining it, she started to feel that her theory about the killer being a terminal patient felt even more real than before. And she could also see a dawning look of understanding on Jack’s face as well.
They arrived at Rosenthall’s townhouse at 10:30. Rachel was very aware of the time as they walked up the sidewalk to the front door. Grandma Tate was right; she needed to keep Paige first. That meant she only had a few more hours to be out with Jack before Paige made it home. Not only that, but she was also very aware that she and Jack had not talked about the implications of her coming along. While Director Anderson had given Jack the okay to let her help with the research of it all, sitting safely in her home, she seriously doubted he had given the go-ahead for her to go out into the field. And it was not something she and Jack had even mentioned—perhaps intentionally.
But she knew that if it came down to it, she’d throw herself on that particular bomb. She’d take all the blame, arguing that she’d manipulated Jack, that she’d wormed her way in. She really didn’t think Anderson would have much of a problem believing it.
She pushed this from her mind as Jack knocked on the door. The door knocker was bronze and showed signs of age and wear. It was almost refined-looking and faded, fitting in well with most of the townhomes and apartments in this part of the city.
After roughly ten seconds, Rachel heard someone approaching the door from the other side. The door opened just an inch or so, and a woman’s blue eyes peered out at them. “Yes? Can I help you?”
Jack, still assuming the lead as he was the only official agent on the case, maintained the lead and showed his badge and ID.“Agents Rivers and Gift, FBI. We need to speak with Mark Rosenthall.”
“Oh, I see,” the woman said, opening the door up wider. When she was fully revealed, Rachel was looking at a woman of about thirty-five or so. She wore no make-up, her hair was up in a messy bun, and she was dressed in loose-fitting clothes. “Well, I hate to tell you, but Mr. Rosenthall isn’t here. He hasn’t been for about a week or so.”
“Where is he?” Jack asked.
“Brussels.” She apparently took note of their puzzled expressions because she stepped aside and gestured them in. “Come on inside.”
They walked into Rosenthall’s townhome, and right away, Rachel could smell strong cleaning supplies—pine scented floor-cleaner, a faint whiff of bleach. The front room was completely empty, and the walls showed signs of where picture shad once hung, perfect squares and rectangles slightly brighter than the rest of the off-white walls.
