Deathbed

13

It was one of those days when Detroiters felt lucky to get where they were going. It had snowed off and on, with varying intensity, for the better part of two days, accumulating an additional five inches.

Because he had traveled Ford Road, the Ford and Lodge Expressways, all priority-plowed thoroughfares, Father Koesler had actually arrived early at St. Vincent’s. So it was with a sense of unhurried relaxation that he was able to enjoy coffee and a Danish with Inspector Koznicki in the cafeteria.

Since yesterday had been Koesler’s day off, he had missed all the excitement. He’d read the first sketchy details in last evening’s Detroit News in a story carrying Mark Pfeiffer’s by-line. TV news had had film on both the six and eleven o’clock news. He hadn’t yet had an opportunity to read this morning’s Free Press.

But all of these gaps in his news-information education were more than filled in by the presence of essentially an eyewitness to the event. By now, Koznicki had told Koesler, step-by-step, what had happened almost twenty-four hours ago not far from where they now sat.

“What a coincidence,” Koesler observed, “that you should be called in on this case.”

“That is indeed what it was—a coincidence. I just happened to be the officer on duty that night.”

“I haven’t as yet been able to get a very clear picture of what happened. The account in the News seemed sort of garbled. One of those stories that a reporter gets as a sort of exclusive, but while he’s got it first, he doesn’t know exactly where it’s going.”

“A very perceptive observation, Father. Mr. Pfeiffer happened to be actually interviewing our suspect as he was arrested. Another coincidence, and a very serendipitous one for Mr. Pfeiffer.”

“I should say. Then about all I got from the TV news was a glimpse at the pandemonium here, then a brief look at the suspect covering his face as he was taken in.”

“I gather you haven’t read today’s Free Press or the morning edition of the News? They have rather more complete accounts of the matter.”

“Haven’t had a chance yet. What was the guy’s name? Whit-something . . . Whitman?”

“Whitaker. Bruce Whitaker.”

“Hmmm. Why does that name ring a bell?”

Koznicki smiled. “In time you would remember. But you must recall some four years ago, four very conservative Catholic men tried to take vengeance against their former seminary professors? And they were not too successful, although they came close? Well, it is typical of this man that, on the one hand he would not think to use an alias, and that, on the other, no one would remember him anyway.”

“Yes, yes, yes, I remember. Of course! The gang of four! Good grief, they could scarcely tie their shoes! That’s why he looked familiar.” He shook his head. “Bruce Whitaker did all that damage? It hardly seems possible. I mean, with his penchant for failure . . .”

Koznicki frowned. “Well, he does claim he did not do it.”

“But you have evidence?”

“Tanks containing nitrous oxide were emptied in each of the operating rooms. His fingerprints were found on each tank. His were the only prints of unauthorized personnel we found in that area.”

“That’s interesting. So he seems to have emptied the nitrous oxide tanks. I’m not familiar with that. What’s nitrous oxide used for?”

“It is one of the gases that is used as part of a mixture in anesthesia.”

“And if there isn’t any nitrous oxide?”

“The patient does not go to sleep—at least not as rapidly or deeply as the anesthetist would expect.”

“Hmmm. So, emptying the tanks . . . that wouldn’t seem to accomplish much. Sounds like it’s right in the ball park for those guys. What was he trying to do anyway?”

Koznicki shook his head. “He claims he was trying to call attention to the hospital to reveal its immoral deeds. But, at that point, he becomes quite incoherent.”

“Strange.” The rationale made no sense to Koesler. But then he did not consider any of the hospital’s policies immoral. “At any rate, he certainly got everyone’s attention.” He looked at Koznicki questioningly. “But then, you said he claims he didn’t do it.”

Again Koznicki frowned. “He is an odd person and this is an odd case.”

“Oh?”

“He freely confesses that he bled the nitrous oxide tanks—which affected virtually nothing. But he denies tampering with an extremely dangerous tank that might have injured or even killed someone—anyone, in this case—and which did become a media event.”

“Excuse me, Inspector, but that doesn’t sound very odd to me. It seems kind of understandable that someone would admit doing something harmless yet deny responsibility for a serious crime . . . no?”

“As far as that goes, Father. But Mr. Whitaker goes on to confess and deny things he has not been charged with. Some things which are—well, incredible.”

“Such as?”

“Do not feel inappropriate should you laugh at this Father; everyone else has. He claims that he mutilated a shipment of curtain hooks, mistaking them to be—can you imagine—intrauterine devices!” Koznicki barely suppressed a snort.

Koesler started to laugh, then suddenly stopped. “Wait a minute! That explains it. I was here in this cafeteria when a woman brought in a box of curtain hooks that had been damaged. The presumption was that it was the manufacturer’s fault. But if I remember correctly, the lady said she had stored them in the compartment reserved for IUDs.”

“You mean—”

“It makes some sort of crazy sense now. Apparently, he went looking for the IUDs, but didn’t know what they looked like. He found the hooks in the drawer with an IUD label on it.” He shook his head. “I must admit, if you didn’t know what an IUD was, these hooks might just pass for IUDs. But . . . “His brow furrowed. “. . . why would he want to mutilate IUDs?”

Koznicki tapped an index finger methodically on the table. “If he was telling the truth, at least about his reason for bleeding the nitrous oxide tanks, he wanted to call attention to the hospital—for whatever reason.”

“Mutilating IUDs seems a pretty roundabout way of doing that, although I guess it could work. Of course no doctor would put a mutilated IUD in a patient. But if one were to assume that a woman was fitted with something like that, you could be certain she’d be hurt. She’d probably see another doctor, then a lawyer. Next, she’d be talking to reporters.”

