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 try
ing 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?”
&n
bsp; 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.
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