"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 jumpingin 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, whoseemed 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.
