The Most Beautiful

A nurse that works at a retirement community gets questioned by the police over deaths that occurred at her job.

Most Beautiful

“It’s gonna be a fine night tonight,” Mr. Nick says with one of his trademark charming smiles as he looks out the window. Special Oaks Retirement Home doesn’t have that much in terms of special staff or equipment, but it does have one hell of a view. There’s a movie-like waterfall within walking distance that you can see from nearly any window facing south.

“I sure hope so,” I tell him with a smile as I move behind his wheelchair to look out as well. His withered but cheerful elderly face smiles at me as I get close. “Got a date tonight, I take it?” He asks, correctly guessing what’s on my mind. “Yes sir,” I inform him, smiling more as I think of Fred, my maybe boyfriend and how we are going to the movies tonight.

“Ah, to be young and in love,” Mr. Nick laments with memories flashing behind his eyes. “Is there anything better?” He suggests and I almost answer, ‘yes, winning the lottery.’ But I don’t. One thing you learn fast working at a place like this is that residents are always wanting to tell their stories and opinions but never want to listen. But I don’t mind. That’s one of the many reasons I am here, to listen and help as I can.

“Ms. Katrina?” The very familiar voice of Phil, aka Mr. Phillips the Day Nurse, head of all nurses during the day asks. “Yeah Phil?” I say automatically, barely registering that he’s just called me Ms. Katrina and not Kat like normal. What I do notice is the very sober and slightly worried tone of his voice. Looking at him I see he’s not alone. There’s a man in a cheap suit to his right and to his left, one of the county’s constables.

“Yeah, umm, these men would like to talk with you,” he says in a serious manner, informing me that something must be wrong. My heart sinks and I think it can only be one thing. One of the residents must have done something bad. You hear about it from time to time, but never think it would happen where you are. One resident raping or even murdering another. Resident attacking someone or maybe even stealing from other’s rooms. 95% of the time they are out of their mind or senile as hell, but it doesn’t stop the awfulness of it.

“I’m detective Johnson and this is Constable Hobbs,” the man in the cheap suit introduces rather sternly. “Your boss has kindly allowed us to use the break room to talk. We just have a few questions for you,” he states without waiting for my response. At once I’m scared out of my mind but also angry as hell. The way he looks at me is as if he knows I’m guilty of whatever crime he thinks happened. Granted, I’ve never been questioned by the police before, so I don’t know if this is normal, but I haven’t done a damn thing!

I follow behind them but before I go I try to look at Phil for some such of clue or sign, but he quickly looks at his shoes, as if a great movie was playing on them. This only strengthens my fear and unease. Phil and I are friends! What has happened that would be so horrible that he is ignoring me? The thought that he’s using me as a scapegoat does occur to me, making that cold fear even stronger.

“Excuse me, what is this about?” I ask the two men of the law as we walk towards the break room. “We’ll talk about it once we are somewhere private,” the detective responds in that same stern voice, like I’m a bad child at school and he the teacher. Finally we get into the break room where the table has been cleared except for several small stacks of paper. Seeing this makes me see that these cops have been here for some time, using this space as a temporary office. Odd I hadn’t seen them, but then again, I’m always on the floor, doing my job.

“Alright. Please, sit down,” The detective directs, pointing to a chair across the table. “Now. Do you know a Mrs. Cythnia Rogers?” The detective asks once he is sitting down. It’s now I notice that the other cop hasn’t sat down. He’s standing by the door, as if I’m going to run out any second to escape. “Yeah,” I answer. “Cindy, she’s one of the residents,” I respond. I find this a rather stupid and odd question. Of course I would know Cindy. Everyone here knows Cindy since she is a resident.

“Did you leave in Mrs. Rogers’ room a note that had a picture of a rose plus the words; You looked beautiful in your red dress?” He asks very severely and it takes little imagination to imagine him asking some punk in the same tone, ‘did you kill him?’ I think his question for a moment, seeing how it is such a weird question. I honestly was expecting something about medication or assault or something similar.

“No,” I answer. “Wait,” I quickly say, recalling something. “Yes, I did give her…something,” I say, remembering last week. It takes me a moment to recall all of it. It’s a small little memory, much like recalling if you said good morning to a coworker last week. I take a minute to try and recall all the details.  It was Mr. Nick, last Tuesday. He had mentioned that Cindy was feeling depressed since her kids no longer visited her but once a year. Yes, I remember it now. I remember because he told the story that Cindy told him, about her first date with her husband, when she was 17 and knew he was the one for her. That she wore a red colored dress that she had saved up for and that he had given her a red rose, the most beautiful rose she ever saw, saying that it matched her lips.

