Chapter 17
Chapter
Seventeen
“I can’t believe your dad got that information so quickly,” Kelly said as Ben
navigated the rental car into the nursing home’s parking lot. “That’s amazing.”
“He has a few friends,” Ben replied. “I’ve been meaning to tell you about that, but we got distracted last night.”
They certainly had. Hot, sweaty distractions.
“We can talk about it later. We have a big day today.”
The rehearsal dinner was tonight, and although Kelly wasn’t in the bridal party, they were invited.
He could tell she wasn’t excited about attending, but there really wasn’t a graceful way to bow out of the festivities without seeming churlish.
Besides, it was only one evening. In the big scheme of things, it wasn’t a huge deal.
"Are you sure you want to do this?" Ben asked, studying Kelly's profile as he parked the car.
She’d been quieter than usual this morning.
"We need to know," Kelly replied, her voice steadier than her hands. "If Lori were pregnant, it would change everything about the case."
The nursing home loomed before them, a sprawling one-story building with beige siding and carefully maintained landscaping.
"Okay then," Ben said, tucking the folder under his arm as they approached the entrance. "Let's go find out what Dr. Whitfield knows."
The automatic doors whispered open, releasing a blast of warm air that smelled slightly of disinfectant, which wasn’t a surprise.
The lobby was painted a soft green with a few couches and chairs pushed against the walls, along with a plant in the corner that appeared pretty healthy. A woman with tight gray curls sat behind the front desk, her glasses perched on the end of her nose as she studied a computer screen.
Kelly approached the desk, her back straight, voice confident despite the tension Ben could see in her shoulders.
"We're here to see Dr. Mason Whitfield. I called earlier."
The woman checked something on her computer. "Yes, Miss Bateman. Dr. Whitfield is in his room. I'll have Nurse Landry take you back. He doesn’t get any visitors other than his wife, so it’s nice to see someone else make time for him."
Whether Whitfield would be happy about their visit was an open question.
They waited on one of the sofas until a young woman in blue scrubs appeared.
"I'm Nurse Landry. You're here to see Dr. Whitfield?"
"Yes," Kelly said, rising quickly. "Thank you for arranging this."
The nurse's smile didn't quite reach her eyes, and she cleared her throat nervously.
"Dr. Whitfield doesn't get many visitors. It might be a good day for him, but I should warn you, he can be... difficult."
The universe wasn’t going to make this easy for them.
"We understand," Ben said, placing a steadying hand at the small of Kelly's back. "We'll keep it brief."
“That would be best. He tires easily.”
They followed Nurse Landry down a long corridor with linoleum floors buffed to a high shine.
The walls were lined with generic landscape paintings and the occasional bulletin board covered with activity schedules and menu plans.
Doors stood ajar, offering glimpses into the residents’ lives.
An elderly woman knitting. A man staring blankly at a television.
The soft, persistent beep of medical equipment.
Ben's stomach knotted. He hated places like this. Not because they were inherently bad, but because they were a blatant reminder that time was finite. That bodies failed. His grandparents hadn’t lived forever, and someday, his mom and dad wouldn’t either.
He couldn’t imagine a world without Seth and Presley Reilly in it.
"He's just in here," Nurse Landry said, stopping at a door near the end of the hall. She knocked once before pushing it open. "Dr. Whitfield? You have visitors. Isn’t that nice? They came to talk to you."
The room was small but private, with a hospital bed, a recliner, and a window overlooking a courtyard garden.
The walls were bare except for a single framed medical degree, yellowed with age.
Mason Whitfield sat in a wheelchair by the window, with a small table beside it.
He was thin to the point of gauntness, his skin loose over sharp bones,
And he didn’t look happy to see them. Or anyone, for that matter.
"Dr. Whitfield," she said, her voice steady despite the slight tremor in her hands. "Thank you for agreeing to see us. I'm Kelly Bateman, and this is Ben Reilly."
Whitfield's wrinkled eyes narrowed, studying Kelly with the clinical detachment of someone examining a lab specimen.
"Bateman," he repeated, his voice a dry rasp. "You're David’s girl."
"Yes, sir. I was hoping you could help us. We wanted to ask you about a case from when you were the county coroner. It's about Lori Powell. She was murdered and dumped on the side of the road."
The name hung in the air like a sudden drop in temperature. Whitfield's gnarled fingers clutched the armrests of his wheelchair, knuckles whitening.
