Convicted - Romig Aleatha - Страница 33
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Harry decided to start at the beginning. Utilizing the bureau’s databases, he worked to identify a list of individuals who died with the confirmation of actaea pachypoda in their system. Not all of the individuals on the generated list could be connected to Rawlings or Rawls; however, the number that could be connected—even with a possible connection—was too high to allow for coincidence. The first documented case—the cause of this entire investigation—was Agent Sherman Nichols. His cause of death in 1997 was publicly declared as natural causes. Agent Nichols was seventy-three with a history of high blood pressure; nevertheless, as a retired federal agent, a full autopsy was required. The toxicology workups took time. When unidentified markers were found, it took more time. To Agent Nichols’ family and the public, the original cause of death was confirmed. To the bureau, the case remained open.
Actaea pachypoda was next identified during an autopsy in 1989, by the minimum security federal correctional facility, Camp Gabriels, in upstate New York. The inmate’s name: Nathaniel Rawls; again, blood workups took time. The simple answer was heart failure. That’s what SAC Williams said; actaea pachypoda had a sedative effect on the cardiac muscle tissue causing cardiac arrest. Baldwin wondered why Rawlings would want to kill his own grandfather. Jotting down a note, he wanted to research the record of visitors at Camp Gabriels Correctional Institution. Being a minimum security prison, visitors came and went with regularity.
The biggest problem with Harry’s search, even with the help of the federal database, was that actaea pachypoda wasn’t commonly sought in toxicology screenings. Truthfully, a search of all cardiac-related deaths should be done; however, that would produce an overwhelming list of possible victims. Even Harry had to admit that Rawlings was probably not responsible for every person who died of cardiac-related problems; nevertheless, if Baldwin included Rawlings’ parents, his grandfather, and Agent Nichols, that was four deaths in a relatively short period of time. From Forensics 101, that fit the definition of a serial killer, and then add Simon Johnson, and the killing spree had not stopped.
Harry had compiled health history workups on his entire list of potential victims. Not all fit the possible profile for heart disease as well as Agent Nichols and Nathaniel Rawls. Simon, for example, was very healthy. The only indications found in health records were allergies: sulfa drugs and penicillin as well as sensitivity to H1 antihistamines. If his death had been ruled to have been due to natural causes, then red flags would have finally flown. Luckily for Rawlings, Simon’s body was too badly burnt in the crash. Harry had requested a new toxicology screening from tissue samples recovered at the time of Simon’s accident—but that would take time.
Harry was about to start a state-by-state search of medical examiners’ records—searching specifically for actaea pachypoda—when his phone rang.
He answered, “Hello?”
The voice on the other end expected action. “Agent Baldwin, Rawlings has been spotted leaving a well-known bank in Geneva. According to the agent, he’s not trying to disguise himself.”
Baldwin wanted to say, “What an arrogant son-of-a-bitch”—instead, he said—“I can be there in less than an hour, sir.”
“The bureau has a plane ready. Be on it, ten minutes ago.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Agent, while you’re flying to Geneva, you can review your assignment. I’d like to assume you won’t fail again; however, we both know what happens when we assume.”
“Yes, sir. I won’t fail.”
His research needed to wait.
Settling into a suite at the Grand Hotel Kempinski, Tony sucked back the best two fingers of Glen Garioch Bourbon he’d ever tasted. There were too many thoughts swirling through his mind to think about one in particular. One thing he knew for sure, he’d had enough of the common life. One million dollars wasn’t much, but it would sustain him until the FBI came for him. He didn’t care anymore—what the hell? Agent Jackson’s cryptic threats needed to be supported. The way Tony saw it, the fuck’n bureau needed to ante up or get out of the damn game!
Tony had stayed at the Kempinski before, and decided that due to its size and reputation for excellence, he’d stay there again. He reasoned that a businessman spending money—enjoying what life could offer—would get lost in the crowd. Anonymity, plus the modern, clean line decor and opulence were exactly what Tony wanted and needed at the moment. He could spend a few days in his suite, soaking the stench of hostels and common living from his skin, while he drank the thoughts of Claire leaving him and stealing his money from his head. It seemed like the perfect combination.
Another two fingers of bourbon and he might just go down to one of the clubs—hell, he hadn’t been with another woman since before he and Claire married—not even when she was in prison. He went out on dates and made appearances; that’s who Anthony Rawlings was; nevertheless, his heart wasn’t in it. He was always polite and gentlemanly, even when advances were made on him. It wasn’t that he didn’t have needs. It was that during the instances when his lips touched another woman’s and he closed his eyes, all he saw was the sparkling emerald he wanted to have in his arms. When he opened his eyes and the sight before him wasn’t what he truly desired—the rest of his body wasn’t interested in proceeding. Although there were many women willing to help the situation, Tony wasn’t interested.
Of course, that didn’t mean Claire had afforded him the same exclusivity. In Tony’s current condition, that was somewhere he shouldn’t go. One thought opened the floodgate to many more—had she left him to be with someone else? Was she with someone now? There was always that thought that periodically infiltrated his thoughts: what if the baby wasn’t his? Refocusing on their conversation—where the hell was here? What kind of an answer was that?
Tony snickered as he poured his third glass. Damn, if he weren’t so refined, then he’d drink the shit from the bottle. He may still be using the same name as the man at the hostels, but he wasn’t that man. He’d drink like culturally duped men do—out of a glass.
He definitely had more questions swirling through his head than answers. Tony thought back to the research he tried to do. There were too many pieces of this puzzle still missing.
Slumping back into a plush chair and gazing out to the twilight sky above Lake Geneva, Tony acknowledged the FBI was right. Claire left him—of—her—own—free—will!
Slightly dimmed by the onslaught of ninety-six proof liquor, Tony’s thoughts were forming slower; nevertheless, Claire’s words were coming back, Really, Tony? How many people knew about it? How many people would consider us both children of children? He knew that answer in the pit of his stomach. With each second, the truth burnt within him—Catherine knew—she knew they were both children of children. Catherine knew about Nathaniel’s money. Catherine knew how to access Nathaniel’s money. Catherine knew!
Reaching for his nearest phone, Tony almost spilled his drink. As he steadied himself, he thought about Catherine’s number—not hers—no his! The idea that he could call his house and she’d be there—fueled the rage coursing through him. Just as he considered entering the number—with the phone in the palm of his hand—it rang.
He almost dropped it!
With a slight slur to his speech, Tony answered, “Hello, Agent Jackson, how are you this fine evening?” The momentary silence made Tony laugh. “What’s the matter, Agent? Cat’s got your tongue?”
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