Stephen White - Critical Conditions

“And you pieced the rest together?”

“Yes. We both did.”

“And he told you about the…division between my sister and me?”

“He told me there was a problem, but he didn’t go into any details about it.”

“But you know enough to understand that calling my brother-in-law for help isn’t the most uncomplicated choice that I could make right now?”

“Yes, Brenda, I realize that. But if I were in your shoes-and I admit that it’s hard for me to imagine what your shoes must be like right now-with what we found, I would certainly want Sam to be the first one to look in Merritt’s bathroom and in that box under her bed. If it’s not Sam, it’s going to be some faceless cop who doesn’t care about Merritt. Sam cares. I don’t know how well you know him, Brenda, but I really trust him to know what to do, and to do what’s right.”

Brenda ignored my vote of confidence in Sam. She asked, “Do the police have to know? Do they?” Her voice rose with challenge.

“What do you-?”

“Do they have to be notified? I mean, let’s think about this carefully. Is it a crime to have bloody clothes under your bed? Is it a crime to have a gun in your own bathroom? Why do we have to call the police at all? I don’t see any crimes anywhere. Do you?”

“Are you saying you don’t want the police to know about the bloody clothes and the gun?”

“I’m not sure what I’m saying. What’s the crime here? What do the police need to know? My family is suffering about all we can suffer right now. Actually, I would have said that this morning, but I never imagined…you know, I don’t think I want to invite any more misery on my girls or on Trent. What if I don’t call the police? What if I just throw everything away, get rid of the gun? I’m not obligated to talk to the police.”

“Brenda, do you really mean what you’re saying? Do you realize what the implications would be? You would be destroying evidence.”

Her denial was becoming more palatable to her the more she discussed it. “Evidence of what? Why not? You can’t say anything to anyone. You’re a therapist. What if I just clean everything up, find someplace to dump it? Life goes on with no increase in the misery quotient.”

I wasn’t about to volunteer to be Brenda’s accomplice. “I’m Merritt’s therapist, Brenda. Not yours. And I would have to think about it some more, but I doubt that our conversations here, today, are covered by therapeutic privilege. I’ll be as clear as I can be right now. I strongly recommend calling Sam. Merritt could be in much more serious trouble than you and I imagined earlier.”

Her eyes looked betrayed. “You’ll call Sam even if I don’t?”

I shrugged. “First, I’ll take a few minutes to consider everything that’s happened tonight a little more rationally, but yes, in the end I think I might. The point is that you should call him.”

She seemed to be considering what I said I might do while I was having second thoughts about whether I would actually do it. She nodded twice, assuring herself of something or reminding herself of something.

“I’m…a little out of touch,” she said, managing a self-conscious smile. “With the news, I mean. I’ve had a few little things on my mind distracting me the last few days. I’ve paid no attention to the rest of the world. Is there…has there been something that happened recently, a crime, something specific, that you’re worried Merritt might be involved in? A shooting? I guess I’m asking if there’s been a shooting. Something I should know about, but don’t.”

I found it ironic that Brenda, a reporter, was out of touch with the news. I had hoped to not have to go into yesterday’s crime scene with her. “Yes, Brenda, there was a shooting. The victim was found yesterday. It’s in today’s papers.”

“I haven’t seen today’s papers. I’ve been with Chaney. The shooting was in Boulder?”

“Yes.”

“Yesterday? Then the timing is wrong. She’s been in the hospital since-I’ve lost track of days-since Saturday, right? I mean, the shooting couldn’t have happened before Merritt took the drugs, could it?”

I thought about the decomposing body of Dead Ed and the air-conditioned study and Sam’s comment about how much more noxious the smell could have been. “I don’t know that the coroner has determined time of death. But the police were thinking sometime Friday. Close enough that it’s impossible to rule out Merritt.”

“No arrests yet?” Her voice seemed to be coming out of a long tunnel.

“Not that I’ve heard about.”

“Who was it? Who was shot?”

“A doctor across town was shot in his own home.”

Her face flushed. “Do you know his name?”

“Yes, I do. His name is Edward Robilio.”

She looked like she’d been slapped. “Oh, my God.” She covered her mouth in her hands. “No! Did you say Dr. Robilio? It can’t be. No, it can’t be.” Her lips pulsed as she expelled another long series of tiny puffs of air.

I misjudged Brenda’s shock over the victim’s identity. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know you knew him.”

She pulled one hand from in front of her face and waved me off, as if we were playing charades and I wasn’t even close to guessing what her pantomime was supposed to mean.

She said, “Dr. Robilio is dead?”

“Yes.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“Murdered?”

“It appears so.”

“Dear God in heaven, I don’t believe it. Merritt, Merritt, Merritt. Oh my dear baby, what did you do?”

“Brenda, what do you mean? Do you know Dr. Robilio? Does Merritt?”

She shook her head and waved her hand as though she could erase the words she had spoken from midair. “Nothing. No, I don’t know him. Merritt doesn’t either. I didn’t mean anything. Nothing.”

I pressed her to no avail.

With the mention of Dr. Robilio’s name, Brenda stopped protesting and didn’t continue to question the wisdom of including Sam in whatever it was that was evolving under her roof. She did make it clear that she wasn’t looking forward to dealing with the repercussions that would rock through the family once Sam became involved.

I placed the call. We moved downstairs to the living room to await Sam’s arrival.

Sam arrived no more than ten minutes after I phoned him. He greeted Brenda meekly, awkwardly, from just inside the front door. He didn’t seem to know what to do with his hands.

Her comfort level with him was much higher. She had regained some of her composure and stood up from the sofa and kissed him politely on the cheek before retreating to her cocoon and pulling a big pillow to her abdomen.

He eyed me suspiciously. I expected he still wasn’t quite comfortable with the level of intimate involvement I was having with his family.

I said, “Thanks for coming so quickly, Sam.”

He dismissed me by saying, “Yeah.” He turned his attention back to his sister-in-law. “What’s up that you need a cop, Brenda? Alan said it’s about the girls.” Sam didn’t relate to Brenda what I’d said to him on the phone, that I was afraid Merritt was wrapped up in whatever terrible events had transpired at Edward Robilio’s house.

Sam was wearing his cowboy boots, a pair of jeans, and a flannel shirt the size of a patio umbrella. He had rushed over from home, not from the office. I wondered how, or if, he had explained this errand to Sherry.

Brenda just stared at her brother-in-law, and didn’t seem to know how to respond to his question about why she had wanted him to come over. She looked to me, suggesting it had been my idea.

Which it had. Intent on diffusing the awkwardness and latent antagonism, I piped in, “What she needs, Sam, is…family who just happens to be a cop.”