Deathbed

by William Kienzle

  “In any case, a bunch of us always thought it was rather consoling that no Pope ever died alone. As he drew his last breath, a whole bunch of prelates around the world were ceasing to be monsignors.

  “And so it is in the hospital. Nobody dies alone. Always, in the wings at least, there’s a chaplain.”

  “Leave it to you, Father, to find an ecclesiastical analogy for just about everything.” Koznicki chuckled. “As a matter of fact, the chaplain is not the only nonmedical person who may be found with the dead and dying at this hospital.”

  “Oh?”

  “I have no way of knowing whether you have noticed it, but frequently there will be a police officer present.”

  Koesler scratched his head. “Now that you mention it . . .”

  “Some of our investigations begin right here in the hospital. In the emergency room.”

  “Of course they would. A fatal knifing or shooting would end up as a homicide investigation. As a matter of fact, we almost had one for you the other night.”

  “You mean one of the staff?”

  “The Chief Executive Officer.”

  “Sister Eileen? What happened?”

  Koesler recounted the story of the patient’s attack on Eileen. “Of course no one was seriously hurt and since the assailant was a mental patient, the hospital handled it internally and the police weren’t called. But if it hadn’t been for that alert guard, Sister might have been seriously hurt or even killed.”

  “Any place these days can be dangerous,” Koznicki commented. “But a hospital with its mental patients, and many other patients disoriented, has always been a dangerous place to one degree or another. It was fortunate for Sister Eileen that, as you say, the guard was alert. To be perfectly frank, Father, it surprises me more than somewhat that the security guard was that effectual. At least judging by its reputation, the security service at this hospital is not all that reliable.”

  “That’s not very encouraging. Especially since I have the feeling that Sister Eileen may indeed be in some danger. And not just from unbalanced patients.”

  “Why do you say that, Father?”

  “Actually, I shouldn’t say anything. There is no hard evidence that something’s wrong. It’s just a feeling. Don’t pay any attention to me, Inspector.”

  But Inspector Koznicki had far too much respect for Father Koesler’s intuition to discount a matter about which the priest felt strongly. “No, Father, go on. Tell me what you think may be happening.”

  “Well, that’s just it: Nothing is happening. It’s just that I can’t get rid of this feeling something is about to happen. It’s like a dormant volcano that is rumbling: It may erupt; it may not.”

  “It has to do with Sister Eileen?”

  “Well, yes. From some things I’ve been told and from what I’ve observed, there are a few people on this staff—I really have no idea how many—whose positions would be vastly improved if either this hospital closed or something happened to Eileen. Or both, since Eileen and St. Vincent’s seem to be, in some sense, synonymous.”

  “Who might these people be, Father?”

  “This is just between the two of us?”

  “Of course.”

  “There’s a Korean doctor, Lee Kim, who apparently has been playing fast and loose with hospital policy. Eileen has threatened to dismiss him from the staff. That seems to be kind of imminent. Evidently a dismissal from this institution would cripple his medical career. For the hospital to close, or for something to happen to Sister Eileen before any action were taken in his case, would be extremely helpful to him, to say the least.

  “Then there’s John Haroldson, the chief operating officer. He’s at the age of compulsory retirement. And, while Eileen could waive that requirement, reportedly she will not do so. Haroldson lives for this place. But if Sister Eileen remains here for the foreseeable future, he’ll be gone.

  “And Sister Rosamunda. She is well beyond retirement age. She’s still here because Eileen has waived the requirement in her case. But according to today’s scuttlebutt, Eileen will do so no more. Something to do with Rosamunda’s waning efficiency and also a bit of a drinking problem. Rosie, as nearly everybody calls her, is terrified of being tucked away in some home for ancient nuns. But if Eileen is still here and healthy at the end of this month, Sister Rosamunda will be forced into retirement.

