Deathbed fk-8

by William X. Kienzle

  “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, fi
nally, 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.