Critical Conditions

Thirty-two

Sam parked his car in the same fire zone spot in front of the main entrance to the hospital. He was still on the phone with Adrienne.

I wasn’t quite done reading the loose sheets of paper he had given me. From what I could discern from eavesdropping on their conversation, they were role-playing what Adrienne was going to say to the powers at MedExcel to blackmail them into transporting Chaney to Seattle by, let’s say, tomorrow morning. Sam offered Adrienne a few juicy tidbits from his investigation that she could use as sweeteners if they were needed in her argument.

I suspected they wouldn’t be needed. A few minutes earlier, when I had reached Adrienne on Sam’s phone and told her what was up, she was an eager volunteer. She’d made it clear that her strategy would be to plot a devastating ambush on MedExcel, not engage them in a protracted battle. She would be attacking this surgically, as though it were a particularly aggressive bladder cancer.

The notes that I was reading had been taken by the lead detective, Scott Malloy, during an informal interview with Boulder’s coroner, a forensic pathologist. I knew from experience that the findings were preliminary.

Edward Robilio had undiagnosed coronary artery disease and an enlarged prostate. He had multiple polyps in his large intestine and an ingrown toenail on his left foot that was so inflamed it must have made his last few walks around the block pretty painful.

What killed him-the cause of death-were two gunshot wounds, the first “of chest” that missed his heart and major vessels, but clipped his lung and chipped some bone in the spinal column. The wound was, according to the coroner’s assessment, of “vital reaction,” likely a slow but persistent bleeder. In the coroner’s opinion, without competent and timely emergency care, that first wound alone would have eventually been fatal to Dr. Robilio.

The second gunshot wound was “of head,” specifically, a bullet entered Ed’s face just left of his nose and exited, along with a chunk of skull the size of an apricot, behind his left ear. This shot clipped major vessels, turned gray matter into jello and was fatal within minutes.

No surprises.

A copy of the death certificate was stapled to Malloy’s notes. I searched for the coroner’s opinion on manner of death. This category is not the “why” of dying-that’s cause of death. Manner of death is about motivation or intent. Manner of death is the “how” of dying-whether by suicide, homicide, accident, or disease. And with this death certificate on Dr. Robilio, the Boulder coroner was telling his undoubtedly unhappy compatriots in the police department and district attorney’s office that the manner of death on this one was still too close to call. The words were, “Pending further investigation.”

The coroner could rule out accident. He could rule out disease. He could even rule out act of God. But he couldn’t rule out either suicide or homicide. Those manners of death were still on the table.

Malloy’s notes were comprehensive. The gunshots had both been fired from close range, estimated at one to three inches, consistent with suicide, and at angles not inconsistent with either suicide or homicide. Gunshot residue and trace metal detection tests were positive for the victim’s shirt, face, torso, hair, and shoulders. But the victim’s right hand-Dead Ed was right-handed-was so drenched by his own blood that the tests done on it for trace metals were inconclusive. Dr. Robilio’s wounds may have been self-inflicted; there was nothing to indicate he wasn’t holding the gun.

And from a forensic pathology perspective there was nothing to indicate that he was holding the gun.

The coroner raised two other points that Malloy labeled “subjective impressions.” The first was that the deceased may have been so debilitated by the first wound that he would have been physically incapable of firing the second shot, which would indicate homicide, not suicide. And second, psychological data from coroner’s assistant interviews with family and business associates provided no prodromal signs of acute depression or presuicidal activity other than the typed suicide note.

The second document that Sam gave me complicated everything I had just read. It was that typed suicide note, printed out from Ed Robilio’s tiny computer. The note was addressed to no one and was oddly formal in tone. The structure reminded me of a business memo. The note asked that Beth be thanked for her partnership and for bearing their beautiful children. The note expressed sorrow for what Robilio had done and what he hadn’t done. It left instructions on where to find some financial documents that Beth might need.

It was unsigned.

Sam held up the phone and said, “I’m done here. You need to talk to Adrienne anymore?”

“Uh, no. Would you ask her to take care of Emily for me?”

He closed up his phone and said, “She already did. After she turns you in to Dumb Friends, she’s going to start making those calls to MedExcel.”