Mr. Nick then revealed he had made something during arts and crafts. It was something like a card, with a rose on it and those words in a very pretty writing. I had agreed to put it in Cindy’s room secretly so she wouldn’t know who had done it, thinking it would be a nice surprise. It could be something that she could look at every day. Something that would remind her of good memories.

“That was actually from Mr. Nick and-” I start to explain and am rudely cut off. “So you did. Correct? I want to be clear on that,” the detective demands. “Yes, but it-” I start again in a timid voice but am cut off again. “I know you did because we pulled the surveillance tapes and saw it was you,” the detective reveals, as if this is the piece of testimony that will put Hitler away for life.

“I’m guessing, you knew about what happened to her when she was 17?” The detective states, looking disgusted. “Yeah, to pull a stunt like that, you would,” he adds even more disgusted. “What the hell are you talking about?!” I now yell, very confused and tired of being talked to like I just did something against the law. I put a freaking card in someone’s room? Why is that being treated like murder?

“Mrs. Rogers is dead. Killed herself in her room,” he bluntly states. Stunned I just stare at him, my heart sinking. She’s dead? Wow. I didn’t know that. Killed herself? Impossible. Cindy was such a lighthearted and sweet person. Why on earth would she do something like that?

“S-She k-killed herself?” I ask, not wanting to believe it. “When Mrs. Rogers was 17 and out on a date, a man attacked her and her boyfriend. The attacker brutally raped her, tied her up and then made her watch as he stomped her boyfriend’s head in until it was jelly. He then tossed a red rose at her and left. For years after, the attacker, from jail, would send her letters saying how beautiful she looked in the red dress she wore that night,” the detective reveals very scornfully.

For a moment I really think I’m going to vomit. “I…I…didn’t know,” I say in a half whisper, half groan. Horror, the likes I’ve never felt rises in me. What type of human being would do that to anyone? Oh god. I never knew she had been though something so horrible. How could she go on after that? I don’t know if I could. Then shame and horror are so strong in me that I don’t think they will ever leave, not completely. Oh, what I did. I don’t believe it. I would have never done it if I knew.

“Now tell me what you know of Louis Becker,” the detective demands, his voice almost a growl. “Louis Becker?” I ask. This time it comes to me almost at once. “He was a resident here, but moved out like a month ago. I think with his daughter’s family,” I say, too overwhelmed to say anything but the truth. “Quit playing games!” The detective yells, slamming his fist on the table and making me yelp.

“Tell me about the chocolate!” He demands and for a moment I almost panic. He looks so mean, so angry that he might really reach over and grab my neck. I consider running for the door but see the other cop there. Never before have I felt like a caged animal, but I do now. It’s a feeling that can’t be described. It’s just as bad as feeling helpless.

“C-C-Chocolate?” I stammer, confused. As if in reflex, my brain shoves the memory at me as if in hopes if I tell it, he’ll stop with the anger. “I…put chocolate on his bed sometimes,” I explain. “Residents would chip in for it,” I add. “Why? Why chocolate and not say, bubble gum?” The detective asks as if I’m avoiding the obvious. “I…it’s supposedly his favorite,” I explain but don’t know why I believe that. I must have been told that by someone.

“Is it now?” The detective says and a very snarky smile comes on his face, as if he enjoys all of this. Like he enjoys taunting a fish stuck on the end of a hook. “And why did you leave the note, ‘You deserve this,’ every time you left it in secret?” He asks. “He’s a nice guy, thought it would be a nice thing to do if-” I say but the detective stands up so suddenly his chair falls backward. “Just shut up! Shut up your ugly dirty lies!” He yells, leaning over the desk.

“Don’t give me that crap! You gave it to him to taunt what he did to his son!” He yells and this time I can’t help but fire back. Fear and anger well up to make it so I can’t even think. “What the hell are you talking about?!” I shout back. “Don’t give me that!” He shouts back louder. “Oh, and I love the way you refer to him in the present tense, like you didn’t know what happened,” he says again disgusted.  

“Happened?” I ask, the sick feeling in me welling. “We know everything. We know he accidentally killed his son by giving him a chocolate bar when he was 6,” he says, again looking at me with triumph. Hearing this feels like I’m been punched in the gut and in the face, but the detective hasn’t laid a hand on me. Horrified even more, I sink into the chair feeling like I’ll never be able to breathe again.

“You know damn well that he didn’t know his son was diabetic, or how much candy the kid had eaten that day. They didn’t even know how to test for diabetes back then in his country,” the detective says calmer but still with much scorn. “Since this is your handiwork, I’ll tell you that yes, Louis did ask his daughter if he could visit. For 2 days he repeatedly asked her if she blamed him for the death of her younger brother. In the end, she found her father, in his room, having jammed a damn chocolate bar down his throat to choke to death. And his suicide note? A picture of the boy with the words, ‘I deserve this’ written all over it,” the detective says looking so disgusted that he doesn’t even want to be in the room with me.