  “On top of that, rumor has it that some nurse’s aide is going to be canned if she happens to break just one more thing in this hospital. And the poor girl apparently can’t put on her shoes without breaking a lace. I mention her not as a particularly strong suspect—for what? . . . nothing’s happened yet—but just to indicate the underlying threat of something that might befall Sister Eileen.

  “And finally, there is Dr. Fred Scott, who has been a source for much of what I’ve just told you. He seems to be the ‘good guy’ in this drama. But I’ve never been completely comfortable with his having taken me into his confidence so completely and so soon after my arrival here. It’s sort of a case of Dr. Scott’s having protested too much.

  “And there you have it, Inspector—for what it’s worth. And it isn’t worth very much. Sort of a scenario without a play. Or a murder without either a crime or a corpus delicti.”

  The Inspector did not reply immediately. When he did, he spoke slowly as if choosing his words carefully. “May I suggest, Father, that perhaps our past professional association—your involvement in some, shall we say ‘lurid’ murder investigations—has sensitized your perception to a degree where you have come to see a prospective homicide around every corner?”

  Recognizing from the priest’s expression that his friend was not all that happy with his analysis, the Inspector hastened to add, “Nevertheless, it is good that you are aware of these possibilities. Sometimes merely the awareness of possible danger helps to avert it.” He grew reflective. “All too often when a homicide does occur, friends, relatives, and acquaintances of those involved profess astonishment, with comments along the line of, ‘I never would have dreamed . . .’Or they express amazement at what they consider the tenuousness of the killer’s motivation.” He shook his head. “One can never gauge the extremes to which a fellow human may be driven by what the rest of us would dismiss as a mere pinprick.”

  He smiled reassuringly. “If nothing else, Father, yours is an interesting conjecture. But,” he added seriously, “it is quite possible, even probable, is it not, that all these things may happen—doctor dismissed, aide fired, older couple retired—without any harm coming to either Sister Eileen or the hospital?”

  “Perfectly possible, even probable,” Koesler replied. He shook his head ruefully. “You’re right of course. And I must say I feel more at ease just for having expressed my fears to you. This must work as confession sometimes does. The talking cure. Just saying it out loud, telling someone, takes a good deal of the onus from what’s been bothering one.

  “So, Inspector, I don’t know whether anyone in this hospital is any safer for my telling you my concerns, but I feel better.” Koesler laughed self-consciously.

  Koznicki joined in the laughter. “Well, then, Father, the evening has not been a total waste.”

  “I’ll just get us some coffee and I’ll shut up so you can tell me what’s going on in your interesting life. We can drink a toast to the prospect of your not being called in here on any official business in the foreseeable future.”

  “Father, gladly will I drink to that.”

  * * *

  Bruce Whitaker was surprised to find that the tacky marquee of the Back Porch Theatre announced a change in the bill of fare. The Manic Sperm had enjoyed one of the briefer runs in show-biz history. After less than a week, The Manic Sperm had been mothballed in favor of a new and equally experimental production of an original drama entitled, The Roamin’ Ovum.

  En route to his attic room, Bruce halted at the rear of the tiny theater. He could not see clearly through the dark and smoke, but there seemed to be no more than th
e usual handful of patrons, some noisily taunting the actors, who, between trying to remember their lines and their cues, returned the ridicule.

  In the brief time Whitaker watched the performance, he had a devilish time trying to make some sense of what was going on. It appeared to be a two-character play. At least there were but two people on stage and no indication anyone else either had preceded or would follow them. He was unable to tell whether the actors were men, women, or one of each. Both had very long hair, both wore bulky and indiscriminate costumes, and both yelled so much their voices were hoarse.

  The plot, as near as Whitaker could define it, seemed to be a contest of shouted insults and imprecations. If there was anything else of substance to the plot, it was the posed question of who was more important in love-making, the male or female. Or, as the actors themselves put it: Who had more fun, the sperm or the ovum? At this point, their clothing dropped to the floor rather astonishingly quickly. Thus solving one puzzle: It was a man and a woman onstage.