“Good, Sam. You did a remarkable job in putting this together. You going to tell Brenda and John?”

“You kidding? Why?”

“You’re right, they don’t need to know.”

He recognized my distraction. “So what’s troubling you?”

I held the papers up off my lap. “What is it with Dead Ed? Suicide or homicide?”

“Heads or tails?”

“They really don’t know?”

“Here’s the problem with the suicide theory: Do you know what percentage of suicides use two shots to kill themselves? It’s like one in googoolplux.”

“Googoolplux?”

“It’s Simon’s word for bigger than infinity. And then there’s the little problem of where the hell did the gun go afterwards? I don’t think he drove it over to Merritt’s house in his RV.”

“But the note is good, Sam. It isn’t a garden-variety forgery. No adolescent could write it.”

“No, it’s not. So, if it’s a forgery, it’s a good forgery. One written by somebody with some knowledge, you know. It’s like a note that someone like you, maybe a psychologist type, might write.”

Sam was leaving tracks in the sand. “You’re thinking John Trent?”

“You could do it, right?”

I shrugged. I could do it. So could Sam.

“He could write it, too, then.”

This wasn’t making sense. “Why wouldn’t Robilio have fought back? The gun was so close to him.” I ruffled through the papers with the autopsy impressions on them. The coroner apparently reported no signs of struggle, no defensive wounds.

“Speculation? I’d guess he was paralyzed by the fact that there was a gun two inches from his chest. By the time the second shot was fired he was already too gorked to notice the damn gun was pointing at his face.”

“Let’s go back to motive, Sam. What good does it do Trent? So Robilio’s dead? That isn’t going to help Chaney. May even hurt her.”

“I’m not arguing for a rational state of mind. Rage and retribution are good motives. That’s sufficient at this stage of my thinking.”

“Is that how you’re putting this together? You think Trent went nuts, killed Robilio, and staged everything else?”

He turned suddenly and I tensed. His voice had the chilled hiss of compressed air. “You know something that should make me think otherwise?”

I considered what he was asking. “You won’t misinterpret my answer, Sam?”

“I’ll certainly try not to.”

“No, I don’t know anything that should make you think otherwise. But,” I paused for emphasis, “I have to wonder whether you think he’s ruthless enough to set his stepdaughter up to take the fall.”

“Should I be thinking that he’s that ruthless?”

I reminded myself to be careful. “Cold enough to trade his stepdaughter for his daughter? I think Trent would donate both his lungs to save Chaney. But-gut feeling now, okay?-I don’t think Trent would sacrifice Merritt to save her.”

“So how did the bloody clothes get under her bed? How did the gun end up in her bathroom?”

“Maybe she put them there, Sam.”

“Merritt?”

I shrugged.

“Or…Brenda?” he said.

Did he know something about Brenda? I certainly didn’t, so I didn’t respond to his question. Merritt’s revelations about her visit to Dr. Robilio’s house were hovering close by. I didn’t want to break that trust. “Where did they find the fingernail, Sam? Merritt’s broken nail?”

From the look on his face, I harbored little hope he was going to answer, so I was surprised when he said, “I’ll give you one. A freebie. Master bathroom. Second floor. Below the window.”

“Upstairs?”

“Upstairs.”

“What was she doing upstairs?”

“Funny question. It’s as though you already know what she was doing in the rest of the house.”

Upstairs in the ICU the girls were asleep together in the same bed. Trent was pacing outside in the corridor.

He said, “They went downstairs to talk. Sherry and Brenda. I’m really glad she came.”

I asked, “How are things?”

“Same. Right now, stable feels like a gift.”

Sam said, “You look like you could use a little break, John. Why don’t you take one? I’ll stay close to the girls until the wives get back.”

“Thanks, Sam, I think I will. I could use a little time. I’ll be in the building but I have my pager on. The nurse has the number.”

Sam checked in with the nurse at the ICU and I followed Trent as he shuffled away toward the elevators.

“John, can I have a minute?”

“Sure.”

“You, um, remember anything-I don’t know-additional about your visit to Dr. Robilio’s house that may help me understand things better?”

“Help you how?” His voice was edgy. I’d woken him up a little.