Koznicki looked intently at his coffee, with a bemused expression. “You know, Father, I never thought I would hear a rational explanation for, on the one hand, mistaking curtain hooks for IUDs, and, on the other, mutilating the hooks. But I believe you may have hit upon it.”

“It does sound like his method of operation, doesn’t it? Like the MO of all four of those guys. But you would have found this out anyway, Inspector. In your investigation you would have discovered the mutilated curtain hooks that had been stored in the wrong drawer.”

“That is true. But it is a happy coincidence that you happened to be there when the damage was reported. It has saved us much time. I wonder if I would be tempting fate to test you on Mr. Whitaker’s second bizarre confession?”

“I would really be surprised if it worked. But go ahead, Inspector. What was it?”

“Well, this confession was as unsolicited as was his admission that he had mutilated curtain hooks. He claims that several nights ago he altered a patient’s chart, putting a woman into a test program she should have been excluded from because she was allergic to the medication used in the program.”

Koesler’s eyes widened.

“In addition,” Koznicki continued, “he claims that his scheme worked even though he is certain he omitted an essential part of the plan. He says he forgot to remove from the chart a sticker which informed medical personnel that the patient was allergic to the medication being used in the test.

“And the reason he forgot to remove the sticker was because he had been observed by a security guard who—and Mr. Whitaker can offer no explanation for this—neither stopped him nor apprehended him. The guard, Mr. Whitaker claims, merely challenged him from a distance down the hallway and then, could anyone believe it, disappeared.” The Inspector looked more bemused than ever. “In all my years in the department, I have never encountered anyone like Mr. Whitaker.”

Koesler was silent for a few moments. Then, “You know, Inspector, strange as it seems, I think I can put that one together.”

It was Koznicki’s turn to look surprised.

“I remember the mix-up when a patient got the wrong medication,” Koesler began. “It must be the same case. The patient had pneumonia and was given penicillin but she was allergic to it and had a bad reaction .. . right?”

“That is what he claimed. Indeed it is.”

“I remember that very well because I talked to the woman shortly after she was admitted. She told me she had been asked to be part of that test, but she told them she was allergic to penicillin, so she’d been excluded. I had no more to do with her—she was on Sister Rosamunda’s floor—until I overheard some nurses discussing her deteriorating condition. Then I remembered her allergy and pointed it out.

“Everyone thought it was an accident, one of those foul-ups that are forever happening in hospitals. Fortunately for St. Vincent’s, the patient had a faith in God so strong that she attributed everything that happened to her as coming from God—even what seemed to be a near-fatal blunder in a hospital.

“But you undoubtedly would have uncovered that incident also in your investigation. Just as you would have found the mutilated curtain hooks. And it’s always possible that Whitaker was aware of these incidents, just as I was, and was confessing to them for God-knows-what reason.” Koesler looked to Koznicki for some reason.

“Well, under this hypothesis, he might have been building a basis for some sort of insanity plea. Or he may just be one of those compulsive people we meet from time to time who must confess to every crime imaginable.”

“Okay,” Koesler agreed, “but what may be unique about what Whitaker told you was the part about the security guard who challenged him from a distance down the corridor and then seemingly disappeared. If that part is true, then it would add a lot of credence to his overall story, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes, but how could it be true?”

“There’s a patient named ... let me see, I’m sure she’s still here.” Koesler checked the current patient list he’d picked up earlier. “Yes, here she is: Alice Walker. I was sure she’d still be here. Sister Rosamunda made sure she’d stay here long enough to have her infected feet taken care of.

“Okay, on the night in question, the night that Whitaker claims he altered a patient’s chart and was challenged by a vanishing guard, this Alice Walker’s life was saved by what had to be that same guard.

“The official story had it that Mrs. Walker was having a before-bedtime snack when she started to strangle on some crackers. At that point, or so the guard claims, he happened to be passing her room when he heard choking noises. He claims he came to her rescue and with the Heimlich Maneuver saved her life. That’s the story the guard told and the story that went around the hospital.

“However, the next morning, I heard Mrs. Walker’s confession and brought her Communion. And, after Communion, she told me quite a different story of what had taken place.

“According to Mrs. Walker—and I have no reason to doubt her—the guard did not ‘just happen’ to be passing her room when she began coughing. He had been in her room a considerable time. He was . . . um . . . carousing in the other bed with someone, a nurse or an aide, Mrs. Walker couldn’t be sure. The curtain had been pulled around her bed.

“Anyway, at about the time she began choking, the guard didn’t apply any Heimlich Hug. He fell out of bed, rolled across the floor, hit her bed, knocking her out of it; she fell on top of him and that dislodged the food that had been stuck in her windpipe.”

Koznicki could not help himself. He began to laugh. It was several minutes before he was able to compose himself.

Somehow, when Alice Walker told the story, Koesler had not found it all that funny. Now, as he recounted it to Koznicki, it seemed ludicrous. Only gradually, inspired by the Inspector’s example, was Koesler able to get control of himself.

“And she has told no one but you?” Koznicki asked, finally.

“As far as I know. You see, Mrs. Walker is on the same floor as the pneumonia patient . . . uh . . . Millie Power. So it makes sense. Bruce Whitaker could have been tampering with Mrs. Power’s chart when he was discovered by the security guard who challenged him. Now, what could possibly distract the guard from checking out the person who was fooling with some patient’s chart?”

