Deathbed fk-8

by William X. Kienzle

  Only one channel was telecasting. And Snell wasn’t very interested in the offering. After all, how many times could one be expected to watch Laurence Olivier in Wuthering Heights? Shakespeare was all well and good, thought Snell, but not this early in the morning.

  However, given the choice between grainy monitors showing mostly empty corridors, and something—anything—commercial, Snell knew what his selection would be. But, just for luck, periodically he would run the selector switch through the gamut of stations, just in case there might be something, anything, else besides Shakespeare. One never could tell.

  “Where are we going?” Bruce Whitaker was nearing hyperventilation.

  “To the chapel,” Ethel said over her shoulder without slowing a step.

  “The chapel! The chapel’s not on the basement floor.”

  “Not the main chapel; the studio chapel that the chaplain uses to send services and Sunday Mass through the hospital.”

  Bruce tried to concentrate on slowing his heartbeat. “Why should we go there?”

  “Because it’s the emptiest place in the whole hospital.”

  “Oh.” It seemed to be working. His heartbeat seemed to stabilize, but certainly not at a normal rate.

  There was an empty gurney in the hallway. Ethel pushed it into a room in which there was no light whatsoever. Bruce followed her, but stopped just inside the door. He could see nothing in the room. The only illumination was the dim light coming through the door which had been left ajar. Then the door closed. Ethel had closed it. All was black. This was not helping his heartbeat.

  “Come here, Bruce.”

  “Where?”

  “Home in on my voice. Come here. That’s better. Now, kiss me . . . longer . . . like you meant it . . . that’s better.”

  “Wait a minute.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “You’re unbuttoning my shirt.”

  “I sort of hoped you’d do the same for me.”

  “Do you think that is all right?”

  “It’s God’s will.”

  “Never in my life did I want to do God’s will more. But do we have to do it in the dark?”

  “Oh, you want light.” Given Ethel’s self-image, she would have preferred the darkness. “Wait a minute. I think there’s a light switch over here near the door . . . there!”

  “Wow!” Bruce shielded his eyes. “That’s bright! Does it have to be that bright?”

  “That’s the only light there is in this room. This is where they broadcast the services and Mass on closed-circuit television. I guess the light has to be bright.”

  There was no reason that Ethel should have known that she had turned on not only the klieg lights, but also the TV camera. What was transpiring in the studio chapel was being carried, closed-circuit, throughout the hospital on Channel 13.

  As fate would have it, only one person in the hospital was watching television at that early morning hour.

  Out of sheer boredom with Wuthering Heights and on the off chance that something, anything, had begun on another channel, George Snell turned the selector switch once again. Realistically expecting nothing, he flipped past Channel 13; paused, then returned to it. He was unacquainted with that channel since he religiously never watched the Mass or services. But, with relief, he noted there was, indeed, something going on over Channel 13. As far as he was concerned, whatever it was would probably beat out Wuthering Heights.

  “Well, now, what could this be?” Particularly when alone, Snell was known to talk to himself. “This don’t look like one of them big-screen movies. Only two people. And no set to speak of. Just bare walls, far as I can see. A table of some sort off in the background. Some sort of small cart. That’s it? That ain’t much.

  “Hey, wait a minute! What’re they doin’? They’re takin’ off each other’s clothes! This must be one of them cable channels. You’d never get this sorta thing on a network station. Well, well, well, this is gonna beat hell out of that Wuthering Heights. To hell with Shakespeare!”

  He settled back in his chair, keeping his eyes on the screen. Shortly, he edged forward slightly.

  “I don’t know whether they’re actin’ this way on purpose, but those two ain’t very good at this. Hell, he can’t even get her clothes off.” He reflected. “I don’t know; maybe it’s better this way. Most skinflicks, people are dressed one minute and naked the next. But, glory, glory, they sure are makin’ a production out of gettin’ undressed.”