I felt as though I had to choose my reply as carefully as if I were adding a king of hearts to a five-story house of cards. “I’m still trying to understand what she heard, what she saw, you know, something that might have motivated her to go over there that day.”

“She knew how angry I was.”

“Yes?”

“That’s all.”

“That’s all?”

I thought he hesitated, but I couldn’t be sure. “If I think of anything else, I’ll tell you. It’s been a long day, Alan. I’m going to rest a little.”

I wanted to press him, ask him if he was involved in the custody eval for Robilio’s sister-in-law. I couldn’t.

I woke Merritt to take her back upstairs for the night. It took two seconds to rouse her, much longer to calm the adrenaline surge she had upon awakening. She kissed her Uncle Sam on the cheek before mounting a meek protest about returning to the psychiatric unit to sleep.

When we arrived upstairs all the other kids were down for the night. The unit was quiet, surreal. Sometimes I’m surprised that adolescents actually require slumber like other homo sapiens.

A nurse checked Merritt onto the unit, made sure she had eaten.

When they were done with their routine I said to Merritt, “We need to talk some more, come with me.”

She protested, her voice wary. She said, “I’m tired.”

I said, “Too bad, we’re all tired,” and led her to the familiar consultation room.

I sat down and made certain there was an unmistakable edge in my voice as I said, “You’re not being honest with me, Merritt.” I wanted her to find my manner disconcerting.

She sat on the edge of her chair and chewed at her upper lip before she said, “I haven’t lied to you.” The tenor of her words was explanatory, not defensive.

“Well, simply not lying to me is no longer good enough.”

She yawned. “How about tomorrow?”

“No, now. I actually think I’m prepared to sit here all night.”

She huffed, “Screw you, then, you can sit here by yourself.” She stood, reaching for the doorknob. “I’m done talking to you.”

“If that’s the case, you won’t be going back downstairs tomorrow, Merritt.”

She hissed, “You wouldn’t do that.”

I wouldn’t do that, she was right, but she couldn’t be sure. Nor could she know that I had another trump card that I was keeping pressed against my chest. I didn’t respond.

Again, she said, “You wouldn’t?” while she stared at my impassive face. Finally she nodded. “You would, wouldn’t you? You would keep me from seeing her. God, I can’t believe I trusted you.”

“With any luck, your sister won’t be in the ICU tomorrow, Merritt.”

“What do you mean? What’s happening?”

I turned my hands palms-up. “This is a two-way street. I’m not going to do all the talking.”

“What is this, blackmail?”

“Technically, no. Call it leverage. That’s a more pleasant word.”

“I want to call downstairs and talk to my parents. They’ll tell me.”

“I don’t think so. Unit rules don’t allow middle-of-the-night phone calls. I hope your parents and your sister are resting.”

“You jerk.”

“Talk to me, Merritt. Tell me what happened.”

“You want me to just give up, don’t you?”

“Yes, I want you to give up.”

“No! What good is it going to do anybody? Why should I give up?”

I said a silent prayer to the gods who controlled prescience, exhaled, and said, “Because I know about the videotape.”

Ten minutes passed. She disappeared into a cocoon of confusion, or despair, or something. I considered the possibility that I had stunned her back into volitional silence. And I considered the possibility that I was so far off the mark with my speculation that she no longer considered me worth talking to.

She was looking at her feet when she said, “Have you seen it? The tape?”

“Tell me about it.”

“Have you seen the damn thing? Tell me that first. God.”

At that moment, it took all my professional resolve not to walk across the room and take her into my arms and rock her until all her fear and despair dissolved into the night air.

But I sat without moving. I watched without blinking. I didn’t swallow and I wasn’t aware of breathing.

“Do my parents know? At least tell me that.”

“I haven’t told them.”

She blurted out, “It was all Madison’s idea,” and she buried her face in her hands.

I said, “Take your time, Merritt. Take your time.”

She folded her arms and unfolded them. She chanced a glance at me, then away. For a moment she seemed fascinated by her hair. She wiped tear tracks from her face and tried to swallow, but her mouth was too dry.

I didn’t offer her anything to drink.

