Stephen White - Critical Conditions

“Okay.”

I hesitated now. I wanted to cover one additional piece of territory with Sam. And then again, I didn’t. I finally said, “Sam, I think I’ve come up with a motive.”

He was tapping something, the rhythm relentless. “Yes, I know. Me too.”

“Chaney?”

“Chaney.”

“DA has probably figured it out, too.”

“I imagine. Mitchell Crest isn’t stupid.”

“You know, it’s a good motive, but it doesn’t make perfect sense.”

“I know.”

“What about what we talked about last night, Sam? The suicide note? On the little computer? Could Merritt have done that? Right now, they have to be assuming that she wrote that or forced him to write it.”

“That’s a problem. But they’ll manage it, finesse it some way. Watch for something on the five o’clock news. Nobody in the department wants to take the flack they took for the JonBenet case. If they have something good that won’t compromise the investigation, the public’s going to know it.”

Diane Estevez walked, no, strutted, into my office when I left my door open between patients early that afternoon. Her hands were on her hips, and her chin had that mild outward thrust that always made Raoul, her husband, so anxious. Instantly, I guessed what was coming. The story wasn’t in the newspaper yet, so I didn’t know how she could have found out about Merritt’s latest troubles, but I would have given good odds right then that she had. I figured we were about to have an unpleasant conversation about why she didn’t hear about it from me first.

She said, “Well, is it true?”

I nodded.

“This complicates things, you know that?”

Damn right it complicated things. “What do you mean?”

“You know who Edward Robilio is-was-don’t you?”

I was about to impress her with my wisdom. “Yes, Diane, he was the founder and chairman of MedExcel.” MedExcel, I thought, being the in-surance provider who was not bending its own rules to permit cute, adorable little Chaney Trent to receive a potentially lifesaving, albeit highly experimental, and highly expensive, medical protocol.

Her eyes said, “So what?” Her mouth said, “And?”

“And what?”

“You know who his wife is?”

I hadn’t had anywhere near enough sleep. I said, “Mrs. Robilio?”

She took her hands off her hips and took a stride toward me, and I felt that I might be in some physical danger. “Don’t be cute.”

“I’m not being cute. I don’t know what you’re talking about, Diane.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“The custody case that John Trent is doing? With my patient who has a connected wife? Remember? Two kids; the husband’s above average, the wife drinks? I told you about it at lunch at Jax?”

I was totally befuddled now. “Yes, I remember.”

“I told you that his wife’s sister was married to a gazillionaire?”

“Yes.” I recalled the conversation. She had even said “gazillionaire.”

“Well, now, it turns out, thanks to your patient, my patient’s wife’s sister has just been widowed from her gazillionaire.”

“This is too confusing. Give me a name. Your patient is?”

“Call him Andrew. The wife he’s divorcing is Abby.”

“And Abby’s sister is Mrs. Robilio?”

“Yes, Abby’s sister is Mrs. Robilio. And now, if what I’m hearing is true, the daughter of the primary custody evaluator is charged with murdering the husband of the sister of one of the principals.”

It took me about three silent repetitions of everyone’s roles to completely comprehend the connections Diane was sketching. When I did I said, “So I guess that means you win.”

“What do you mean, I win?”

“There’s no way John Trent’s custody recommendation will be accepted by the court now, given his daughter’s involvement in Robilio’s death. The dual relationship problem will eliminate him. You’ll get a fresh eval. You win.”

Her shoulders sagged. “I hadn’t thought about that.”

“Then what were you thinking about?”

“The connection. I was thinking it supported my theory that someone had gotten to John Trent about his recommendations in the custody case.”

“What do you mean?”

“What else could it be?”

“Diane, MedExcel-Robilio’s company-is the insurance carrier that’s refusing to grant permission for Chaney Trent to have that procedure she needs. I’m afraid that gave my patient-remember her, my patient?-Chaney’s sister, a plausible motive to kill Dead Ed.”

“Dead Ed?”

“Dr. Robilio.”

She looked at me as though we were discussing a nickname I’d devised for a potted plant. “You call Dr. Edward Robilio ‘Dead Ed’?”

“It’s kind of tacky, I admit. I picked it up from Sam Purdy. It’s a cop thing.”

She shook her head. “Figures. So, if I’m following you correctly, you say that your patient was thinking, like, okay, what if she killed the guy, then for sure his company would suddenly be more compassionate about investing a few hundred thousand dollars in helping her sister stay alive? Huh? I’m supposed to believe this makes sense? Is your patient retarded, or is she merely suffering some intermittent severe thought disorder?”

“She’s an adolescent, Diane.”

“Adolescents aren’t stupid, Alan. They’re impulsive, they’re mysterious, they’re at times incomprehensible, but they’re not stupid.”

“Who knows what happened at his house? Maybe the shooting was accidental.”

She made a face. “Two…accidental shots from close range? The second one accidentally between the eyes?”

It wasn’t actually between the eyes. I liked that she had some of it wrong. “You’re right. That’s hard to explain.” I desperately wanted to tell her about the suicide note, but Sam would kill me if I let that news get out.

“Of course I’m right.”

“Oh my God!” Involuntarily, I covered my mouth with my hand.

“What?”

“I just realized something.”

“What?”

“The leverage that your patient’s wife’s family had with John Trent.”

“Yes?”

It was one of those rare moments in life when Diane was a step behind me. I relished it for a moment, not wanting to pause too long for fear she would catch up on her own.

“It wasn’t political.”

“Money?”

“No.”

“What?”

“Chaney.”

Kachink, kachink, kachink. I watched her face as the balls tumbled down chutes into their inevitable slots.

She said, “Oh my God.”

I said, “Diane, this is a consultation we’re having. You can’t tell anyone about this.”

She said, “Of course it’s a consultation, Doctor,” as she felt behind her for a chair.

I rearranged my afternoon appointments so I could get to Denver before rush hour clogged the Boulder Turnpike and I-25. Getting Merritt’s admission routine accomplished was going to require some significant time. First I had to meet with her, and then I hoped to find time to interview at least one of her parents. In addition, I had to compose an initial treatment plan and confer with the unit staff. Of course, I also had to complete the rest of the admission paperwork and deal with MedExcel’s institutional reluctance to spend money on psychiatric admissions.

I figured three hours, easy.

The staff at Children’s had settled Merritt into the unit without any fuss. In my initial telephone orders the night before, I had asked them not to pressure her about speaking, and they hadn’t. She had been admitted on the lowest level of privileges-Level One-which permitted her only limited activities, like, say, breathing, without asking the staff for permission. She was, of course, confined to the unit, and was on suicide precautions-all routine for a new transfer after a serious suicide attempt.