know already. Or are you going to tell me that Irene didn’t mention to you that everyone here at the Twilight Home thinks Bernard Chase was a serial killer?”
Chapter 6
I decide to take a page from Dr. Naggy’s playbook and avoid answering Hurley’s question by tossing out one of my own. “Do you believe her?”
“It doesn’t matter if I believe her. What matters is whether or not the other patients here believe it, because if they do, we have a very long list of suspects.”
“So no quick and easy resolution for this one,” I say. “Though I’m guessing most of the folks who are residents here wouldn’t have the physical wherewithal to overpower Bernie.”
“Not alone,” Hurley says.
“Ah, interesting idea,” I say.
Irene and Lucien are a few feet away, whispering back and forth. Hurley turns to them and says, “When are you going to tell me the full story, Irene? Why would anyone here think Bernard Chase is a serial killer?”
Irene looks at Lucien, who nods. “You’re going to think I’m crazy or senile, but I’m not,” she says.
“Just tell me,” Hurley says with amazing patience.
“Promise me you’ll keep an open mind.”
Hurley nods and makes a circular motion with his hand, a signal for Irene to get on with it, so she does.
“While we don’t have any real proof, we’re all pretty sure that Bernard has been bumping off some of the patients here, the ones who become bedridden and require more expensive care. It seems like every time someone around here takes a turn for the worse, they end up dead.”
“First of all, why does that seem unusual?” Hurley asks. “I mean some of the folks here aren’t in the best of health anyway or they wouldn’t be here, right?”
“Not necessarily,” Irene says. “Some of them are physically healthy, but they have mental issues that make it unsafe for them to live alone, and either they have no family or their families can’t be bothered taking them in. There are plenty of folks living here who don’t have any life-threatening problems, but they either don’t have a place to stay because they can’t afford a home, or they’re disabled enough that they can’t live alone. Some folks are lucky enough to have families who care and take them in. But let’s face it; a lot of us old folks are considered little more than a pain in the ass to our children.”
There is a tone of bitterness in Irene’s voice that makes me wonder if her own family has had similar issues with her recently. Overall, she seems to be doing well for her age, but she looks like one of those dried apple dolls and my nursing gut tells me she is one good sneeze away from a rapid response team.
Hurley says, “I get that, Irene, but I don’t think old people dying when their health worsens is so unusual. Nor does it mean Bernard Chase was killing them off. That takes me to my second question. Who is this we you’re referring to? Who besides you thinks this?”
Irene scoffs. “Pretty near everyone in this place. They’ve all been on edge lately, afraid of that one fall that causes a broken hip, or that little cough that leads to pneumonia, because around here, that’s a guaranteed death sentence.”
“Irene, Hurley’s right,” I say. “Those things happen everywhere, not just here. It’s part of aging. It’s how we die. It isn’t pretty and it isn’t nice, but it is what it is.”
“Humph! Easy for you to say,” Irene snaps. “You’re still young yet. Just wait. One day, you’ll have more pills than the neighborhood pharmacy, and your mind will start to slip so that the only thing you can retain with any regularity is water. Get back to me when you start gauging your attraction to the opposite sex on whether or not they can still drive. Then tell me how it is what it is.”
I don’t respond, mainly because I know Irene well enough to know it’d be a waste of time and breath, and also because I sense her fear and feel sorry for her. It can’t
Chapter 6
I decide to take a page from Dr. Naggy’s playbook and avoid answering Hurley’s question by tossing out one of my own. “Do you believe her?”
“It doesn’t matter if I believe her. What matters is whether or not the other patients here believe it, because if they do, we have a very long list of suspects.”
“So no quick and easy resolution for this one,” I say. “Though I’m guessing most of the folks who are residents here wouldn’t have the physical wherewithal to overpower Bernie.”
“Not alone,” Hurley says.
“Ah, interesting idea,” I say.
Irene and Lucien are a few feet away, whispering back and forth. Hurley turns to them and says, “When are you going to tell me the full story, Irene? Why would anyone here think Bernard Chase is a serial killer?”
Irene looks at Lucien, who nods. “You’re going to think I’m crazy or senile, but I’m not,” she says.
“Just tell me,” Hurley says with amazing patience.
“Promise me you’ll keep an open mind.”
Hurley nods and makes a circular motion with his hand, a signal for Irene to get on with it, so she does.
“While we don’t have any real proof, we’re all pretty sure that Bernard has been bumping off some of the patients here, the ones who become bedridden and require more expensive care. It seems like every time someone around here takes a turn for the worse, they end up dead.”
“First of all, why does that seem unusual?” Hurley asks. “I mean some of the folks here aren’t in the best of health anyway or they wouldn’t be here, right?”
“Not necessarily,” Irene says. “Some of them are physically healthy, but they have mental issues that make it unsafe for them to live alone, and either they have no family or their families can’t be bothered taking them in. There are plenty of folks living here who don’t have any life-threatening problems, but they either don’t have a place to stay because they can’t afford a home, or they’re disabled enough that they can’t live alone. Some folks are lucky enough to have families who care and take them in. But let’s face it; a lot of us old folks are considered little more than a pain in the ass to our children.”
There is a tone of bitterness in Irene’s voice that makes me wonder if her own family has had similar issues with her recently. Overall, she seems to be doing well for her age, but she looks like one of those dried apple dolls and my nursing gut tells me she is one good sneeze away from a rapid response team.
Hurley says, “I get that, Irene, but I don’t think old people dying when their health worsens is so unusual. Nor does it mean Bernard Chase was killing them off. That takes me to my second question. Who is this we you’re referring to? Who besides you thinks this?”
Irene scoffs. “Pretty near everyone in this place. They’ve all been on edge lately, afraid of that one fall that causes a broken hip, or that little cough that leads to pneumonia, because around here, that’s a guaranteed death sentence.”
“Irene, Hurley’s right,” I say. “Those things happen everywhere, not just here. It’s part of aging. It’s how we die. It isn’t pretty and it isn’t nice, but it is what it is.”
“Humph! Easy for you to say,” Irene snaps. “You’re still young yet. Just wait. One day, you’ll have more pills than the neighborhood pharmacy, and your mind will start to slip so that the only thing you can retain with any regularity is water. Get back to me when you start gauging your attraction to the opposite sex on whether or not they can still drive. Then tell me how it is what it is.”
I don’t respond, mainly because I know Irene well enough to know it’d be a waste of time and breath, and also because I sense her fear and feel sorry for her. It can’t
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