“I see. Yes, that does make sense. It is possible, then, that Mr. Whitaker has been telling us the truth. You say that this Mrs. Walker is still in the hospital. So her statement can be taken officially. It will be a simple matter to locate and speak to the guard. Now, then, let us get to the bottom of this.”

* * *

Mrs. Walker’s statement was taken. And, as Koznicki suggested, it was a relatively simple matter to summon George Snell from his bed, which he had entered only a short time previously after finishing his tour of night duty.

Koznicki had set up temporary headquarters in an empty room adjacent to Dolly’s office. Thus, one room removed from Sister Eileen’s office, he was in the hospital’s central location. The Inspector was indeed determined to get to the bottom of this, and quickly.

George Snell was interrogated in the presence of Father Koesler and Snell’s supervisor. On his way back to the hospital, Snell had pondered how he would respond. He knew of Inspector Koznicki and understood the futility of any attempt to fool the Inspector. Snell decided that he would answer all direct questions truthfully. But he would not expand on any answers he gave nor would he volunteer any information.

The questioning quite promptly got down to the night Bruce Whitaker claimed to have been in the process of altering Millie Power’s medical chart when he was briefly interrupted by a security guard. According to the log for that evening, the guard had to have been Snell or no one. Either it was Snell, or Whitaker had invented the story.

Snell remembered the incident clearly. Yes, there had been someone in the nurses’ station who seemed not to belong there. Yes, he had challenged the man.

Why had Snell not followed up on his verbal and long-distance challenge? Snell weighed that one momentarily. He was not particularly adept at extemporaneous lying. He knew that. All in all, he considered the truth would serve best here. And, after all, he had determined to be truthful.

Yes, he had been distracted by someone. No, not a nurse; a nurse’s aide. Honest to God it had not been his idea in the first place.

It took a while before Snell was able to convince Koznicki—and even longer to convince the supervisor—that this impromptu roll in the hay had been the aide’s idea. Yes, they had used the empty bed in Alice Walker’s room. Snell had thought she was out of it. At least the aide had assured him the patient wouldn’t know what was going on.

No, Snell had not heard the patient choking. The aide heard it. Well, no, he hadn’t exactly fallen out of bed. He had been attempting . . . well . . . maybe it would be just as accurate to say he had fallen out of bed. And yes, the rest of it happened about the way Mrs. Walker had recounted it.

In fact, that’s why Snell had been convinced the aide was right about the patient’s not knowing what was going on. Mrs. Walker had not contradicted any of their story about how Snell had just been passing by when he heard her choking and had performed the—he still had difficulty with the term—yes, the Heimlich Maneuver.

Now, the essential question: Was the man Snell had challenged Bruce Whitaker?

Snell studied the mug shots Koznicki offered. The four photos were equally divided between Whitaker with and without toupee.

“Yeah, that’s the guy.” Snell tapped the pictures of Whitaker covered. But, even more startling, he recognized Whitaker sans toupee as one of the two performers on the television channel Snell had assumed was porno cable. That was the bastard who had successfully executed the one and only Snell Maneuver! For that occasion, Whitaker had been wearing nothing, including his rug.

However, Snell kept this latter information to himself. At this point, he did not care what else Whitaker had done or what the police had charged him with. As far as Snell was concerned, Whitaker’s sin that cried to heaven for vengeance was his carrying off the Snell Maneuver without a license. Or impersonating George Snell during the execution of the Snell Maneuver. Or something like that.

No, Snell told Koznicki nothing about the TV caper. No volunteered information. Besides, this was a matter of honor, a score that must be settled privately between the two of them. As near as Snell could figure it, this matter had the same sort of enormity as when one man stole another man’s horse in the Old West.

After advising him to remain available for further questioning, Koznicki dismissed both Snell and his supervisor. The Inspector then summoned the detectives who had been interrogating hospital personnel. Father Koesler’s observations having lent credence to Whitaker’s claims, Koznicki had called in several detectives from the Third Precinct as well as three from Squad Seven of his own homicide division. Lieutenant Ned Harris of Homicide was coordinating the investigation and now reported to Koznicki.

Once again, Harris made no attempt to mask his distaste at having to check out leads from this priest—the perennial amateur. However, to be fair—and when it came to police work Harris was nothing if not objective—Koesler’s leads had checked out.

There had been a shipment of curtain hooks that had been mutilated. And, according to the housekeeping department, the manufacturer remained adamant that no one in his company would have done such a thing. The manufacturer insisted there had been nothing wrong with the hooks on shipment. Whatever was done to them had to have been done after receipt by the hospital. At that point, the matter had remained inexplicable. No one could guess why anyone would mutilate curtain hooks.

One mystery apparently solved.

Everyone on the second floor remembered very clearly the mix-up of Millie Power’s chart. A mix-up that, had it not been caught, could have cost her life. As a matter of fact, by direct and insistent order of the CEO, an intense in-house investigation was even now being conducted to determine how and why that chart had been altered.

Another mystery apparently solved.

Koesler of course had been certain that the police investigation would bear out his eyewitness observations. So, while Lieutenant Harris was, item by item, filling Koznicki in on what the detectives had uncovered, Koesler was off in his own world of speculation.

In his mind’s eye, he saw Sister Eileen being wheeled into the operating room on a gurney. He assumed that her head would have been shaved for the operation. She would be completely helpless. In Koesler’s scenario—the only one that made sense to him—the carrier wheel had broken away earlier than was planned. Whoever had tampered with the carrier and the gas tank must have intended for the wheel to give way during the operation. It made no sense to Koesler that the wheel was intended to come off the cart before the operation.