  Although Snell had seen his share of pornographic films, he always found them stimulating. To him, sex was a sport for all seasons, for spectators and participants alike. There were those who acknowledged him, and rightly so, to be an expert. Thus, when he viewed a skinflick, it was as an epicurean critic.

  “They sure as hell need somethin’ bigger than that little cot. Only experts could function on somethin’ that small,” Snell commented. “Amateurs! You’d think at least they could get pros. How did those two rubes ever get cast for a flick like this? It’s come to a sorry state. That’s all I can say. A sorry state!”

  “Is it over? Did we do it?” Bruce Whitaker was perspiring mightily. He wasn’t sure what had happened, but he felt rather indescribably good about it.

  “I think so,” Ethel said. “At least from what I’ve read about it, I think we did it. Did it feel good to you?”

  “I think so. It all happened so fast. I don’t think I was thinking about anything at all. How about you?”

  “I guess I didn’t feel anything. Maybe I’m not supposed to. I’ve heard women say they got nothing out of it. Maybe this is what they mean.”

  “Oh, it couldn’t be that way. God would not be so unfair. If a man is supposed to get something out of it, certainly a woman should too. But what?”

  Ethel pondered that for awhile. “I’ve been thinking,” she announced. “I mean, some of the things I’ve read said that something like this could happen.”

  “Something like this?”

  “Yes. The first time. The books warn that the first time can be disastrous.”

  “Disastrous!” As time passed, Bruce was feeling better and better. “I would hardly say it was a disaster!”

  “That’s right, don’t you see? So, if the books are right, it should get better the second time.”

  “What do the books say?”

  “That the first time is liable to be too rapid and the secret is in slowing everything down, which can be better done the second time. Particularly if the second time immediately follows upon the first time. I think I’m quoting exactly. It also says that when we are able to go slowly, we might become more imaginative. At least we are supposed to open ourselves to our imaginations.”

  “Are you quite sure this is God’s will?”

  “Oh, yes, quite certain.”

  “Then”—Brace’s smile was beatific—”God’s will be done!”

  “There they go again,” said George Snell, who had come close to turning back to Wuthering Heights just as Bruce and Ethel once more launched themselves onto the Seas of Providence. “I don’t know about those two. I don’t think they’ve got much of a future in this sort of thing.” He shook his head. “Skinflicks have come a long way from the days when nobody was sure just how far you could go and what you could get away with. Nowadays, the flicks have got porno pros, young people with great bods. I don’t know if those two could have made it even in the old days. They definitely have not taken care of their bodies. Shame. Nobody ought to neglect their bodies like that.”

  He looked at the screen a bit more sharply. “Wait, that’s not bad! Wonder what happened to that technique the first time around? Maybe that was a teaser. Musta been. They’re beginning to look like pros. And looka that! How many times in a flick like this does the broad look like she’s really enjoyin’ it?

  “And look at the guy! I don’t believe it—he’s going to . . . God, even I—wait a minute! Wait a minute! Wait a minute! He’s going to . . . he couldn’t be . . . he’s not . .
. he is! Holy glory ... it’s the . . . he’s gonna . . . he’s gonna . . . IT’S THE SNELL MANEUVER!”

  George Snell was standing, the chair tipped over behind him. He felt as if his copyright had been violated. He felt as if he’d been violated.

  “Oh, Bruce,” Ethel sighed.

  “Ethel,” Bruce whispered.

  It was just at that moment the explosion occurred.

  “What in hell was that!” Snell cried.

  Bruce and Ethel were dumped from the gurney.

  It was only later, much later, that Snell reflected that the two people he had thought were part of a movie also experienced the explosion at the same instant he did.

  And it was only later, much later, that it occurred to him that he recognized both those people who he had thought were actors.

  12

  Chaos. In what had been an orderly, neat, sterile operating room.

  The police technicians had been at their job for hours. Some, particularly the photographers, had completed their work. All the technicians, as well as the investigating detectives, had treated—and were continuing to treat—the crime area with the reverence reserved for the only witness that was guaranteed truthful: the evidence at the scene.

