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“My mother moved into continuing care five years before I started working at Shady Oaks. She likes where she is and it’s less than a two-hour drive, so I visit on the weekends.”
“That makes sense,” Connor said mildly, then gave Kit a questioning glance.
She nodded. They were done here for now. “We’re going to talk to the victim’s friends now. While we’re doing that, can you compile a list of all the personnel and volunteers from memory? And will the front desk have a guestbook that visitors have to sign? We’ll need that, too.”
“Of course,” Evans said. “I’ll see that it’s done. And, um, Detectives? Mr. Benny—that’s Benjamin Dreyfus—is…fragile. He had a stroke last year, which has triggered vascular dementia. He’s in the early stages, and most of the time he’s okay. I only share this because he may not be able to answer your questions. One of his symptoms is short-term memory loss. He also becomes very emotional when he’s stressed.”
“Like when seeing his friend dead, with a butcher knife in his chest,” Kit said bluntly, and Miss Evans flinched, horror flickering in her eyes.
“Yes, Detective,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “Like that.”
Kit always felt bad, springing statements like that on those who’d found a body, but she’d needed to see that the director’s reactions were genuine, especially with the woman’s resistance to relinquishing their server. Kit thought that Evans was hiding something, but it could have simply been a desire to protect her employees’ privacy. Her horror at the memory of Flynn’s body seemed genuine. I guess we’ll see.
Kit softened her tone. “We can provide recommendations for counselors who specialize in treating victims of crime. That includes anyone who’s witnessed the body. Mr. Flynn’s was a brutal murder, Miss Evans. It’s okay to ask for help.”
The woman nodded. “Thank you. I’ll take your recommendations, but to be honest, I’ll probably just talk to Dr. Reeves—he was the man playing the piano this morning. He’s a psychologist who works with victims of crime.”
Kit forced her lips to curve, because…Sam. Again. But the man was definitely worthy of trust. “He’s a good choice. Thank you for your assistance, ma’am. We’ll be in touch.”
Evans rose with them, her body language screaming that she had something else to share. “Um…You should know something else about Benny because he might tell you himself, and I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. When I got up to Mr. Frankie’s room, Mr. Benny was…wild. He kept screaming that this was all his fault.”
Stunned, Kit glanced at Connor to find his eyes as wide as hers. “Why didn’t you lead with this?” Kit demanded.
“Because Benny couldn’t have done this. He and Frankie were best friends.”
But stabbing was an intimate crime.
Evans shook her head. “I can see what you’re thinking, but Benny’s not violent. He couldn’t hurt a fly. Plus, he’s far too frail to have wielded that knife.”
Kit wanted to snarl at the woman. They likely wouldn’t have believed that Mr. Dreyfus had killed his friend, but they certainly would have interviewed him first. They may have wasted valuable time. The victim’s best friend could very well know something important—like why Mr. Flynn was dead or who’d wanted him that way.
Rarely did the person saying “It’s my fault” actually murder the victim.
I always say that Wren’s murder was my fault. Kit had learned at an early age that grief and guilt went hand in hand.
So she drew a breath and said in a calm voice, “Thank you. We’ll interview Mr. Benny right now.”
Evans twisted her hands together. “You’ll be gentle with him?”
Kit wanted to roll her eyes. No, we’re going to rough the old man up. But she held her sarcasm back, nodding instead. “Of course we will.”
Shady Oaks Retirement Village
Scripps Ranch, San Diego, California
Monday, November 7, 1:30 p.m.
Kit and Connor approached the cop on guard outside the three interview rooms—only one of which still had a closed door.
“What happened to Benny Dreyfus?” Connor asked.
But before the officer could answer, a harsh voice from behind them said, “They had to take him to the nursing ward because you took too damn long.”
Both Kit and Connor turned to the source of the explanation, finding an elderly woman standing in the doorway that had been closed a moment before. Her sour face frowning, she rested her gnarled hands on the handles of a baby stroller, in which sat a very small dog. At least the dog seemed happy to see them.
Kit glanced back into the empty room where Benjamin Dreyfus had been waiting. She and Connor had made them wait a long time, and the old man had been highly agitated.
We should have talked to him first. Dammit.
