Stephen White - Critical Conditions

“I’m sorry. Let me get back to my story. I’m snooping, remember? It’s what I do for a living. I snoop, and I’m thorough. I don’t just check the top drawer of the desk and shrug my shoulders. I check everywhere. I’m methodical. I started in her closet, felt down her clothes, looked inside her shoes, opened every box. Then I moved to her desk and examined every piece of paper in every drawer. I felt inside her jewelry box. I turned her daypack inside out and flipped through every book in her bookcase. Nothing.”

I wanted to get on with it. I told myself to be patient. She was explaining something in the way she was telling this story.

“I felt inside her pillows and beneath her mattress and then I looked under her bed. She has three plastic boxes that slide under the bed. You know, for storage? She keeps her sweaters in them during the summer. She really begged me for them. It’s all part of this new compulsive phase. Everything has to be in its place.”

Brenda dropped to her knees and reached behind the plaid dust ruffle. She fished around for a moment and then slid a plastic storage case onto the carpet. The case was clear plastic with an opaque blue lid. It measured about eighteen inches by three feet.

“I didn’t know what to expect, I mean, I don’t know what she keeps in these things when they don’t have sweaters in them.” She flicked open the lid. “Well, imagine my surprise when I discover that what she keeps in them is bloody basketball clothes.”

Brenda changed positions, tucking her knees below her and pulling down her skirt.

I lowered myself to a crouch and leaned forward to examine the case.

A gray practice uniform with Boulder High School’s insignia, underwear, a sports bra, socks, and some black and white Nike basketball shoes were thrown in a jumble into the storage case. Rusty bloodstains were on everything. In some places the stains ran amber, almost red. The aroma was metallic.

“I touched them. It’s still a bit tacky in places. The blood, it’s pretty recent, I think.”

I tried to make sense of what I was seeing, of the clothes and the blood. “Brenda, I don’t remember ever seeing anything in the hospital chart. Had Merritt been cut someplace?” I recalled images of Merritt in the ICU and wondered if I could have failed to notice linear slashes on her slender wrists.

“No. She’s not injured. I helped bathe her in the hospital when she was still unconscious. She’s not cut anywhere, I’m sure of it. I suppose it could be menstrual blood, but I don’t even want to think about how that might have gotten all over her clothes. There’s only a few streaks of blood on her panties, so it doesn’t really make sense that it’s from her period.”

“Is it just clothes in there, in the case? Nothing else?”

“I think so, clothes and shoes. I didn’t take everything out. After it registered what I was seeing, I shoved it back under the bed and called you. What should we do? Should we pack it all up and take it to the hospital and confront her with it? See if that will make her talk?”

“Let’s think this through, Brenda. Right now, I’m not sure what to do. I guess we need to know if it’s her blood. Does she get in fights?”

“No. Merritt’s the family peacekeeper. She believes in unilateral disarmament. I think it’s part of her rebellion against me and my assertiveness.”

“She hasn’t mentioned any problems with friends lately, nothing at school?”

“No.”

“Has she shown any interest in cults, ritual-”

“No, absolutely not.”

The amount of blood screamed serious injury. “Does she carry a knife?”

“Not that I know of. I didn’t find one in her backpack. I suppose that’s where she would keep one.”

An honest answer. Many parents, maybe most, would have steadfastly denied their daughter carried a weapon. Brenda was apparently willing to acknowledge that every adolescent guards some secrets and has some private places that may be as dark as an executioner’s heart.

“Wait,” I said, “Adrienne-the urologist in the ER? She found blood in Merritt’s urine, right?”

“Her urine was pink, that’s all. Dr. Arvin said it could be nothing more than a basketball injury. Not serious enough for this.” She waved her hand at the bloody clothing.

“Is there blood anywhere else in the house? In the yard? Any sign that things were cleaned up? I guess I’m wondering where this happened.”

“I haven’t noticed anything. But I don’t think I’ve been in the yard since March. Since Chaney first got sick. That’s Trent’s domain, the yard.”

“Well, if some of the blood is really not dry, this certainly may be related to whatever caused her to try to kill herself.”

“I know that. I have no idea how long they’ve been here. Putting wet clothes in this case is like sealing them in a plastic bag.” Brenda suddenly sounded despairing. She stood. I felt as though she had expected some breathtaking insight from me and I was letting her down.

I, too, raised myself from my crouch. “Is this where she was found? After the suicide attempt?”

“No, the EMTs told the doctors she was in the bathroom. It’s next door, through there. Chaney and Merritt share that bath.” She crossed her arms and raised her chin before she continued. “Let’s think about what all this could mean. It could be animal blood, right? There’s that possibility. Or it could be something she found, like from a medical laboratory or a blood bank? That seems unlikely, though. She’s smart enough not to touch that. Or it could be intestinal blood, she could have been vomiting blood, right? That’s possible, too. I can check with Dr. Klein on that. He’ll know if she was bleeding internally, although he never mentioned anything to me, which is odd. It’s worth asking, though…”

She paused as she watched me bend back over the open storage case. The sole of the left Nike was turned up. I wanted to look at the tread.

Brenda asked, “What? What are you looking at?”

“I want to see if there’s blood on the bottom of the shoes.”

“Why?”

“I’m still wondering whether she wore them home bloody or whether this-whatever this is-happened here.”

“And?”

“It looks like there’s blood dried inside the treads, but not on the surface.”

“So this happened someplace else?”

“That would be my guess, but I’m no expert.”

“What difference does that make?”

“I’m not sure.”

I stepped toward a closed door across the room. “Is this the bathroom, Brenda? The one where she was found?”

“Yes.”

I pushed open the door. The bathroom had a vanity on either end with connecting doors that separated off a communal section with a tub and toilet. I didn’t see any evidence of dried blood. Certainly not evidence of the amount of blood that was on Merritt’s clothing.

Only one used towel was hanging in the center section of the bathroom. Chaney hadn’t been sharing the bathroom with her big sister lately. I visually checked the dark green towel for blood, but couldn’t be sure of what I was seeing.

I said, “She had to bathe. I mean, to get that much blood off before she took the pills, she had to bathe.”

Brenda replied, “Yes, I’m sure she did. There would be residue on the tile or in the drain, wouldn’t there? Can’t they do chemical tests for that?”

“They can,” I said, considering how much O.J. had changed our society. “Where was she when the paramedics came?”

“Right there, on the floor, between the bathtub and the toilet.”

I continued to look around the narrow bathroom as though discovering evidence that Merritt had showered away the blood would tell me something new and important. If I were covered in blood, what would I do first? I decided that I would wash my hands.