Thus, the way the plan must have been conceived, the nitrogen tank would be delivered to the operating table. Then, during the operation, as doctors and nurses moved about the table, the tank would be jostled frequently. Not too much of that sort of bumping would be needed before the weakened wheel would collapse, tearing the valve from the tank and, in the ensuing turmoil, the neurosurgeon would inadvertently drive the drill into Sister’s brain. And that, finally, would be that.

Then Koesler tried to reverse the movie in his mind. He tried to visualize the person who would do such a thing. Who might actually plot Sister Eileen’s murder?

He had several candidates. Four, to be exact.

First to come to mind was Ethel Laidlaw. First, because she was least likely. And least likely because she was such a klutz herself. It was ludicrous to imagine that Ethel might follow behind Whitaker to correct his mistakes. To mix a metaphor, it would be a case of the blind leading the blind.

But, wait a minute! Whitaker’s first name was Bruce. And that was the name Ethel had mentioned as her new boyfriend and possible spouse. It must be the same person. With that relationship in mind, mightn’t she be the one who conclusively altered the chart and programmed the nitrogen tank?

No. Impossible. Whatever Ethel’s possible motivation, she had as good a chance as Whitaker of getting things right. Which was no chance at all.

Next in the least likely category, as far as Koesler was concerned, would be Sister Rosamunda. Of the four people he had in mind, Rosamunda probably had the strongest motive for wanting Eileen out of the way. Rosamunda’s fear of a forced retirement was almost pathological. For her, there were no gray areas in retirement. Everything was black and bleak. She seemed to envision it as a sort of burial alive.

But, while her fear of the fate Eileen was forcing upon her was morbid, Rosamunda gave no indication that she was insane. And some form of insanity would have to be present before a dedicated religious woman would seriously consider murder. It was unimaginable that Rosamunda could have plotted the death of anyone, let alone that of another religious.

In considering John Haroldson as a possible suspect, Koesler slipped away from the “least likely” category. The priest hated to consider anyone capable of premeditated murder, but someone was guilty. And of those he knew as prime suspects, Haroldson had to be seriously considered. His motive was practically identical with Sister Rosamunda’s. Each of them saw Sister Eileen as the one responsible for condemning them to retirement.

And where retirement for Rosamunda was a living death, for Haroldson, it seemingly spelled death itself. He did not consider himself capable of continued life if he were separated from the hospital for which he lived.

Added to that was his festering resentment over the fact that Eileen held the post that he coveted. And, according to Haroldson’s lights, the position of chief executive officer should, by rights, be his. His background in theology, medicine, and business qualified him as CEO to a far greater degree than Eileen. As far as he was concerned, she had gotten the job for one reason alone: She was a member of the religious community that operated this and other institutions in this section of the country. So blinded was Haroldson that he simply could not appreciate the abilities and achievements that perfectly qualified Eileen as CEO.

But, thought Koesler, even with all this perceived provocation—murder? He wondered about that. The likelihood of Haroldson’s plotting murder paled when Koesler compared him with the one who topped Koesler’s list of suspects.

Like the others, particularly Rosamunda and Haroldson, Dr. Lee Kim had a strong motive for wanting Sister Eileen out of the way. She had been on the very verge of dismissing him from St. Vincent’s staff. Few words could adequately describe how much he feared that.

As a doctor, he could have had a good life in his native South Korea. But nowhere near as good a life as he might have garnered here in this land of near limitless opportunity. He was a young man with long life promised him. He had plans for that long life. He anticipated an ever-improving lifestyle. He would make very worthwhile the sacrifice of leaving his homeland to set up shop in this foreign country. Kim could virtually taste the luxury and affluence of his future.

But at this stage of his life, very low on the rungs of the ladder he planned to climb, one person stood in his way. More than stood in his way; Sister Eileen threatened to throw him from the ladder entirely and permanently. If she moved against him, it was possible he might be forced to leave this country of his dreams. Conceivably, he might even find it difficult to set up practice in his homeland now. In sum, Dr. Kim had the very real prospect of losing not only everything he had, but all he hoped to have.

In addition, there was that attitude of Kim’s that so disturbed Koesler.

Death certainly was no stranger to doctors. Of all vocations, doctors dealt with death more than almost anyone. Surgeons, moreover, not infrequently were helpless to prevent death even during their ministrations. Koesler had suffered only momentary shock when hearing surgeons refer to a part for the whole—as in operating on a “hand” or a “head.” But Koesler had not been prepared for Dr. Kim’s elation that a “head” had expired in emergency . . . so that no extra time would have to be expended for the “hand.”

Of all four of Koesler’s suspects, Kim was, by far, the most likely. He had a motive, arguably the strongest of the four. He certainly had the means. The operating room would be to him like a second home. And of the four, Kim seemed most at home with death and most casual in his attitude toward it.

There was one person he hadn’t considered. Now that he thought about it—and he hadn’t before—Dr. Fred Scott was certainly suspectable, particularly from an opportunity standpoint. He was certainly as conversant with hospital procedures as any of the others. Although he and Koesler had established a rapport, Koesler was conscious that it was always possible that Scott’s befriending him could have an ulterior motive. And Scott was not a creampuff; he had the grit and the spine—and the stick-to-it-iveness—to carry him along any path he chose, without looking back or suffering second thoughts.

Yes, Koesler concluded reluctantly, Scott would have to be included.

But what would his motive be? There was the rub. As far as Koesler could figure, there was none. Scott was good at his work, happy at his work, and seemed to have come to terms with the contradictions of life at St. Vincent’s. Indeed, rather than wishing ill to Sister Eileen, he was one of her staunchest champions.