“You know I didn’t shoot him, right?”

Tell her you hear her, don’t be too committal. “I remember where we left off earlier.”

“I almost killed myself right there. In his house. With the gun. His gun. I picked it up and pointed it at my head.” She extended the index finger of her right hand, cocked her thumb up, and touched her fingernail to a spot an inch above her right ear. “I put it back down once and then I picked it up again. The whole time I was kneeling in all the blood. I was covered in his blood and I could taste it in my mouth from trying to resuscitate him, and I didn’t see any way out of it but to die.”

Years before, in my training, as I listened to the pathos of a young woman who had survived a serious suicide attempt, I enjoyed a revelation that it was one of the only times doing therapy that I would know in advance how the story turned out. I shared my insight with my supervisor. She told me I was wrong. She said, “Don’t be cocky, you don’t know how the story ends. You only know how this chapter turns out.”

I reminded myself of that lesson.

“The phone rang. I screamed. I needed to get out of there. I was still going to kill myself, so I picked up the gun and I ran as fast as I could.” She laughed. “I got outside and I saw that I was covered in blood. And I was carrying a gun. It was all so weird, I mean, think about it. So I stopped in his backyard and took off my sweatshirt and used it to wipe some of the blood off my legs and hands and I wrapped the gun in it and I walked home. A couple of people saw me. I thought they looked at me funny. But they didn’t say anything.”

I sighed, saddened. I wanted to say, “No, Merritt, go back. You’re forgetting to tell me about going upstairs and breaking your fingernail in the bathroom. You’re forgetting to tell me about losing your earring in the Holiday Rambler.”

But I didn’t. Instead, I catalogued the omissions, reminding myself that they were at least as important as the inclusions.

“When I got home, nobody was there. Trent was with Chaney. Mom was at work. I called Madison and told her that he was dead, that it was all over-”

What was all over?

“And that I had his gun and I was going to kill myself with it. But I kept thinking about all the blood and I couldn’t do it to myself. Shoot myself. So I went to Mom’s dressing table and I took all her drugs. Everything. And then I took a shower. I didn’t want his blood on me when I died.

“That’s all I remember until the hospital when I had the tube down my throat.”

She spoke the last line with determination, as if to say, “There, are you satisfied?”

I wasn’t. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why did you take the pills? Why did you want to die?”

She said, “Because I couldn’t save Chaney.” And she managed to say those words with an almost sincere level of conviction. If I didn’t know other things, I would have been likely to believe her.

But I knew other things.

“You said you told Madison ‘it was all over.’ What was all over?”

She was silent.

I said, “This looks like it’s going to be a very long night.”

She muttered, “It already is.”

I closed my eyes and felt a luxurious moment of calm. When I opened them, I said, “Your missing earring?” She flicked a glance at me. “You’ve been wondering where you lost that, haven’t you?”

Her lower lip dropped.

“The earring-the little silver cross?-it was in the Holiday Rambler, Dr. Robilio’s motor home. And the videotape? We haven’t talked much about that yet, have we?”

“You know everything already.”

“This isn’t about what I know. It’s about what you are able to tell me.”

“I don’t get it.”

“I’m a psychologist, not a cop. I care about the facts, but not as much as I care about you.”

A quick couplet of knocks cracked on the door. A nurse poked her head into the room.

“Dr. Gregory? May I have a minute? I think it’s important.”

I left the consultation room door open so I could keep an eye on Merritt. The nurse cupped her hand and whispered, “Detective Purdy called. He said to tell you it looks good. That it’s up to the doctors now. That the docs here at Children’s will talk to the docs in…”-she looked at a pink index card in her hand-“…Seattle in the morning. You know what all that means?”

I nodded, smiling, and thought, Good work, Adrienne.

She said, “Is this about the little girl? Merritt’s sister?”

“Yes. She may be getting a break. Keep it to yourself, okay?”

“Of course.”

“Thanks. Could you please find us something to drink? Something with caffeine for me, something without caffeine for Merritt.”

She was back with two cans of pop in less than a minute. She handed them to me and said, “Good luck in there with her. She’s a tough kid.” I thought I heard some admiration in her words.

I half smiled. “She is that.”