“It took me a while to figure out what was happening here,” he goes on, looking much calmer, as if he got out the worst of what he had to say, much like when you throw up you sometimes feel better. “You are slick, and very smart, I have to say that,” he admits begrudgingly. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” I say, but my voice sounds so far away. Just the knowledge that I helped drive these two people to such depths makes me feel so horrible. But I didn’t know. I swear I didn’t.  

“Angela Mctint, died of a heart attack,” he says. “Because someone left a scented candle in her room that night, which triggered an allergic reaction,” he says, holding out one finger to count. “David Winthrop died from a severe epileptic seizure when someone gave him a Golden Girls DVD that was damaged and flashed repeatedly. How about Carly Tompson? Someone replaced her natural hair spray with a cheap store brand one making her die from an asthma attack. You want me to go on?” He asks now, as if I understood what he means, that I’m in on what joke this is.

The feeling of being emotionally punched hits over and over. Angela…yes I knew her. And I knew she died. But we were told it was a true blue heart attack. Yeah, I put that candle in there, but it was from the residents as a birthday gift. And David, I knew he was epileptic, but I didn’t think that DVD was damaged. Someone gave it as a gift. Carly? I had performed CPR on her! I didn’t want her to die! And I didn’t know the hair spray would do that. I only gave it to her because she complained to another resident that her old one didn’t make her hair stay up long enough.

Then it occurs to me what he’s implying. The reason why he’s here and telling me all of this gruesome news. “Wait…you don’t think….you don’t think that I…I did any of that?!” I say, the trapped feeling growing and spreading inside of me. “Now wait a minute,” I say, my voice quivering in true fear. I mean this to come out as a yell but instead it comes out as a scared little girls’ voice confronting the boogeyman.

“We have it all on camera, so spare us,” the detective states, holding up a hand. “We took 6 months’ worth of footage from this place and got over 10 deaths and 4 mental breakdowns linked to you,” he says rather proudly. “Now wait a moment here!” I say standing up, not knowing what to say. This is ridiculous. It has to be a joke. I didn’t hurt anyone! All I did was try to make their world brighter! I didn’t want or would I ever want to kill anyone! No one would.

The next thing I know, I’m slammed down hard from behind, my face slamming against the wood table. The uniformed officer is the one that did it. In my dazed state, I feel my hands being yanked behind me as he recites that oath or speech they do for criminals. I’ve heard it so many times on TV that I don’t expect it to sound the same.

“You made one mistake. That was with Jenna McHearty, my mother. I knew she would never have done something as stupid as eat something with honey since she was deathly allergic to it. Then I examined the tea cup in her room. Then I saw who brought it on the security footage,” he states, his voice full of hatred and pride. “These people may be old, but that’s no reason to off them before their God given time,” he chastises.

I keep trying to find the words to explain what really is going on but the words don’t come out. Now I’m paraded out of the home, in full view of everyone, in handcuffs. I’ve worked here over 12 years. Surely they know me. They know I wouldn’t do anything like what I’m accused of. But everyone turns their head not to make eye contact with me. Everyone doesn’t want to look or even acknowledge that I’m even there.

Then I see Mr. Nick in his wheelchair, still in front of the window. He is the only one that looks at me. Only…he’s doing more than looking at me. He’s smiling. But it’s not a glad you got caught sort of look, but a laughing sort of smile. Like he’s gleeful. Like seeing this is the funniest and most joyful thing he could have ever wished for.

And it all locks into place. Mr. Nick. He was the one that suggested putting that note in Cythnia’s room about her dress. Yes. He was the one that said how depressed she had been looking, and that she loved that dress. God…he was the one that told me how much Louis loved chocolate too. Said that it always made him feel better. And Angela’s candle came from him. He had given it to me, saying all the other residents has chipped in to buy it for her. I remember because he even called it a ‘high, fruity tooty sort of youngster candle’.

I stare at him in shock as he downright laughs at me. Only now do I see that where I thought I saw kind eyes, I see darkness, blacker than tar. Where there was a listening ear is nothing but an ear waiting for weaknesses. Where I thought was a man, is something that doesn’t even have a soul. And as I’m led out, the last thing I see from him is him giving me a small wave as if saying “See ya later alligator!”

“Funny, ain’t it boss?” The uniformed cop says as he makes sure to keep my elbows lifted in the most painful manner. “What’s that?” The detective asks. “She’s pretty, ya know?” The uniform officer says. “Just like the Devil, ya know? As dark and evil as that fella was, you think he’d be a brute monster or something. But he was once the most beautiful of all the angels,” he says right as he leads though the front door.

Beautiful. He’s right. The Devil isn’t some brute of a monster. He’s appears to be beautiful, even now. Beautiful as a sweet kind old man.