No, on second thought, Koesler decided, at least for the moment, to cross Scott off his list of possible suspects. Which left Dr. Kim as the leading nominee. And as Koesler once more retraced his rationale, he nodded to himself. Yes, that was it.

The priest emerged from his reverie far more assured than he had entered it. He returned his attention to what was going on in the room just as Lieutenant Harris completed his summary of what the investigation had revealed.

“So,” Koznicki said, “what we have here is a suspect who may be telling us the whole truth, the entire story. Or he may not. But at least with the corroboration of some of the bizarre ingredients of his confession, the likelihood that he speaks truth grows.

“If what Mr. Whitaker says is true, then he had proceeded in a most roundabout way to attempt to focus media attention on this hospital for the purpose of exposing what he believes to be, in the context of Catholic medical moral ethics, immoral. But all he has managed to do is to come up with such an incredible, confused, ridiculous story that, to this point, the media are having a field day making a fool of our bumbling suspect.

“On the other hand, if what Mr. Whitaker claims is true, there is someone else in this hospital, who, for whatever reason, has been following our suspect, correcting his mistakes, improving on his schemes. But”— Koznicki spread his hands palms up—“who? And why?”

During Koznicki’s summation, Father Koesler had been fidgeting in his chair, like an eager schoolboy who knows the answer.

And now, like a benevolent schoolmaster, Koznicki recognized him. “I believe Father Koesler may have something to add at this point.”

Koesler, well aware that he was among police professionals and not one of them, spoke as deferentially as possible. “I am almost embarrassed to say anything about this matter. And I wouldn’t, except that . . . well, I’ve been part of this hospital’s personnel for a little while, even if only on a temporary basis. So I got to know many of the people here. And it’s just my familiarity with the situation here that prompts me to speak.”

Lieutenant Harris looked heavenward. He was convinced the priest had nothing of substance to say. He just wished Koesler would get on with it.

Even Koesler was aware that this was becoming awkward. Everyone in the room knew he was out of his depth. There was no need to belabor the point.

“What I’m getting at,” Koesler finally explained, “is that I think I know who tried to kill Sister Eileen.”

There was a brief, uncomfortable silence.

Harris cleared his throat. Was there a hint of a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth? “Nobody tried to kill Sister Eileen,” he stated.

“But . . .” Koesler was bewildered. “. . . but she was the patient being operated on. It’s perfectly possible—probable—that the tank was supposed to explode while the operation was in progress.”

“Immaterial,” Harris said.

“But—” Koesler felt his face redden.

“You see, Father,” Harris’s tone was that of an adult explaining something simple to a child. “At the time the tank was tampered with, there was no way of knowing who would be the first patient in that room. No way of knowing, even, if the first patient would need the use of the nitrogen tank.

“Sister Eileen collapsed and was taken immediately to the operating room from emergency. The tank had to have been tampered with before she was brought in as a patient in need of emergency treatment. Whoever sabotaged that tank could not have known that Sister Eileen was going to be operated on, let alone that she would be first and that the nitrogen tank would be needed for her.

“So,” Harris concluded rather pleasantly, “nobody was trying to kill Sister Eileen.”

In the brief silence that followed, Koesler considered how many kinds of fool he was.

Before he lapsed into another contemplative state, he heard Inspector Koznicki say, “As I was saying, if Mr. Whitaker is telling the whole truth— and, to be perfectly honest, I now believe he is—then there must be someone else in this hospital following him around remedying his mistakes. But who? And why?”

“I’m not that ready to believe Whitaker,” said Harris, “though if, as you say, there is someone else, I suppose he or she would be trying to accomplish the same thing as Whitaker.

“But I can’t think of why anybody would want to, or who would be doing it.

“Personally, I think Whitaker did it all and now is doing nothing more original than trying to alibi out of it by blaming some nonexistent person for picking up some loose ends that were never there in the first place.”

Harris quickly was tiring of this case. He wanted to get back to homicide cases, which were what he was being paid to work on. God knows there were more than enough homicides in Detroit to work on. The only reason Harris and the other homicide detectives were here was because Inspector Koznicki had called them in. And the only reason Koznicki had entered this case was the coincidence that he’d been the inspector on Code 2400 the night all this had happened.

As the officers discussed the possibilities in the hypothesis that there had been a second person involved, Koesler’s mind had taken another tack suggested by something Harris had said.

All right, thought Koesler, if Sister Eileen was not the target in the operating room, why would someone bother to improve on the bumbling Whitaker’s ineffectual plan? Why would someone complete the alteration of a medical chart to actually accomplish what Whitaker intended? Why indeed?

Unless . . . unless the two were in basic agreement. Both wanted to create a media event. And why? Because both wanted the same thing: the exposure of the medical moral practices of St. Vincent’s Hospital. And who might that second person be? Someone who would for some reason be attracted to and in agreement with either Whitaker’s ultimate goal . . . or a side-effect of that goal.

And that would be . . .

Of course!

Koesler stood abruptly. “Excuse me.” He had no idea what was being discussed at the moment, nor who was speaking. He knew only that there was urgency in getting to the bottom of this conundrum.

One thing was certain: With his movement and the tone of his voice, he had everyone’s attention.

“Uh, excuse me, but I think I have it now. “ There was no time for further preamble. “If you don’t mind, I’ll just outline my reasoning. If I’m correct, I think it may be important to take some action quickly or something terrible may happen. But first, let me sketch what I believe did happen.

