Stephen White - Critical Conditions

John Trent did, of course. “Oh, I think they’ll approve the admission, Dr. Gregory. Her suicide attempt was potentially lethal, so the inpatient stay is indicated. They won’t argue that. And I think MedExcel will eat a thousand dollars a day in inpatient costs just so they don’t have to take the public relations flogging they would get for turning our family down a second time. The policy allows twenty-one days of approved inpatient care. They’ll give us that and they’ll hope the problem goes away before then.”

“I hope you’re right, John.”

“It’s a cynical point of view. That alone makes me think I’m right.”

Brenda was heading to Channel 7’s studios to tape a piece about lax inspections at highway scales. John was going back upstairs to be with Chaney. We said good-bye, and as I waited for the elevator I wondered how I would cope with the latest assault that the Trent/Strait household had suffered and decided that finding honor in my teenage daughter’s arrest for murder would be relatively adaptive.

I had tossed it around a lot already and could fathom no motive for what Merritt was accused of doing other than to protect Chaney’s welfare.

There was honor there. At least in the motive.

So what was troubling me? Something didn’t feel right about the meeting with Brenda and John.

The elevator arrived. I entered with a crush of employees and a couple of distraught-looking parents who were holding hands with a young boy of around seven.

The mother had a twangy voice that caused her words to bounce around the elevator. She was impossible to ignore. She said, “We’re so proud of you, honey. You acted like such a big boy down there.”

Her words clanged through my reverie. And suddenly I knew what had been troubling me. Brenda and John weren’t just rationalizing Merritt’s actions as being honorable.

They were proud of her. If Merritt had done this, her parents were proud of her. Maybe not of what she had done. But at least they were proud of why she had done it.

That’s what was so troubling.

The Children’s Hospital in Denver seems to remodel and renovate its facilities more often than Martha Stewart changes her sheets. I had climbed an unfamiliar staircase, nothing was the way I remembered it from previous visits, and I managed to get lost on my way to the psychiatric unit. My journey took me past a ward of glassed-in, vestibule-fronted isolation rooms that were intended to protect the world from children with contagious illness, and vice versa. Maybe half of the rooms were occupied by patients. And maybe half of those patients had their televisions turned on. In one room, the last one in the row, the familiar visage of Mitchell Crest filled the television screen and stopped me in my tracks.

From my position in the corridor, I couldn’t hear what Mitchell was saying, but I guessed that it was all too likely that his appearance on the news had something to do with Merritt’s plight. Knowing him and knowing the Boulder DA’s office through Lauren, I guessed that Mitchell would, at least initially, be circumspect with the press and not reveal Merritt’s identity. She was a minor, and early in an investigation her identity was protected by Colorado law. If he chose to charge her, and especially if he chose to charge her as an adult, Merritt’s identity and photograph would become fair game.

Mitchell Crest was a wise choice for the press conference; he would leave a good impression with the public. His manner was so forthright and honest you almost wanted to trust him.

At the conclusion of the clip, Mitchell’s mouth closed and his face dissolved into a commercial so fast that it actually appeared to me that a Camaro had driven out of his mouth. I walked back in the direction I had come and checked the television in the adjoining room. No Mitchell; just another commercial. This time Jake Jabs was encouraging everyone in Denver to buy a houseful of furniture from his stores, apparently because he was already rich enough to own his own zoo. I didn’t get the connection, never had.

Sam had warned me to keep my eyes on the news for updates on Merritt and Dead Ed, and he’d been right on. I was dying to know what Mitchell Crest had said during his news conference, so I renewed my quest for the adolescent psych unit in search of another TV.

The television in the psychiatric inpatient unit dayroom was turned to MTV. I was grateful for Sheryl Crow. Merritt was sitting by herself, off to the side of a group of kids. She was half on, half off a huge green beanbag chair, looking restless. She wasn’t handling the remote control, and I could only guess how badly she wanted to be watching the local news instead of MTV.

I asked one of the mental health counselors where I could find another television besides the one the kids were watching in the dayroom.

“You catching up on the soaps?” he asked.

“No, actually, I’m afraid my new patient might be on the news.”

“The quiet one?”

“Yes. Merritt.”

“Is it about her sister? I didn’t hear anything.”

“No, I think it’s about her.”

He led me to a room the staff used as a lounge. I flicked on a small black-and-white TV and started dancing through the local channels, hoping to catch a repeat of Mitchell Crest’s performance.

After five minutes of channel-surfing, I found what I was looking for on a “Top Stories” update on Channel 9. The camera angle was wider than the one I had seen earlier; in fact, it was wide enough to show that Mitchell Crest had been flanked at the press conference by Detective Scott Malloy and the Public Information Officer for the city, a woman whose name I always forgot. I recognized the setting as the wide corridor that ran on the north side of the courtrooms inside the Justice Center on Canyon Boulevard.

Around the DA’s office, Mitchell was a loose-collar, rolled-up-sleeves type of guy. For the media, he was buttoned down, Windsor-knotted, and double-breasted. I had apparently missed his opening remarks. What I heard was, “…pleased to announce that, as a result of a thorough investigation by the Boulder Police Department, we have identified a suspect in the recent murder of Dr. Edward Robilio. The suspect is an adolescent-a minor-whom we expect to bring into custody in the near future.” He turned and whispered something to Malloy as he waved off a couple of questions shouted at him from off-camera. Again facing the camera and the microphone, he said, “The suspect is not, repeat, not a flight risk; we know her current location and we are monitoring her movements closely while we develop further evidence in the case. Flight is absolutely not a concern to us at this time.”

The assembled reporters went nuts at the least bit of information. “Her?” they shouted, almost in unison. “It’s a girl?”

Then, “How young? Mr. Crest, Mr. Crest, how old is she? What’s her age? What’s her name?”

Mitchell Crest didn’t respond, and the follow-up questions peppered at him blended together on the soundtrack to sound something like a canary being attacked by a cat. Mitchell popped off screen, this time without the Camaro in his mouth.

The in-studio anchor segued to a story about farm gangs in Larimer County, and I flicked off the television. I didn’t want to know what farm gangs were or what they were doing in Larimer County.

Behind me, I heard muffled sobs.

I turned to find Merritt standing at the entrance to the lounge, holding the doorjamb with both her hands, one neck-high, one at midthigh, staring at the gray-green tube, oblivious to my presence.

I said, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Merritt. I didn’t know you were there.”

I expected her to run. She didn’t. She released her grip on the doorjamb and continued to stare at the TV as though she hated it.