  Photographs had been taken from almost every angle. Surfaces had been dusted for prints. Detectives were questioning anyone and everyone who was or might in any way be involved in this case.

  A hospital maintenance crew was putting a temporary patch over a huge hole in the outside wall. Since their work was not yet completed, the room was not that much warmer than the 29 degrees Fahrenheit that downtown Detroit was experiencing.

  Uniformed police from the Third (downtown) Precinct were barring entry to inquisitive gawkers while permitting access to legitimate hospital personnel. Thus, among those present in OR One were John Haroldson, Dr. Lee Kim, Sister Rosamunda, and Dr. Fred Scott. Among the gawkers persistent enough to remain at the very edge of OR One were Ethel Laidlaw and Bruce Whitaker.

  Channels 2 and 7, the CBS and ABC affiliates respectively, had completed their filming and departed. But not before Bruce Whitaker had tried his best to interest them in other aspects of the hospital. All, as it turned out, to no avail.

  Gerald Harrington, the smooth, imposing black reporter for Channel 4, the NBC affiliate, was almost ready for his stand-up report. He needed to gather only a bit more information. His crew was setting up camera and sungun.

  By far the most imposing figure in the room was Inspector Walter Koznicki. Imposing, not in any vehement or aggressive manner. If anything, he would more accurately be described as reticent and almost shy. But his bulk was considerable and his demeanor commanding.

  Koznicki had been on the scene almost from the very beginning. As it happened, he had been serving his tour of duty in what the police call Code 2400, which consisted of a driver and an inspector ready to take charge immediately in any emergency. And what had occurred at St. Vincent’s clearly qualified as both a police emergency and a media event.

  At this moment, Koznicki was addressing a biomedical engineering technician, one Frank Reese. Reese had been over the details many times, but this was the first time with the Inspector.

  “I am well aware that you have answered these questions before, Mr. Reese,” Koznicki said, “but I am sure you will be kind enough to go over the matter one more time with me. And I have asked Dr. Scott to fill in the details so that we will have a complete picture of what took place.”

  This benevolent invitation coming as it did from Koznicki was equivalent to a command performance.

  “Dr. Scott, you will begin?”

  “Well, it was late last night, maybe ten-thirty or eleven o’clock, when Sister Eileen was taken to emergency. She was comatose. She had been complaining of headaches and she had been the victim of an assault earlier—though she gave every evidence of having come through that with no ill effects. But sometimes . . .

  “In any case, I ordered a CAT scan, which revealed a subdural hematoma—in layman’s language, the blood was squishing her brain.

  “I scheduled her for surgery stat. But we had the devil’s own time trying to locate the neurosurgeon on call. By the time we located another one and he got down here and we got ready, it was nearly four in the morning.

  “Sister was prepped and placed on the table. Oh, yeah, then something odd happened. Bill started the anesthetic, but the gauge indicated he wasn’t getting any nitrous oxide in the mix. So he checked the tank and it was empty. As a matter of fact, the valve was open. Someone—I can’t think why—had bled the tank.”

  “Let me interrupt, Doctor,” said Koznicki. “If that had been the only thing to go wrong with the procedure, what would have been the effect?”

  “Not very much, really. If the patient had been awake, she just wouldn’t have gone to sleep as expected. No matter what, the anesthetist would have found the problem, just as he did in this case. Then, all he had to do was get a full tank of nitrous oxide and hook it in.”

  “I see. Strange. Please continue, Doctor.”

  “As soon as Bill replaced the oxide, we got started. Sister had already been prepped, of course, so all that was left as a preliminary was to drill into her skull. For that, we needed the nitrogen. That was in the large tank standing near the wall. The circulating nurse went to get it and then, well, all hell broke loose.”

  “Could you be more specific, Doctor?”

