Stephen White - Critical Conditions

And this is the Strait Edge.

Sam, Cozy, and I were still in Merritt’s bedroom. Sam gazed toward the bathroom for a few seconds, nodded twice, and said, “I have to go bring them up to speed. You two shouldn’t be in here alone, you know? You actually shouldn’t be here at all. My sergeant’s going to string me up for not sealing this room.” He made sure my eyes found his before he took a step.

He wanted me to acknowledge that his message had been received. I nodded.

Cozy stopped him. He said, “Detective?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for the referral.”

Sam snorted, “Don’t mention it, Mr. Maitlin. I mean that literally: Don’t mention it. And don’t make me regret I made it.”

Sam was already down the stairs when I said, “Sam was telling me that the serial number is a match, Cozy. The gun belongs to the guy Sam was talking about before-Dead Ed. You read about it? He was shot over the weekend. Edward Robilio. He’s a doctor.”

Cozy responded impatiently, “Yes, yes, I know who he is. But calling Edward Robilio a doctor is like calling Bill Gates a programmer. If this kid-I’m sorry, what’s her name, Merrill?”

“Merritt.”

“If she is involved in that shooting, and it certainly sounds like Sam thinks she is, I need to get someone over to the hospital right away and make sure she doesn’t say anything to anybody. This is quickly going to become complex.”

“Why?”

“Because of Edward Robilio. He founded MedExcel ten, eleven years ago. It’s become a major regional health care provider. Exclude Kaiser, and he’s probably the biggest player in the state in managed health care. He stands to make tens of millions of dollars when his company is sold.”

“I didn’t know he was so prominent. I’d heard he was in the insurance business, but I don’t usually pay attention to such things.”

“Lawyers do.”

“Well, I don’t think you have to worry about Merritt talking, Cozy. Not her, not now.”

“You said she’s recovering, right? If she’s awake, she can talk. She’s awake?”

“Yes, she’s awake. But you don’t have to worry about her talking.”

“Why not?”

“Cozy, just accept you don’t have to worry about it, okay?”

Half-jokingly he asked, “Is she mute?”

I looked away.

He said, “She’s mute? Not talking at all, that kind of mute?”

“I think I can tell you that at least physically, she is able to talk.”

“But she’s not talking? She’s volitionally silent?”

I was as mum as my patient.

Cozy said, “Totally silent?” Then he frowned. “Gosh, what a gift. Finally, the client of my dreams.”

Cozy and I drove across town in my Land Cruiser. He asked questions. I answered or deflected.

He waited in the hall while I walked into Merritt’s hospital room. She was dressed in yellow leggings, white socks, and a T-shirt. This T-shirt said XPLOSION. She had raised the head of the bed past forty-five degrees and was staring at the nine o’clock news on the tube. Channel 2. A pile of newspapers carpeted the sheets near her feet.

I excused the nurse who was providing one-to-one. She seemed thrilled at the chance to get out of the room.

“Merritt, hello. I’m sorry to stop by without calling. May I sit?”

Because it was to my advantage, I took her shrug to mean “yes” and lowered myself into the vinyl-covered chair where the nurse had been sitting. The chair felt too good; I was exhausted.

Before I could speak again, Merritt startled me by standing up.

I had never seen her vertical. I popped back out of the chair as though I were performing in a final exam for a Ph.D. in etiquette. She stood, confused, about three feet away from me. She and I both realized that I was blocking her path.

This would have been a great time for her to talk, maybe say something like, “Get out of my way.” Anything to break the ice. Instead, she pointed at the door that led to her bathroom and I realized that she thought I had stood up to keep her from running.

I blushed and stepped aside so she could pass. She disappeared into the bathroom and closed the door.

Merritt was tall. As she passed by me I realized that although she was only a couple of inches shorter than me, as long as her legs were, they were still way too short for the rest of her body. She had broad swimmer’s shoulders and small, defined breasts, but her hips and buttocks had just started to round. I was reminded of watching puppies grow into their paws, and decided that if Merritt were to grow into that extended torso, she would top out at six-two, easy.

The toilet flushed and water splashed into the sink. Merritt stepped back out of the bathroom and chanced a quick glance my way. She shuffled a step forward as I took one more back. Behind her I could see Cozy Maitlin pointing at his new client’s back and then at his watch.

She settled onto the bed. I pulled forward on the chair.

“Merritt, there’s something I need to tell you. It’s very important. Could you please turn off the television for a minute?”

I immediately recognized that I had shocked her unnecessarily. I watched panic roll into her eyes and settle into her expression. She was expecting bad news about her sister.

Her lips, parted at rest, closed into a tight line. She swallowed.

I waited one second and said, “No, it’s not about your sister.”

She raised her chin and seemed to force a deep exhale. Her shoulders dropped. But she still didn’t relax. I wished right then that I’d paid more attention when people talked about body language during graduate school.

“The TV? Please.”

She pecked a button that muted the sound but left the picture intact. It was a concession on her part and it was good enough.

“Your mother called me to your house tonight, a couple of hours ago. Your stepdad is in Denver with your sister and she didn’t want to upset them. She wanted me to come over because…she found a plastic storage case under your bed-the one with the bloody clothes and shoes in it-and she didn’t know what to do. She wanted someone else to see it.”

I almost laughed at the exasperated face that Merritt made in response to my grave announcement.

I was left to guess what it meant and I guessed that she was aggravated that her mother had been snooping in her room. The discovery of the bloody clothes was secondary or irrelevant to her.

“There’s more, Merritt. After I got there, I went into your bathroom looking for more blood. I discovered the gun that was in the pile of towels by the sink.”

She opened her mouth and wrinkled up her nose, which was tiny and upturned, the end barely the size of the knuckle on my pinky, and made a quizzical cluck from the back of her throat as if to say, “What? You found what?”

I noted her surprise. “Your mom and I talked about what to do. Your Uncle Sam came over-your mom called him.”

Her mouth opened farther and her eyes were as wide as I’d yet seen them.

I said, “It was my idea, calling Sam-your uncle.”

She rolled her eyes. Duh.

“Sam took a look at your room, at the clothes, and at the gun. He made a couple of calls to some forensic people at the police department. The serial number on the gun in the bathroom matches one that is missing from the scene of a murder that took place late last week in Boulder. Now everyone is afraid that you might be implicated somehow.”

Merritt’s face grew sad. I was perplexed as she tried to force a small grin, but when she did the corners of her mouth turned down instead. It was the closest thing I’d seen to a smile from her.

“The police are at your house right now, examining the bloody clothes and the gun, and…looking around for other evidence. Your Uncle Sam and your mother and I all thought that…because of what was found, that you might be in trouble and that you might be needing a lawyer. The one who Sam wanted for you, the best one in town, is here with me, out in the hall, and he would very much like to meet you. His name is Cozier Maitlin. I’m sure it would be fine with him if you call him Cozy.”