"Lori Powell," he echoed, his tone flat, his thin lips turned downward. "That was a long time ago."
"Yes, sir, it was," Ben said, stepping slightly closer to Kelly.
There was something in Whitfield's eyes that made Ben uneasy.
A cold calculation that didn't belong in a frail old man.
From a young age, his father had taught him to read body language.
It spoke louder than words ever could. It was a lesson that had helped Ben more times in business than he could count.
"But it's still an open case. We're hoping you might remember some details that weren't in the official report. "
Whitfield's laugh was more of a wheeze, ending in a cough that shook his bony frame.
"You think I don't remember? I remember everything about that girl. Every bruise. Every wound. The way her parents looked when they identified her. Some things you don't forget, no matter how hard you try."
Kelly took another tentative step forward, pasting on a friendly smile.
"Dr. Whitfield, we have reason to believe that Lori might have been pregnant when she died. Is that true?"
The question landed with the impact of a stone dropping into still water.
Whitfield's pale face twitched, a muscle jumping in his jaw as his skin turned a pink color.
For a moment, Ben thought he might deny it or claim he couldn't remember.
Instead, the old man's expression twisted into something angry and ugly.
He was absolutely furious that they asked him that question.
Which was an interesting response in and of itself.
"You people," he spat, his voice suddenly stronger. "All of you. Coming here like you deserve answers. Like you have a right to dig up what we buried."
Ben tensed, ready to pull Kelly back if needed. Whitfield wasn't physically threatening in his current state, but the venom in his voice was unmistakable.
"Bergen," Whitfield continued, gaining steam. "Such a nice town on the surface. Church on Sundays. Fourth of July picnics. Everyone knows everyone. But underneath? Animals. All of them. Animals who didn’t have the sense god gave a goose."
His voice rose with each word, face flushing an unhealthy red that crept up from his neck. The wheels rattled as he shifted forward in his chair.
"And who has to clean up the mess? Me. Always me."
Kelly had gone pale, her freckles standing out like copper pennies against her skin. Ben moved without thinking, placing himself between her and the wheelchair, a human shield against Whitfield's vitriol.
"Dr. Whitfield," Ben said firmly, "we're just looking for the truth."
"The truth?" Whitfield laughed again, a horrible sound like glass breaking. "Whose truth are we talking about? Yours? Mine? Someone else’s? You see, everyone has their own. Take your pick.”
Ben could feel Kelly trembling behind him, her breath coming in short gasps. He wanted to turn to her, to offer comfort, but he didn't dare take his eyes off Whitfield, who seemed to be working himself into a frenzy. His entire body appeared to be shaking with his anger.
"That's enough for today."
The voice came from the doorway, quiet but firm. Ben turned to see a small, neat woman with silver hair pulled back in a bun. Her clothes were simple but well-kept, her face lined with years of what Ben guessed was patient endurance.
"Mildred," Whitfield said, his anger deflating slightly at the sight of his wife. "These people are asking questions about the Powell girl."
"I heard," Mrs. Whitfield said, stepping fully into the room. "I think my husband needs to rest now. He gets overtired easily. Perhaps you could come back another time."
It wasn't really a suggestion. Ben recognized the polite but firm dismissal, the kind that brooked no argument. Behind Mrs. Whitfield, a nurse hovered anxiously, clearly alerted by the commotion.
"I'm sorry," Mrs. Whitfield said, her smile not reaching her eyes. "My husband isn't well. His mind wanders sometimes, and then he gets upset."
Ben nodded, taking Kelly's arm gently. At first, it didn’t seem like she wanted to leave, but he was able to reluctantly lead her to the door. He understood that she was disappointed. They wouldn’t be learning anything about Lori from Dr. Whitfield.
Another dead end.
"We understand. Thank you for your time."
Mrs. Whitfield closed the door to her husband's room with a quiet finality that spoke volumes.
Her shoulders remained squared for a moment before they slumped, as if a burden she'd been carrying had suddenly doubled in weight.
The hallway was quiet except for the distant sounds of a television and the soft squeak of rubber-soled shoes on linoleum.
She turned to face them, her eyes lined with exhaustion but clear with resolve.
"I'm so sorry about that," she said, her voice low but steady. "Mason has good days and bad days. This was... not a good day. We don’t get a lot of them anymore."