Stephen White - Critical Conditions

“I just saw him in there. I don’t think he’s quite done inside.”

“I’ll wait, I guess. Who’s the dead doctor?” I was afraid it was someone I knew.

He furrowed his brow, snapped his finger. “Edward Robilio. Dr. Edward Robilio.”

I shrugged. I had never heard the name. “I don’t know him. Does he practice here in town?”

“I only knew him as Ed from the homeowners’ association. He’s the past president, ran the meetings like a parliamentarian from the Weimar Republic. He had this obsessive thing about wanting to revoke the covenant that prohibits parking an RV on your own property in the neighborhood. He owns this cream-and-peach-colored Holiday Rambler that’s the size of a Greyhound bus. But yes, he’s a physician, although I don’t think he practices anymore. He’s a businessman of some kind. Something to do with health insurance.”

“I’m sorry if I was flippant, Mitchell. I didn’t know you knew him.”

“It’s all right. We were acquaintances, not friends. I actively supported keeping the RV parking ban. Ed took that personally, figured it made me a jerk.”

“What exactly is a Holiday Rambler? That’s an RV, like a Winnebago?”

Mitchell smiled. “Not exactly. Hearing you say that would probably make Ed turn over in his grave, if he was in one yet. Apparently, Ford is to Mercedes-Benz as Winnebago is to Holiday Rambler.”

“I don’t see one around anywhere. I take it your position on the parking ban prevailed?”

“Yes, we won. Dr. Robilio was forced to move his pride and joy up to his ranch in the mountains.”

I tilted my head toward the house. “So, was this a suicide?”

“Suicide? You thinking maybe he was that distraught about the parking ban? Hardly. It looks like he’s dead by gunshot. But there’s no weapon on the scene. You can try real hard, but it’s difficult to make that look like suicide. Maybe not impossible, but certainly difficult.”

“What are you guessing? That the killer screwed around with the scene?”

“Let’s just say the scene is complicated.”

“But the shot was in the man’s mouth?”

He eyed me. “Yes, it was. Close, anyway. How did you know about that?”

I didn’t want to point a finger at the patrolman with the clipboard. “Somebody at the perimeter said that the deceased ate his gun.”

Mitchell seemed to be thinking of how to respond. Finally he said, “It may be true, about him eating his gun. If it is, though, it looks like it was a case of force-feeding. Who knows, maybe he literally ate it and we’ll get it back on autopsy. That would be a first.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “That’s not funny. Sorry. Keep all this to yourself. If any of those reporters stop you, and they will, just ‘no comment’ them, okay?”

“I know the drill, Mitchell.”

Right then the wind shifted, or someone opened a window somewhere in the house, creating a crosswind or something. But I was almost bowled over by a blast of air so fetid and distinctive that I had no trouble recognizing its source.

Mitchell smelled it, too. He smiled at my reaction. “Dr. Robilio’s been dead awhile. Smell wasn’t bad until they started moving him around. Lauren’s lucky she’s out of town. When rich doctors die by gunshot, prosecutors on the felony team don’t tend to get too much sleep. Say hi to her for me. Her mother’s doing…?”

“Her mom’s stable. Thanks for asking.”

“And Lauren’s feeling okay, I hope?”

“Yes, Mitchell. She’s well-fine.” Lauren would despise the fact that everyone asked about her health as though she were an invalid. She would hate it. I wouldn’t tell her.

I declined Mitchell’s offer to take me inside to Sam.

Maybe five minutes later, he found me where I had parked my butt on a lacquered teak bench behind an entryway pillar about the diameter of a giant sequoia. The bench was flanked by large cement statues that looked like artichokes.

“I heard you were here, Alan. Been waiting for you to come inside and act nosy.”

“This is more pleasant. It’s a nice evening, I can smell the lilacs. The alternative aroma where you’ve been hanging out isn’t so pleasant.”

“Vic is ripe now, I’ll give you that. Friday’s mail was picked up, Saturday’s paper was still on the driveway, so it looks like he’s been fermenting since Friday afternoon or Friday night. Though I think I’m getting immune to the smell. It’s the bugs that make my skin crawl and he doesn’t have any. Why is that, do you think?”

“You mean, why aren’t there any flies on his body?”

“No, I mean, why do I hate bugs on dead people?”

I shrugged. Analysis of Sam’s necro-insect phobia could wait for another time. I was glad I was outside.

“The smell could have been much worse-air conditioner was on when his wife found him around noon. She’d been gone all weekend. If the air had been off, whoa, I don’t even want to think about it.”

“I talked to Scott Truscott and Mitch Crest already. Sounds like quite a puzzle inside.”

“They filled you in?”

“You know Scott. He was discreet. Mitch told me a little more.”

“It is a confusing scene. But my part is done for tonight. I’m just a dwarf on this one, fortunately. Malloy is playing the role of Snow White for now. But I bet the sergeant, maybe even the chief, will be on it like white on rice.”

“Which dwarf are you, Sam?”

He smiled. “Sherry says that depending on my mood, I’m all the dwarfs, all seven of them. Though she thinks there should be nine in all, that Snow White should add Farty and Horny to the menagerie.”

“Do you have to go write this up before the game?”

“No, I’ll do that after.” He looked at his watch. “We still have a little time before we have to hit the road. Do me a favor before we go. Take a look inside. Tell me if anything strikes you.”

“Sam…I really don’t want-”

“Don’t whine, Alan. Be flattered by my faith in you. Come on. I just want an initial impression. I can impress my sergeant by showing him what a humanist I am, involving the mental health profession and all.”

“Sam, you always say you just want me to have a look. Then there’s always something else. And then before I know it, I’m knee deep in police shit.”

He ignored my protest and held out a hand to help me up from the bench. “Sometimes there’s shit. Not today, though. A lot of blood and some dried urine, but no shit.”

I admit to being overwhelmed by proximate murder. I don’t easily find my bearings. The stimuli seem to rush at me from five different directions at once. Smells, sounds, and new things to see, all blend together in a cacophony that I don’t filter against well.

I don’t do so well at cocktail parties, either.

I barely noticed the details of the fancy house we were in before Sam’s voice intruded. “Hey, hey, try not to touch that banister. The CSI’s cleared a path for us but they’ll be lifting latents all night. This place is big. You want gloves?”

“No. I’m fine, I’ll be fine,” I said, stuffing my hands in my pockets as I followed him downstairs. The foot of the stairs faced some large sliding glass doors, a big yard, a pool, and a lot of prairie.

“Over here.”

Across the big room, two crime scene techs were packing up their gear outside a door that opened into a wood-paneled room. Numbered evidence tents were scattered across the entire basement. A colleague was dusting the glass on the sliding doors. Another was on her hands and knees just outside the doors doing something my quick glance couldn’t decipher.

Sam stood next to the doorway across the room. “This way. Go ahead, go inside. Go, go. It’s harder if you hesitate. Dive in, go.”