  In no time at all, the woman clutched herself into a fetal position and began to roll toward the male. That, Whitaker reasoned, must be whence the play’s title, The Roamin’ Ovum, had originated. Though he had seen neither play from start to finish, it seemed to Bruce that there were great similarities between The Manic Sperm and The Roamin’ Ovum. Now that he thought of it, the playwright’s name on the billboard out front had seemed familiar. The same author had written both plays. Apparently the playwright’s talent was limited to one thought. And that not a very advanced one.

  Whitaker did not wait to learn whether the sperm or the egg had more fun. He didn’t care. Besides, he was very depressed over those damned curtain hooks.

  He continued up to his attic room, an extremely appropriate place in which to feel depressed.

  If all this were not enough, after the performance of The Roamin’ Ovum, Whitaker’s landlord, who had portrayed the Sperm in the theater’s previous and current productions, stormed up to the attic and pounded on the door until it almost came off the one hinge that held it to the frame.

  Strangely, Whitaker never could recall the landlord’s name. Bruce always thought of him as “The Sperm,” though he was never brazen enough to address him as such.

  In any case, The Sperm upbraided Whitaker mercilessly for everything from not sweeping the theater clean enough to not attending any of the performances. This after having ordered Whitaker not to return after he walked out on one of the very few performances of The Manic Sperm!

  Bruce felt very low.

  At the core of his dejection, of course, was his failure to mutilate the IUDs, having attacked instead boxes full of curtain hooks. Added to that was his frustration, fast on the heels of his promise to her, in not having aided Ethel in her quest for security.

  Now he faced the painful necessity of telling all this to his colleagues tomorrow.

  Bruce was strongly tempted to skip the whole thing. What could they do to him if he never again visited Van’s Can? They were in. He was out. If he never returned, they could do nothing till they got out. By then, his parole would be completed and he could get out of town.

  This was a more pleasant thought, so he dwelt on it. Leaving town, all the bad incidents behind him. Maybe—could he dare think it?—Ethel would go with him. He was utterly devoid of any experience in this field. Ethel was the first female, with the possible exception of his mother, who had ever seemed to take a real interest in him. He did not know how to handle this. But he was eager to learn.

  First, he would have to justify Ethel’s faith in him. And he did have more plans. Lots more. He had been studying, asking questions, and making some personal observations. It was quite possible that one or another of these plans could do the job.

  He could see it now: The first of his clever plans that worked would bring the media down on St. Vincent’s Hospital like dry sponges that needed news instead of water. As soon as the glare of publicity hit the hospital, the archdiocese would be forced to take action. And that, without doubt, would push Sister Eileen out of her position in the hospital. St. Vincent’s would once again be a Catholic hospital loyal to the Pope and his teaching authority. And, added boon, he would fulfill his pledge to Ethel. Sister Eileen would be removed and Ethel’s job would be unthreatened.

  He wondered if it would be difficult to convince her to go somewhere else with him. She would have to leave a secure job. But it would be his success that would have secured that job. Given all this, would she see that he was her security and leave with him?

  God, he hoped so.

  This was such a pleasant thought he decided to go to sleep dreaming about it. The whole concept gave him strength to confront his colleagues on the morrow.

  * * *

  Joe Cox lay on his side looking out the window. A light snow was falling. From the high-rise apartment at night, the city resembled a large, self-motivated toy.

  There wasn’t much traffic at this hour. One could watch headlights or taillights, depending on the cars’ direction. Here and there in apartments and offices soft lights illuminated late labor or the winding-down after a day’s work.

  Most hypnotic were the traffic lights regularly signaling nonexistent traffic to stop or go. Cox, with a quiet wish that nothing exceptional would happen this night and that the Free Press would not summon him to report a fast-breaking story in a slow-moving city, had almost drifted off.

  “Whatcha thinkin’ ’bout?”

  Called back from slumber, Cox looked over his shoulder. “For a change, not a thing. I was letting the city lights put me to sleep.”

