I found it ironic that Brenda, a reporter, was out of touch with the news. I had hoped to not have to go into yesterday’s crime scene with her. “Yes, Brenda, there was a shooting. The victim was found yesterday. It’s in today’s papers.”

“I haven’t seen today’s papers. I’ve been with Chaney. The shooting was in Boulder?”

“Yes.”

“Yesterday? Then the timing is wrong. She’s been in the hospital since-I’ve lost track of days-since Saturday, right? I mean, the shooting couldn’t have happened before Merritt took the drugs, could it?”

I thought about the decomposing body of Dead Ed and the air-conditioned study and Sam’s comment about how much more noxious the smell could have been. “I don’t know that the coroner has determined time of death. But the police were thinking sometime Friday. Close enough that it’s impossible to rule out Merritt.”

“No arrests yet?” Her voice seemed to be coming out of a long tunnel.

“Not that I’ve heard about.”

“Who was it? Who was shot?”

“A doctor across town was shot in his own home.”

Her face flushed. “Do you know his name?”

“Yes, I do. His name is Edward Robilio.”

She looked like she’d been slapped. “Oh, my God.” She covered her mouth in her hands. “No! Did you say Dr. Robilio? It can’t be. No, it can’t be.” Her lips pulsed as she expelled another long series of tiny puffs of air.

I misjudged Brenda’s shock over the victim’s identity. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know you knew him.”

She pulled one hand from in front of her face and waved me off, as if we were playing charades and I wasn’t even close to guessing what her pantomime was supposed to mean.

She said, “Dr. Robilio is dead?”

“Yes.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“Murdered?”

“It appears so.”

“Dear God in heaven, I don’t believe it. Merritt, Merritt, Merritt. Oh my dear baby, what did you do?”

“Brenda, what do you mean? Do you know Dr. Robilio? Does Merritt?”

She shook her head and waved her hand as though she could erase the words she had spoken from midair. “Nothing. No, I don’t know him. Merritt doesn’t either. I didn’t mean anything. Nothing.”

I pressed her to no avail.

With the mention of Dr. Robilio’s name, Brenda stopped protesting and didn’t continue to question the wisdom of including Sam in whatever it was that was evolving under her roof. She did make it clear that she wasn’t looking forward to dealing with the repercussions that would rock through the family once Sam became involved.

I placed the call. We moved downstairs to the living room to await Sam’s arrival.

Eleven

Sam arrived no more than ten minutes after I phoned him. He greeted Brenda meekly, awkwardly, from just inside the front door. He didn’t seem to know what to do with his hands.

Her comfort level with him was much higher. She had regained some of her composure and stood up from the sofa and kissed him politely on the cheek before retreating to her cocoon and pulling a big pillow to her abdomen.

He eyed me suspiciously. I expected he still wasn’t quite comfortable with the level of intimate involvement I was having with his family.

I said, “Thanks for coming so quickly, Sam.”

He dismissed me by saying, “Yeah.” He turned his attention back to his sister-in-law. “What’s up that you need a cop, Brenda? Alan said it’s about the girls.” Sam didn’t relate to Brenda what I’d said to him on the phone, that I was afraid Merritt was wrapped up in whatever terrible events had transpired at Edward Robilio’s house.

Sam was wearing his cowboy boots, a pair of jeans, and a flannel shirt the size of a patio umbrella. He had rushed over from home, not from the office. I wondered how, or if, he had explained this errand to Sherry.

Brenda just stared at her brother-in-law, and didn’t seem to know how to respond to his question about why she had wanted him to come over. She looked to me, suggesting it had been my idea.

Which it had. Intent on diffusing the awkwardness and latent antagonism, I piped in, “What she needs, Sam, is…family who just happens to be a cop.”

He kept his eyes on Brenda. He said, “Why? What’s this about? I’ve been trying to help for weeks. Why are you willing to let me in now, Brenda? What’s changed?”

Brenda said, “Sam, I’m sorry you’ve been caught up by…me and Sherry. But this is about Merritt. I’m afraid,” she pointed at me with her chin, “he’s afraid that she’s in trouble. I want your advice, okay? Alan, would you take him upstairs and show him what we found up there? I don’t think I can go through all that again.”

I said, “Of course. Sam?”

He hesitated before he followed me up the stairs. When we reached the landing, I began to explain about the call I had received from Brenda earlier in the evening urging me to come right over, and then I recounted Brenda’s story about rifling through Merritt’s things, hoping to find an explanation for her suicide attempt.

“What did she find? A note?”

“Worse. See for yourself.”

We moved into Merritt’s room. Sam paused at the door and his shoulders sagged. He gazed upon the cozy space as an uncle would, not as a cop would. His eyes were warm and hovered on the basketball tribute wall with silent approval. For him, it was a poignant introduction, another significant step or two into his niece’s life.

He said, “Have to get this girl some hockey posters, what do you think?”

I said, “That would be nice, Sam. Maybe Forsberg, or Ricci, the girls seem to go for them.”

“Yeah. I’ll get her a Forsberg. Maybe I can get it signed. I know some people.”

He hadn’t turned toward the storage case. “Anyway, when Brenda looked under the bed…Sam, do you have gloves with you? Latex gloves?”

“No.” His voice betrayed his increasing concern. “Do I need them? There’s some in the car.”

“You decide.” I pointed at the plastic storage case on the floor by the bed. “Those are Merritt’s things in there. A basketball uniform she uses for practice. Her shoes.”

He lowered himself gracefully and squinted at the contents of the box. He pulled a pen from his shirt pocket and moved a couple of garments with the blunt end.

In one long exhale, he said, “And this is blood. Lots…and lots and lots of blood.”

“Brenda says some of it was still tacky earlier. She fished around in there before I came over.”

“This thing was where?”

“Under the bed, with the lid closed.”

“You know that for sure, or is that what Brenda says?”

“It’s what Brenda says.”

Over the years I’ve learned that when he ponders things, Sam’s breathing grows shallow, and I sometimes find myself straining to see the smallest movement of his chest or back to be certain he is still inhaling. I didn’t see a quake in his muscles before he spoke again half a minute later.

“If you and Brenda thought this was Merritt’s blood all over these clothes, you wouldn’t have called me, would you? There wouldn’t have been a reason to call me. Kids bleed all the time, and ninety-nine point nine percent of the time it’s not a crime.”

Sam was thinking out loud and seemed to be reaching a conclusion that he had been summoned here more as cop than as uncle. His question about the blood had been rhetorical. But I was anxious, so I answered anyway.

“Merritt’s not cut anywhere. Brenda helped sponge-bathe her in the hospital when she was still unconscious. She says she doesn’t remember seeing even a scratch.”

He swallowed. “Menstrual blood?”

I shrugged but he wasn’t looking at me. “Possible, but not likely. Brenda says the underwear that’s in that pile has only a couple of small streaks of blood on it. Take a look yourself.”

He exhaled deeply. “No…thanks, I’ll pass. I think I’ll leave it to someone else to examine my niece’s underwear for evidence of someone else’s blood. Jeez. What does Brenda want me to do? Get the blood tested?”