“Bruce Whitaker came to this hospital with one purpose: to create a media event that would focus attention on St. Vincent’s. And through that coverage, he hoped to expose certain practices, which, as a matter of fact, are not in strict accord with official Catholic teaching.

“I was made aware of these practices, and I must say that, on the one hand, given this hospital’s purpose and other circumstances, I do not disagree with what’s being done here.

“On the other hand, there has been some fudging with official Catholic teaching. There is a tendency in this archdiocese, particularly when it comes to the core city of Detroit, to look the other way when it comes to certain, one might describe them as fringe, precepts of Catholic morals and dogma.

“But if the news media were to headline the fact that a Catholic hospital is in violation of Catholic teaching and law—a rather newsworthy story, I think you’ll agree—the archdiocesan authorities obviously could overlook the violations no more.

“Okay, so that’s the objective of Bruce Whitaker. The problem is that Bruce Whitaker has trouble tying his shoelaces and combing his hair. His attempts at creating a media event are, in chronological order, the mutilation of curtain hooks; the alteration of a patient’s medical chart—an alteration which is so imperfect it will accomplish nothing—and finally, the emptying of a gas tank that, when the absence of its contents is noticed, will simply be replaced.

“Next, apparently, someone becomes aware of Whitaker, sees what he is doing, and correctly surmises why he is doing these things. Now I know this sounds a bit tenuous, but believe me, it is amazing the leap of comprehension that can occur in two like minds.... particularly two similarly fervid minds. In any event, it does not take this person long to observe Whitaker’s, uh . . . difficulties in trying to accomplish his goal. So this person begins surreptitiously to fulfill what Whitaker has attempted so ineptly.

“This person follows Whitaker to Millie Power’s chart, sees that the alteration as it stands will do nothing; Whitaker has merely attempted to put the patient in the test program by changing her protocol number. Which means she would routinely receive penicillin to which she is allergic.

“But Whitaker has neglected to remove the notation signifying that Mrs. Power is, indeed, allergic to the drug. That dichotomy would, of course have been noticed by the staff, a check would have been made, and she would never have been given the drug. So the person removes the allergy notation. Now Whitaker’s plan will go forward.

“But, quite by accident, I learned of Mrs. Power’s allergy and also that she had been given the penicillin. So that scheme goes by the board.

“Then Mr. Whitaker plans on shutting down the operating room, which closure undoubtedly would have drawn in the media. But his plan, as usual, is destined to fail. Until this mysterious person intervenes. As a result, we have a good-sized hole in the wall and the local media are here in force.

“I think the conclusion is inescapable: This person and Whitaker have an identical objective: to draw the media into the operation of this hospital.

“As far as Whitaker is concerned, once the archdiocese is forced to act, St. Vincent’s will no longer be allowed to overlook the letter of Catholic teaching. And that is all he wanted to accomplish.

“Now, I believe that his anonymous conspirator, while he shares Whitaker’s objective—to draw the media into the affairs of this hospital—had a somewhat different reason for wanting all this exposure.

“Four people here very much wanted Sister Eileen out of the picture. Two of them, Dr. Lee Kim and Ethel Laidlaw, a nurse’s aide, face imminent dismissal. The other two, Sister Rosamunda and John Haroldson, face a forced and most distasteful retirement.

“If Sister Eileen were to be removed from St. Vincent’s, the worries of each of these four people would be over. There are a couple of ways that could happen.

“Sister Eileen might die. She might, indeed, be murdered. That would be the simplest, most direct way of getting her off the scene.

“Or in a slightly more circuitous way, she could be removed from her position here. And that could be accomplished in one of two ways. Her religious order could do it. But, in fact, her order had consistently backed and supported her.

“Or the archbishop could depose her. And if enough pressure were exerted, the archbishop might have no other choice.

“So you see, I think we are not necessarily looking for someone who wanted to murder Sister Eileen,” Koesler nodded to Lieutenant Harris, “but, I think, we are very definitely looking for someone who needed to have her removed from office. The person who has been repairing Bruce Whitaker’s blunders is in accord with Whitaker’s objective, although not for Whitaker’s reasons.

“There is also one more outstanding area of agreement between the two: the method of operation.

“As I said before, there were a couple of ways of getting rid of Sister Eileen. The most direct was murder. Many people have been murdered with far less motivation than that held by the four people I’ve mentioned.

“The other way was the extremely circuitous method used by Whitaker . . . whose chief goal was not to get rid of Sister Eileen, but to force the archdiocese to act on what he saw as evil.

“As soon as Lieutenant Harris reminded me that in the operating room no one was trying to kill Sister, it dawned on me that we were looking for someone who, far more than being in agreement with Whitaker’s objective, was as one with Whitaker’s method of operation.

“Whitaker did not want to kill anyone. He kept doing things that would have multiple effects. He wanted to mutilate IUDs, he planned on making a sick person a little more ill, he plotted to close down an essential hospital function. Each of these plans was intended to have a side effect: the creation of a media event for the purpose of getting St. Vincent’s in alignment with official Church teaching.

“Well, not too long ago I had lunch here with a gentleman who was actually lecturing me about the same sort of philosophy. He even corrected me when I referred to the method as the principle of double effect, which is its more popular identification. He insisted on calling it the principle of the indirect voluntary, which is more technically correct.

“This person, John Haroldson, was extremely comfortable with the indirect voluntary. For instance: A surgeon operates, a good or indifferent action; the first effect—and the one desired—is the health of the patient; a secondary, only tolerated, effect is the removal of an ectopic pregnancy.