  “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay.” Cox rolled over on his back. He looked appreciatively at Pat.

  She was propped against a couple of pillows, working a crossword puzzle. She looked as if she were ready to attend a concert rather than retire for the night. Her hair was spread alluringly over the pillow as if it had been carefully arranged. It hadn’t.

  She was working the puzzle with a pen.

  “I swear, someday I’ll see you doing a puzzle on the typewriter.”

  “What was a typewriter?”

  They both chuckled. Neither was sold on the Word processor. As often as possible they would hammer out their stories on typewriters before transferring them to the compulsory processor.

  “How was your day? I haven’t gotten around to asking.” She continued to fill in squares.

  “The ordinary. They’re dragging out that Cobo Hall incident. As usual, they’re trying to nail the mayor on this one. Some on the city council are charging that Maynard Cobb should have insisted on more police protection for that rock concert.”

  Lennon gratefully recalled that if she hadn’t in effect assigned herself to the hospital story, she would be covering the Cobo Hall incident. “Was it poorly policed?”

  “Not really. But who can say? The usual contingents of cops and security guards. The problem is the muggers forgot to tell the cops that it was going to be their night to howl.”

  “At least nobody got killed. How many injured?”

  “I forget. I think about thirty or forty—two or three rapes—less than ten still hospitalized. All in all, a bad show.”

  Lennon reflected that the whole nasty incident had occurred less than a couple of miles from this, their apartment. The sort of affair that contributed mightily to Detroit’s less-than-savory reputation. But that reputation had become a self-fulfilling prophecy. Detroit wins the World Series, and the aftermath, due to a few flare-ups, is described by the nation’s media as a riot. San Francisco wins the Super Bowl and the aftermath, despite a great number of flare-ups, is termed a celebration.

  “Business as usual,” she said. “Everybody wants all the cops in the city at the trouble spot. Yet when there’s no one to respond to a 911, all hell breaks loose. How much longer you think this story’ll run?”

  “A few more days. Cobb will certainly respond to the council’s criticism. Then that should pretty well be that. Unless
some of the injured decide to sue this city.” Cox rolled back facing the window. “How’s your hospital story coming?”

  Absently, Lennon touched Cox’s shoulder and began lightly massaging it. “Okay. The nice thing about one of these magazine pieces is that nobody’s in much of a hurry to get it. Compared with the average news story they want yesterday, there’s a kind of eternal air to a magazine piece.”

  “That nun must’ve been grateful when you told her you weren’t going to get into the contraceptive lead.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Probably the nicest present she’s gotten since Christmas . . . wait a minute: They’ve got a vow of poverty, haven’t they? Kill that and write: nicest present she’s gotten since she was a kid.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Lulled by the gentle massage on his shoulder, Cox began to once more drift toward sleep.

  “Funny thing, though,” Lennon said, “there’s something going on in that hospital.”

  “Huh? Sure, sick people get better or they die.”

  “No, something to do with the nun—Sister Eileen.”

  “What?”

  “I’m not sure. But I’ve got this feeling.”

  “Your spider-sense tingling, Spider Woman?”

  Lennon chuckled. “No, seriously. Like when she took me to the cafeteria for lunch. She introduced me to some of the staff—by the way, I didn’t tell you: Father Koesler is filling in for the regular hospital chaplain.”

  “Koesler . . . Koesler . . . where have I heard that name?”

  “Friend of Walt Koznicki. We’ve covered him a few times in some homicide cases. Don’t you remember?”

  “Oh, yeah . . . chaplain to the homicide department.”

  “He is not.”

  “I know. It’s my mnemonic for him.”

  “It doesn’t work very well: You forgot him.”

  “Then I remembered him again. What about the staff you met?”

  “Well . . .” Lennon set aside her puzzle and pen on the nightstand. “. . . it was in the atmosphere when we sat down to eat with them. Very stilted.”