This Thing of Darkness. Barbara Fradkin
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stuffed with books. Medical and scientific tomes shared space with philosophy, mysticism and provocative works like The Mindful Brain, An Unquiet Mind and The Doctor and the Soul by Victor Frankl. Green picked the latter up idly. He was familiar with the Viennese psychiatrist who had found a path to spiritual meaning amid the horrors of the Nazi death camps. Perhaps Rosenthal had a more profound grasp of human health and illness than his detractors understood, Green thought, replacing the book reluctantly before resuming his search.
Neatly arrayed on top of the dresser were a hairbrush, comb, shoe horn, some pill bottles and a small leather box, which the detectives had already opened. It contained cufflinks, tie clips, a gold watch with a broken face and a man’s opal ring with an engraving inside the band. “To my darling, June 16, 1980”. A birthday or anniversary present from his wife?
Green peered at the labels on the pill bottles. Advil, multivitamins, Allegra, Tums and an herbal medicine that claimed to guarantee sleep. He jotted down the name. Not surprisingly considering his recent concern with over-medication, Rosenthal did not appear to be taking a single drug prescribed by a doctor, which was unusual among today’s elderly. At last count, Green’s father took eight pills a day.
Beside the bed was a night table on which sat a glass of water, a pair of reading glasses and a teetering stack of novels, one of which lay open face down, By the Time You Read This, by Giles Blunt. Green glanced at the back cover. A Canadian mystery set in a northern town and featuring an apparent suicide. So the man didn’t shy away from the anguish of his profession even in his minutes before sleep. Also in the stack of novels were other Canadian literary titles, along with classics from Dickens and Dostoevsky. Just like his art, his reading tastes were eclectic and sophisticated, yet a touch sad.
The dresser drawers had already been opened to reveal a jumble of underwear and socks, all either black or white. Green was mildly surprised that the clothes were not folded, since he had formed a picture of a solitary, fastidious man with set routines and perhaps too much time on his hands. Lower drawers contained sweaters, cotton slacks and golf shirts, in blacks, blues and beiges. Not a man inclined to flamboyance, certainly. There were no jeans or T-shirts in the mix, suggesting a degree of formality in the appearance he presented. Fits with the three-piece suit, Green thought.
Green glanced in the closet, under the bed, and in the bathroom, but none held any surprises. Except one. He returned to the living room.
“There’s no sign of a computer. I know he’s over seventy, but he’s educated and worldly. Seems unlikely.”
Sergeant Levesque looked up from the stack of correspondence she was sorting. “A laptop was on the list of things he reported stolen.”
Green felt a flash of annoyance. A laptop was an obvious target for thieves, but nonetheless one that might contain crucial information. He should have been informed. “What else was on the list?”
“Some jewellery—his late wife’s diamond necklace and ring—a box of silverware and some papers from his filing cabinet. Typical stuff.”
Green frowned at her dismissive assessment. To his mind, it was not typical at all. The paintings had not been taken, which suggested the thief was not an art connoisseur, but papers would be of little value to a thief. “What kind of papers?”
She shrugged.“He wasn’t sure. When he came home, there were papers from the filing cabinet all over the floor. Most of that stuff he had not looked at since he retired. There were professional articles, patient files, workshop notes.”
The filing cabinet had now been emptied into piles on the floor, and Sergeant Levesque’s partner was sifting through them. Bafflement and frustration showed in his face. “He doesn’t seem to have bothered sorting them out when he put them back after the break-in,” the young constable said. “Just stuffed them all back in. I’m looking for personal papers like his will and insurance policies, but so far all I’ve found is this.” He held up an empty file folder. “It’s labelled ‘will’, but there’s nothing in it.”
Levesque let out a low whistle and brandished a paper she’d picked up. “Well, somebody might want to find the will. He owned this house completely—and in this neighbourhood that’s probably worth over a million—and this investment statement says he’s got almost three and a half million in an account. His son is going to have a nice surprise.”
“How’s the search for him coming?” Green asked.
Suspicion flashed across Levesque’s face, and for an instant she even hesitated to answer. “Nothing yet. Gibbs is still trying to find out his name.”
“Likely David or John. I’d concentrate on the States somewhere.”
Levesque swung around on her junior partner, her ponytail snapping. She gestured to the papers strewn on the floor. “There should be a name somewhere in there.”
“Find any kind of legal document, and that’ll give you his lawyer’s name,” Green said. “The lawyer will have his will on file and probably the son’s coordinates as well.”
The junior detective began pawing through papers, obviously eager to impress. “I found his income tax records for the last few years. They show lots of donations to charity —United Way, Canadian Mental Health Association, United Jewish Appeal and a bunch of charities in Israel. No lawyer’s name, but I found a dental bill.”
“Good. Call to see if he has recent X-rays.” Levesque left the young man dialling his cell while she turned her attention back to the correspondence on the dead man’s desk. Green resumed his stroll around the apartment, not gathering impressions this time, but searching for clues to the son’s identity. Photos or letters. There was a large portrait of a woman he assumed to be the late wife hanging on the living room wall, and several photos of her in silver frames on the dining table and desk. She was always hamming it up, as if she hated formality and enjoyed teasing the photographer. To Green’s surprise, however, there was not a single photo of a boy or younger man, nor of small children who might be grandchildren.
Green thought about his own father, an elderly widower , for whom Green, Sharon and the children were his whole world. Every spare surface in Sid Green’s small senior’s apartment was proudly covered with photos. In contrast, Sam Rosenthal’s apartment felt extraordinarily lonely.
As he stood in the centre of the bedroom, he noticed piles of boxes stored at the back of the closet. Shoe boxes of old correspondence, cartons of old clothes, and at the very back, an old dusty banker’s box tucked beneath a plastic bin of winter scarves.
He dragged the box into the room and peered inside at the yellowed stack of old files, inwardly cheering at the sight of the word “Will” scrawled across the tab of one of them. Inside was a sheaf of legal-sized papers, with the words “The last will and testament of Samuel Yitzak Rosenthal” printed in old-fashioned script across the front page. He pulled out the papers and scanned for the date: November 16, 1999. Written not long after his wife’s death, it was probably his most recent will.
Green flipped rapidly through the pages, noting that Rosenthal had named the lawyer who’d drafted the will as executor of the estate. The executor was instructed to sell his property, pay all the bills and distribute the remainder of the estate as follows.
Large sums had been bequeathed to charities. Three were predictable—$100,000 each to the Rideau Psychiatric Hospital, the Canadian Mental Health Association, and the United Way—all of which helped troubled people in need. But others, like the Humane Society and the Bytown Association of Rescued Canines, were unexpected. Green had seen no sign of pets in the apartment.
Besides the half million dollars to various charities, two million were to be used to endow the Evelyn Rosenthal Memorial Chair in cancer research at the University of Ottawa. Green wondered if the man had been grateful for the care his wife had received at the Ottawa Hospital or if he’d found it profoundly lacking.
The final page was most telling of all. Whatever crumbs were left over after the disposition of the specific bequests, had been left to the son, David Joseph Rosenthal. By Green’s rough