  “Oh, sure. Well, she’d just begun wheeling it to the table when it seemed to tip over and fall off the dolly. The tank seemed to rip loose. Then it just took off—it simply took off, like a jet plane. There was this enormous whoosh and the tank shot across the floor and exploded right through the wall there. I guess it ended up where you found it, lodged in the motor of a police car that was parked just outside the hospital.

  “And that’s about it. We were all so shocked, I think the whole team just stood there looking at the hole in the wall. I don’t know how long we did that. It probably seemed longer than it was. But when we finally came to, well, there was work to be done. We got Sister into another OR and did the job. I must admit we were pretty shook. But we got the job done.” He paused. “Funny thing, though: the nitrous oxide tank in there was empty too; Bill had to hook up another one.”

  “And Sister?”

  “She came out of it fine. She’s in ICU, of course, but the prognosis is very good.”

  “Thank God.

  “Now, Mr. Reese: What happened to the tank of nitrogen to cause it to act as it did. An accident?”

  “No way! The manufacturer is well aware of the danger of gas under a lot of pressure, and so are we. So all of us take a lot of precautions.”

  “Enough precautions to avoid anything like this happening?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Go on, Mr. Reese.”

  “Well, I brought another tank in to demonstrate what happened. I showed the other officers.” Reese looked meaningfully at Koznicki to ascertain if the previous explanation would suffice. It would not, Koznicki’s steadfast demeanor made clear. Reese proceeded. “You see this little three-wheeled cart. It’s called an H-Tank carrier. ‘H’ refers to the size. It’s one of the largest tanks.

  “What happened, to begin with, was that whoever did this loosened the cotter pins in the outside wheel. What that did was to guarantee that when somebody started to pull it, the wheel would come off the carrier and the whole assembly would tip over. Still nothing much would happen, ’cause the tank is strapped to the carrier, but most of all the valve assembly and the pressure regulators are firmly affixed to the tank.

  “But what this guy did was he filed almost completely through the base of the cylinder valve. And that’s not something added to the basic tank, like the regulator; the cylinder valve is part of the tank itself.

  “So, you see, the guy fixed the carrier so it would tip over. Then he fixed the valve so it would tear loose from the tank. At that point, about two-hundred pounds of nitrogen per square inch
tried to get out of the tank all at once. Wasn’t nothin’ gonna hold it back. It became a kind of unguided missile. And the rest of it you see. The hole in the wall and a wrecked engine in the police car.”

  “I see,” Koznicki said. “That was a very clear presentation, Mr. Reese, and understandable even to the nontechnician such as myself.”

  “I’m getting practice.”

  Koznicki overlooked the sarcasm. “I have just one or two questions. You say the nitrogen tank, once it was torn loose, became an ‘unguided’ missile. Do you mean, literally, there was no way of telling in which direction it would travel? It could just as easily have injured, perhaps very seriously, someone in this room as it could have gone harmlessly through the wall? Conceivably, might it have been intended for someone in this room? Perhaps the patient who was about to undergo surgery?”

  “I see what you mean: Could it have gone crazy like a deflating balloon? Maybe. A lot depended on how it broke free of the valve. But if you’re counting percentages, odds are it would have acted just as it did. Since it was stationed against the outside wall, the nurse would have started to pull it toward the table so the drill could be hooked up. It would have tipped over on the way to the table. And it would have broken off the valve cap while it was pointed toward the outside wall. So, as long as the break was clean—and the guy filed it down close enough to practically insure that the break would be clean—it was pretty well programmed to go through that wall, just like it did.”

  “I see. Very well. My final question, Mr. Reese, is: You keep referring to the one who was responsible for this as ‘the guy.’ Is there any reason you can think of that it had to be a man?”

  Reese thought for a moment. “No, now that you bring it up. It didn’t require any special strength. Anybody—man or woman—could have loosened the wheel. And filing the valve didn’t need strength as much as just patience, stick-to-itiveness. Anybody could have filed it down. He—or she—would just have had to stay with it awhile.”