“Or one alters a patient’s chart, perhaps an indifferent action; the desired effect is that this will draw in the media who will be instrumental in returning the hospital to orthodoxy as well as removing Sister Eileen from the scene; the only tolerated effect is that the sick person becomes a little more ill before an intervention is made and the patient is saved.

“Although Mr. Whitaker would seem to be a very traditional Catholic, he probably would be hard pressed to explain either the indirect voluntary or the double effect. But, as it happens, what he was trying to do very closely resembled the indirect voluntary.

“Someone like John Haroldson would easily recognize the comparison. It was natural that the scheme would appeal to him. And very understandable that, to accomplish his own goal of ridding himself of Sister Eileen, he would find Whitaker’s scheme particularly appropriate.

“Now, the special problem that presents itself is, as Inspector Koznicki has mentioned, that the whole scheme has not worked. Because of John Haroldson’s expertise, both as theologian and medical student, the media event did occur. But, to date, no one has been able to take Mr. Whitaker seriously. After all this, the plan has failed. And, as far as Mr. Haroldson is concerned, it matters little that St. Vincent’s is still doing business as usual. What matters to him most is that Sister Eileen is still in place as CEO.

“Haroldson’s tenure here at St. Vincent’s grows shorter and more tenuous by the day. But I think that is less significant to him than the frustration he must feel now that what must have been his last-ditch plan to unseat Sister Eileen is in shambles. I’m just afraid that now he may be tempted to do something . . . uh . . . drastic.”

Koesler halted. There was nothing more to say. He had presented his theory, explained it, and drawn his conclusion. Either these officers would, in the face of his previous blunder, stretch credulity and believe him, or they would not. He looked about. The expressions reflected everything from the friendly faith of Inspector Koznicki to the hostile skepticism of Lieutenant Harris, and all points between.

“I think,” Koznicki said at length, “that in view of what Father has expressed, and as a matter of precaution—”

He was interrupted by a series of hysterical shrieks coming from nearby.

Led by Koznicki and Harris, Koesler and the officers rushed from the room in search of the source of the sound. The screams were coming not from the adjoining office but from the one adjoining that.

It was Sister Eileen’s office. It was her secretary, Dolly, who was screaming.

Koznicki, unexpectedly agile for his size, was first to enter Sister’s office. He saw Dolly standing near the large executive desk. At sight of him, she ceased screaming, but stood badly trembling.

Koznicki followed her riveted gaze to the knees and feet of a prostrate figure half hidden by the desk. It was a nun; he could see the white habit extending to sensible black shoes.

As one of the officers steadied Dolly, Koznicki crossed behind the desk and knelt beside the still figure of Sister Rosamunda. Father Koesler eased his way through the now crowded office and knelt on the other side of Sister’s body.

Koznicki felt for an artery in Sister’s neck. There was no pulse. He shook his head. A small bottle lay on the floor a few inches from Sister’s outstretched hand. It was empty, or nearly so. Only a few drops remained.

Koznicki read the label: “Elixir Terpin Hydrate.” He sniffed at the bottle. “Nothing I can identify. But poison, I assume.” He looked intently at Dolly and by sheer force of his will drew her gaze. “These questions are important, so please compose yourself.” He waited a moment until he could tell that she was in greater control of herself. “All right. Now, where is Sister Eileen?”

“In there.” Dolly pointed to the rear door that led to Eileen’s living-and-bedroom suite.

Koznicki jerked his head toward the door. Instantly, Lieutenant Harris entered the inner suite after a perfunctory knock on the door.

“Why is Sister Eileen back in her suite so soon after major surgery?” Koznicki asked.

“She was doing so well,” Dolly explained in a low tone. Though she seemed composed, the tremolo in her voice betrayed her continuing anxiety. “Of course she was taken to ICU after her operation. But she recovered remarkably well. And she asked . . . well, she demanded to be returned to her own room instead of one of the regular hospital rooms. And she is CEO, you know . . . .”

“Of course.”

Harris reentered the office. “She’s okay. Just sleeping.”

“She’s been heavily medicated,” Dolly added.

“Did you know Sister Rosamunda was in here?” Koznicki asked.

“No, I didn’t. I knew Sister Eileen was here, of course. But I didn’t know Sister Rosamunda was. She must have come in before I came on duty.”

“Dolly . . .” Father Koesler looked up from his kneeling position; although she was quite obviously dead, he had given the nun conditional absolution. “. . . has John Haroldson been in here since you came on duty?”

“Why, yes . . . just a short while ago. But . . . you don’t think that he—oh, my God! You can’t think that he—”

“Show us to his office, Father. Quickly.” Koznicki was off his knees and pushing Father Koesler out the door.

* * *

All told, there were only six officers and one priest. But because they were all large men, the number seemed larger.

Almost as one they stormed through John Haroldson’s outer office. His secretary was not there. With no preliminaries they burst into his inner office.

Haroldson looked up from his desk. He had been writing. His expression was grave; his visage seemed drained as if he were about to faint.

“Mr. Haroldson . . .” Koznicki began.

Haroldson held up a restraining hand. Everyone stopped in his tracks. For several moments Haroldson continued to write. Then he laid his pen to one side.

He picked up several sheets of paper and offered them to the Inspector. “I believe this is what you want.”

Koznicki did not move to accept the papers. “Before I accept or read what you have written, I will ask Lieutenant Harris to apprise you of your rights.” He nodded to Harris.

Lieutenant Harris took a card from his wallet and began reading the Miranda Warning. Harris of course knew the warning by rote. But reading it was accepted police procedure. Thus, if a defense attorney were to ask an arresting officer how he could be certain he had given the required warning, the officer could honestly respond, “I read it to him.”

