The 1st Deadly Sin

2

What was it? He could not decipher its form or meaning. A frail thing there under white sheet and blue blanket, thin arms arranged outside. Heavy eyelids more stuck than shut, cheek bones poking, pale lips drawn back in a death’s head grin, a body so frail it seemed even the blanket pressed it flat. And tubes, bandages, steel and plastic-new organs these-jars and drainage bags. He looked frantically for signs of life, stared, stared, saw finally a slow wearied rise and fall of breast no plumper than a boy’s. He thought of the body of Frank Lombard and wondered, Where is the connection? Then realized he saw both through mist, his eyes damped and heavy.

“She’s under heavy sedation,” the nurse whispered, “but she’s coming along just fine. Dr. Bernardi is waiting for you in the Surgeons’ Lounge.”

He searched for something he could kiss, a naked patch of skin free of tubes, needles, straps, bandages. All he wanted was to make a signal, just a signal. He bent to kiss her hair, but it was wire beneath his lips.

“I mentioned it,” Bernardi said, inspecting his fingernails. Then he looked up at Delaney accusingly, daring him to deny it. “You’ll remember I mentioned Proteus infection.”

The Captain sat stolidly, craving sleep like an addict. They were at opposite sides of the card table in the Surgeons’ Lounge. Cards were scattered across the surface, most of them face down but a queen of hearts showing, and a nine of spades.

“Proteus infection,” Delaney repeated heavily. “How do you know?”

“That’s what the lab tells us.”

“And you think your lab is more knowledgeable than you and your associates who diagnosed my wife’s illness as kidney stones?”

Again the opaque film coated the doctor’s glistening eyes.

His body stiffened, and he made a gesture Delaney had never seen him use before: he put the tip of his right forefinger in his right ear with the thumb stuck up in the air, exactly like a man blowing his brains out.

“Captain,” he purred in his unctuous voice, “I assure you-”

“All right, all right,” Delaney waved the apology away. “Let’s not waste time. What is Proteus infection?”

Bernardi brightened, as he always did at an opportunity to display his erudition. Now he made his usual gesture of placing his index fingers together and pressing them against pouting lips.

“Proteus,” he sang happily. “A Greek sea-god who could change his appearance at will. You should be interested in that, Captain. A million different shapes and disguises at will. That would complicate a policeman’s task, would it not? He!”

Delaney grunted disgustedly. Bernardi paid no heed.

“And so the name was given to this particular infection. An infection is not an illness-but we needn’t go into that. Suffice to say that Proteus infection frequently takes on the shape, appearance, form, and symptoms of a dozen other infections and illnesses. Very difficult to diagnose.”

“Rare?” Delaney asked.

“Proteus rare?” the doctor said, eyebrows rising. “I would say no. But not too common. The literature is not extensive That is what I was researching this morning, and why I did not return your calls. I was reading everything I could find on Proteus.”

“What causes it?” Delaney asked, trying to keep the hatred out of his voice, to be as clinical and unemotional as this macaroni.

“I told you. Bacillus Proteus. B. Proteus. It exists in all of us. Usually in the intestinal tract. We have all kinds of good and bad little animalcules squiggling around inside us, you know. Sometimes, usually following an abdominal operation, B. Proteus goes on a rampage. Breaks loose. Sometimes in the urinary tract or in a specific organ. Rarely in the blood stream itself. The usual symptoms are high fever, chills, headaches, sometimes nausea. Which are-as I am certain you are aware-the symptoms of a dozen other infections. Proteus also causes certain changes in the blood, difficult to determine definitely. The recommended treatment for this infection is the employment of antibiotics.”

“You tried that.”

“True. But I assure you, Captain, I did not go through the entire spectrum. These so-called ‘wonder drugs’ are not all that wonderful. One of them may stifle a particular bacillus. At the same time it encourages the growth of another, more virulent bacillus. The antibiotics are not to be used lightly. In your wife’s case, I believe the Proteus infection was triggered by her hysterectomy. But all the symptoms pointed to kidney stones, and there was nothing in the tests or plates to discourage that diagnosis. When Dr. Spencer got in there, we realized one kidney had to be removed. Had to. You understand?” Delaney didn’t answer.

“We saw there were still pockets of infection, small and scattered, that could not be removed by surgery. Now we must start again, hoping the main source of infection has been eliminated and we can clear up the remaining pockets with antibiotics.”

“Hoping, doctor?”

“Yes. Hoping, Captain.”

The two men stared at each other.

“She’s dying, isn’t she, doctor?”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“No. You wouldn’t.”

He dragged to his feet, stumbled from the room.

Now I am the killer, Bacillus Proteus. I am in my wife’s kidneys. I am…

He went back to the precinct house in hard afternoon sunlight. He thought he would be with her. He did not think he ought or should be with her, but that he would. He knew he could not attend her, for as long as it took, and still function efficiently as Captain Edward X. Delaney, New York Police Department. On his old portable he typed out a letter to Deputy Inspector Ivar Thorsen, Patrol Division, asking immediate retirement. He filled out the “Request for Retirement” form and told Thorsen, in a personal note, that the request was due to his wife’s illness. He asked his old friend to expedite the retirement papers. He sealed, stamped the envelope, walked down to the corner postbox and mailed it. Then he returned to his home and rolled onto his bed without undressing.

He slept for perhaps three minutes or eight hours. The brilliant ringing of the bedside phone brought him instantly awake. “Captain Edward X. Delaney here.”

“Edward, this is Ferguson. Did you talk to Bernardi?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry, Edward.”

“Thank you.”

“The antibiotics might work. The main source of the infection is gone.”

“I know.”

“Edward, I woke you up.”

“That’s all right.”

“I thought you might want to know.”

“Know what?”

“The Lombard homicide. It wasn’t a hammer.”

“What was it?”

“I don’t know. The skull penetration was about three to four inches deep. It was like a tapered cone. The outside hole, the entrance, was about an inch in diameter. Then it tapered down to a sharp point. Like a spike. Do you want a copy of my report?”

“No. I’ve retired.”

“What?”

“It’s not my concern. I filed my retirement papers.”

“Oh, Jesus. Edward, you can’t. It’s your life.”

“I know.”

Delaney hung up. Then he lay awake.