The Trent/Strait household occupied a two-story cedar and shake affair that, with the exception of the distinctive basketball hoop in the driveway, and the key and free throw line that had been painted meticulously on the concrete in canary yellow paint, looked just like a third of the other houses on the block.
The yard showed signs of recent neglect, not surprising given the circumstances in the family. Newspapers that had been tossed up the walk littered the base of the low privet hedge that led to the front door.
I parked my car on the street. I was halfway up the path when the garage door began to slide in its tracks. Brenda called, “Dr. Gregory? Over here. Why don’t you come in this way?”
Brenda was dressed for work. I couldn’t tell whether she was coming home from the station or going to the station. I made a mental note to check out one of her reports on Channel 7. Her hair was just so and her makeup was fresh and applied without sufficient restraint. Her avocado business suit was tight across her bosom and hips. She had kicked off her shoes and was standing on the concrete pad in her hose.
“Hi, Brenda.”
“Thanks for coming. Maybe calling you wasn’t the smartest thing in the world, but I didn’t know what else to do. Maybe I should have called Trent first, but he’s with Chaney and I didn’t want him to leave her. And for this he would have left her. Follow me, this way.”
She walked me through a kitchen that looked like a museum of takeout containers from Boulder’s franchise restaurants, down a short hallway, and upstairs to a wide landing. Outside a closed door, she stopped, took a deep breath, and said, “Here’s what happened, what, an hour ago, is that all it was? This is Merritt’s room, and I was snooping. I admit it. Merritt can’t stand it when Trent or I go in her room. We respect that. Usually, anyway, we respect that. But today I was snooping. I was looking for a diary, although I’m embarrassed to admit I don’t even know if she really keeps one. This whole suicide thing doesn’t add up to me. Yes, Merritt’s upset about her sister. Yes, Merritt’s been neglected lately. Yes, she has plenty of reason to be depressed. But suicide? Sorry, I figure there has to be something more. My best guess was that there’s a boy someplace that I don’t know about. I called her friend, Madison, to ask her but she hasn’t returned any of my calls since…you know. And Merritt still won’t say a damn word to me, or anybody else for that matter. Has she started talking with you?”
I shook my head.
“Didn’t think so. So I make the fateful decision that I’ll snoop a little, see if she has love notes from Troy or doodles about Todd or whomever. It’s a long shot; she’s not that into boys, but…who knows, maybe I might get lucky and find a diary she’s been keeping with a long explanation for why she did this.”
Brenda still hadn’t opened the door.
“But you found something else instead?”
She turned the knob.
Facing me on the far wall were basketball posters. Grant Hill. Antonio McDyess. Sheryl Swoopes. The biggest poster on the wall was of the victorious USA women’s Olympic basketball team.
To break the ice, I said, “She really likes basketball, doesn’t she?”
Brenda wasn’t above a sarcastic retort. “Pretty perceptive of you, Doctor. Yes, basketball is her passion. She plays forward for Boulder High. It’s been good for her, helps her feel okay about being so tall.”
Maybe if I walked into the bedrooms of a hundred different adolescent girls I would have a better idea of what to expect. But I haven’t, and I didn’t. This bedroom seemed normal enough. A four-poster double bed with a Battenburg lace comforter and a few stuffed animals seemed to be the room’s solitary altar to femininity. A tiny bedside table held a clock radio and a stack of vigorously thumbed copies of Seventeen and Sports Illustrated and a paperback horror novel by John Saul that looked like it had been read more than once.
On the wall between the bedposts was an elegantly framed poster of the Nike “If you let me play” advertisement. It made me smile.
Behind where I was standing, the double closet doors were plastered haphazardly with rock ’n’ roll memorabilia and posters. Merritt seemed to be into Beatles-era oldies, Phish, and Alanis Morrisette. A pile of CDs the size of a loaf of bread was stacked next to a boom box that sat on top of a cherry trunk under the room’s only window.
Merritt kept her space neat. A pair of leggings had been swung over a club chair, but everything else was put away in drawers or on shelves.
“Is she always this tidy?”
“She wasn’t back in Kansas. This compulsive phase started when we moved here. We haven’t had to bug her about her room since she took over this space.”
“Impressive,” I said, while I wondered what else Merritt had been doing to cope with the stresses she’d experienced after the family move to Boulder. “You know, Brenda, I’m at a real disadvantage right now. I don’t know what I’m supposed to be seeing. Is there something out of place, or something missing? What am I supposed to notice?”
“I’m sorry. Let me get back to my story. I’m snooping, remember? It’s what I do for a living. I snoop, and I’m thorough. I don’t just check the top drawer of the desk and shrug my shoulders. I check everywhere. I’m methodical. I started in her closet, felt down her clothes, looked inside her shoes, opened every box. Then I moved to her desk and examined every piece of paper in every drawer. I felt inside her jewelry box. I turned her daypack inside out and flipped through every book in her bookcase. Nothing.”
I wanted to get on with it. I told myself to be patient. She was explaining something in the way she was telling this story.
“I felt inside her pillows and beneath her mattress and then I looked under her bed. She has three plastic boxes that slide under the bed. You know, for storage? She keeps her sweaters in them during the summer. She really begged me for them. It’s all part of this new compulsive phase. Everything has to be in its place.”
Brenda dropped to her knees and reached behind the plaid dust ruffle. She fished around for a moment and then slid a plastic storage case onto the carpet. The case was clear plastic with an opaque blue lid. It measured about eighteen inches by three feet.
“I didn’t know what to expect, I mean, I don’t know what she keeps in these things when they don’t have sweaters in them.” She flicked open the lid. “Well, imagine my surprise when I discover that what she keeps in them is bloody basketball clothes.”
Brenda changed positions, tucking her knees below her and pulling down her skirt.
I lowered myself to a crouch and leaned forward to examine the case.
A gray practice uniform with Boulder High School’s insignia, underwear, a sports bra, socks, and some black and white Nike basketball shoes were thrown in a jumble into the storage case. Rusty bloodstains were on everything. In some places the stains ran amber, almost red. The aroma was metallic.
“I touched them. It’s still a bit tacky in places. The blood, it’s pretty recent, I think.”
I tried to make sense of what I was seeing, of the clothes and the blood. “Brenda, I don’t remember ever seeing anything in the hospital chart. Had Merritt been cut someplace?” I recalled images of Merritt in the ICU and wondered if I could have failed to notice linear slashes on her slender wrists.
“No. She’s not injured. I helped bathe her in the hospital when she was still unconscious. She’s not cut anywhere, I’m sure of it. I suppose it could be menstrual blood, but I don’t even want to think about how that might have gotten all over her clothes. There’s only a few streaks of blood on her panties, so it doesn’t really make sense that it’s from her period.”
“Is it just clothes in there, in the case? Nothing else?”
“I think so, clothes and shoes. I didn’t take everything out. After it registered what I was seeing, I shoved it back under the bed and called you. What should we do? Should we pack it all up and take it to the hospital and confront her with it? See if that will make her talk?”