The scene resembled a tableau. No one moved as Harris delivered the text. Haroldson continued to extend his papers toward Koznicki, who made no move to accept them. Until the warning was completed.

Then Koznicki asked, “Do you understand what has been read to you, Mr. Haroldson?”

Haroldson nodded and shook the papers insistently.

Koznicki took them, put on his reading glasses and began to peruse the neat, precise script.

Sister! Can you hear me? Can you hear me even though you are dead?

“Mr. Haroldson, Koznicki looked up from the paper, “is this part of something like your diary?”

“Continue reading,” Haroldson replied. “All that you want will be there.”

I am the one who killed you. But you must know that. By now, you must know all the answers.

It was a mistake. It was a mistake ever to have set myself on this course. But that is of little consolation to you. It is too late for consolation. And I must confess I am sorry. But what good does that do you? It is too late for sorrow.

You are dead and this unbearable pain in my head goes on.

It was all so useless.

With all my heart I wish I could change the course of these events. I wish I could change what has already happened. But of course no one can do that. No one can bring you back to life.

If I were to tell this story to someone—and I may very well be forced to do so—where would I start?

I suppose I would start where so many hospital stones begin. In the emergency room . . .

Haroldson’s account went on to tell of how he had been in the background of the emergency room mostly to monitor the new substitute chaplain’s work. While there, Haroldson had noticed this odd character, a volunteer also trying to keep in the background.

Later, in his regular perambulations through the hospital, Haroldson became more aware of this uncoordinated dolt who managed to botch nearly everything he attempted.

Haroldson was about to dismiss the man he had identified as Bruce Whitaker. Even as a volunteer he was costing the hospital far more than he was worth.

And then came the incident of the mutilated curtain hooks. There was no reason for it. The most intriguing feature of the fiasco was that the hooks had been stored in the IUD drawer. He also noted that at a nearby cafeteria table, Whitaker seemed in a state of panicky confusion when the housekeeper presented the curtain hooks.

It had been simple for Haroldson to check out Whitaker. His name was on file as a volunteer. With Haroldson’s civic contacts, he easily learned of Whitaker’s background, his trial and conviction, and present parole. Haroldson recalled well the crime spree waged by Whitaker and his three arch-conservative friends. Armed with that background information, it was not all that difficult to surmise what Whitaker might be up to now.

Haroldson, at that point, made Whitaker a prime subject for surveillance. Gradually, Haroldson ascertained Whitaker’s scheme: to create a media event that would bring to light St. Vincent’s casual approach to authentic Catholic medical-moral ethics.

Well then, the hospital’s ethical standards were those of Sister Eileen. Whitaker’s objective was to force Church authorities to crack down on the hospital’s moral aberrations. If that were to happen, Eileen surely would go. She would not compromise her own beliefs. She was not that sort of person. If Whitaker was successful then not only his goal, but Haroldson’s too, would be achieved. Eileen would be forced out before she could pressure Haroldson into retirement.

What’s more, Whitaker was not trying to seriously harm anyone. Thus Haroldson would be able to oversee Whitaker’s foredoomed endeavors and amend them. All the while, by the principle of the indirect voluntary, Haroldson would be guilty of no sin. At least as far as his own conscience was concerned.

After a while, the revelation went on, it got to be a sort of contest for Haroldson. Surmising what Whitaker’s next ploy would be. Remaining undetected while following him. Trying to figure out what Whitaker was attempting to do when he did it. And finally, correcting Whitaker’s pitiful blunders.

Haroldson chronicled the alteration of Millie Power’s chart and how he removed the sticker that denoted her allergy to penicillin. A sticker that Whitaker unaccountably did not remove. Haroldson surmised that Whitaker’s plans included blowing the whistle before the patient lapsed into a terminal condition. If, typically, Whitaker had fumbled that too, he, Haroldson, would have seen to it.

And it would have worked had not the priest accidentally come upon the scene.

Finally, the statement told of the episode in the OR. His disgust at Whitaker’s feeble attempt to cause a breakdown in OR procedure. Of course it was a good idea; any hospital would be in the news should its OR shut down. But nitrous oxide tanks! The man was a functional idiot.

So, with the sabotaged nitrogen tank Haroldson at last had his media event. An event which Whitaker managed to move from the front page to the comic page. And, as the affair, along with the alleged perpetrator, became a farce, Haroldson’s last hope evaporated.

I cannot express how deep was my depression, how complete my sense of frustration. I had banked everything on being able to manipulate Whitaker to achieve my goal. When that failed, I failed.

That is why, in a moment of utter despondency, I poisoned the medication. I knew that Eileen would need it in the earliest stages of her convalescence. If I could not effect her removal from my beloved hospital, I wanted her dead.

It did not take me long to repent my completely un-Christian action. Just long enough for you to come upon the poisoned expectorant and consume it. When I returned to Eileen’s office and found you dead, I knew all was ended. Unwittingly, I have taken an innocent life. And for that I must pay. It is God’s law and I accept it.

I pray only that God will grant me time for penance, penitence and repentance so that in time I may become worthy to join you, with all the angels and saints in Paradise.

Koznicki finished reading. The statement was more a letter to the deceased Sister Rosamunda than a confession. But it was sufficient for his purposes. He had Haroldson sign the document.

Momentarily, Koznicki wondered whether an attorney might use this statement to begin building a defense of insanity. It was no more than a passing thought. Guilt was the decision of the courts. Koznicki had his perpetrator. As far as he was concerned, the case was closed.

But there were other concerns that needed resolution before all the loose ends were tied.