Deathbed

by William Kienzle

  “Great. It always feels good to get home. But the time spent at St. Vincent’s was good. I learned a lot,” Father Koesler said.

  Koznicki licked his lips. The liqueur had a pleasant nutty taste. “That is important to you, is it not, Father? That you are always learning.”

  Koesler smiled. “Don’t mention something like that to the few professors of mine who are still living. As a matter of fact, don’t mention it to any of my peers. Both groups would laugh you to scorn.

  “But, yes, as one born out of due time I have become intrigued with learning as much as I can about nearly everything. And in that context, St. Vincent’s Hospital—soon to be of happy memory—was a genuine learning experience.”

  “You are referring to the health-care facility itself or to that most unfortunate episode?”

  “Both. Interesting people. Interesting experience. With a very sad ending, no matter how you look at it.”

  “We have not seen much of each other since the death of Sister Rosamunda and then the trial.”

  “I guess we’ve just been busy. I had so much to catch up on here in the parish. It’s always a bit of a surprise to be confronted with all that accumulates over just a few weeks. Not the mail; I stayed pretty much up on that. No, it’s the decisions that everyone was kind enough to leave to me. Then, of course, you’ve been occupied. You’re always busy.”

  “Life goes on.”

  “And so does death, and murder. And that’s why you’re so busy.”

  Koznicki smiled and sipped at the liqueur.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you, Inspector: Whatever happened to Bruce Whitaker? He seems to have just dropped out of sight.”

  “Oh, yes, Mr. Whitaker. He has moved to California . . . the Los Angeles area. He is married now, you know . . . that nurse’s aide who also was one of your suspects.”

  “Ethel Laidlaw. That’s great. But don’t remind me of ‘my’ suspects. That was when I thought there was a plot afoot to murder Sister Eileen. As it turned out, harming Eileen was almost an afterthought.’’

  “Sometimes one gets a feeling.”

  “That’s what it was, Inspector, a feeling. There was indeed a good bit of animosity in the atmosphere. There really was a lot of ill feeling toward Eileen coming from Dr. Kim, John Haroldson, Sister Rosamunda, and Ethel. Except that it wasn’t a murderous anger ... at least in retrospect it seems not to have been homicidal. That is until the whole scheme fell apart. Then poor John, I feel, just took leave of his senses.

  “I guess we’ll never really know, since all that conflict is resolved now.”

  “But you got on the right track.”

  “Only when Lieutenant Harris pointed out that in the OR no one could have been trying to kill Eileen since no one could have known she would be a surgical patient, let alone that the nitrogen tank would be needed for her. It was more like a paramecium finding its way. Or a mouse successfully negotiating a maze. When I realized we weren’t looking specifically for someone intent on murder, I simply moved one notch over and tried to imagine someone whose moral approach to things might match the MO exhibited by Bruce Whitaker and his friends.

  “That’s when I remembered my conversation with John Haroldson. Of everyone I knew in the hospital, he was the only one whose natural law approach to morality, specifically the indirect voluntary, came very close to what Whitaker was actually doing.

  “I must say, though, Inspector, there is nothing intrinsically wrong with the principle of the indirect voluntary or double effect. It is a very legitimate theological school of thought. But, like everything else, if it gets twisted by a sick mind—as happened with John Haroldson—it can become pathological. And so it did.

  “But, back to Bruce Whitaker. From the news broadcasts and papers, I was never clear on what happened to him. Is it true that no charges were brought against him . . . even after all he did at St. Vincent’s?”

  “I do not blame you for being less than enlightened by the news accounts. After that initial incoherent story in the News, it was almost impossible to get anything clearly until, of course, Mr. Haroldson became perpetrator of record. And that, by the way, is largely what saved Mr. Whitaker from a serious problem.”

  Koznicki paused to take another small sip of Frangelico. It was his plan to make this small snifter of liqueur last until the coffee Koesler had made would be cold and, thus, for more than one reason, undrinkable. Koesler’s coffee was legendary.

  “You see, Father, the prime difficulty in this case always is this business of Mr. Whitaker’s mistaking curtain hooks for intrauterine devices. Everyone knows it must be a crime of some sort. It is just difficult, after that, to remain serious about the whole affair.

  “I remember very well when presenting this case, the prosecuting attorney said, with a straight face, ‘We are talking about first-degree, premeditated mutilation of curtain hooks, right?’

  “You see, it was difficult to be serious after that.

  “But the statutes did reveal that malicious destruction of property under $100 valuation is a misdemeanor. Over $100 is a felony. Since the hooks were worth less than $100, we had no more than a misdemeanor.

  “The only real problem Mr. Whitaker faced was the alteration of a patient’s chart. The technical charge would have been ‘assault with intent to do great bodily harm.’ But since the real harm was done when Mr. Haroldson amended the chart’s alteration, and adding the overall considerations in this case, the decision was made not to charge Mr. Whitaker as long as he made restitution and promised to stop harassing the Catholic Church.

  “When the authorities were finished with Mr. Whitaker, I can assure you he was one deeply impressed young man. Then, his parole and the new probation were transferred to California along with Mr. Whitaker.”

  “But,” Koesler interjected, “what about what Whitaker did in the operating room? I mean, with the nitrous oxide?”

  “In effect, the prosecutor’s opinion was that he had done nothing. Oh, possibly he had created a nuisance for which he would be banned from the hospital. But then, no hospital would ever want his services again.

  “On the other hand, the charge against Mr. Haroldson was most serious. Placing an explosive with intent to destroy and causing damage to property is punishable with twenty-four years in the state prison. But that sentence, as you know, pales when compared with life imprisonment for murder in the first degree.”

  “Yes, I know those sentences were imposed on Haroldson. But I wondered about first-degree murder. After all, he did repent and intended to retrieve the poisoned medication. Except that Rosamunda got there first. And he never intended to do any harm to Rosamunda in the first place.”

  “Well, his repentance may or may not have something to do with his moral guilt. It has nothing to do with his guilt in criminal law. Neither does the fact that he got the wrong person. It is called transferred intent. If a man wants to shoot Inspector Koznicki and the bullet hits Father Koesler instead, he is not innocent of murder because he killed the wrong man.”

  “Poor John!” Koesler noticed that Koznicki’s coffee was not only untouched, it by now appeared quite cold. “Oh, Inspector, may I hot-up your coffee?”

  “Oh, no; no, please! I must be going very soon.”

  “As you wish. You know, I intend to visit John at Jackson sometime soon. It’s such a pity: Here he will be locked up with real criminals probably for the rest of his life. And he could be enjoying a trouble-free retirement.”

  “But that is the point, is it not, Father: that he felt he could not enjoy a trouble-free retirement. That is what led him into this much troubled retirement.

  “Well, I must be going. It is getting late.”

  Koesler retrieved Koznicki’s coat and hat from the closet. “Oh, I meant to ask you, Inspector: What was the poison John used?”

  “Isopto Carpine. An eye medication, highly toxic.

  “He got it from the hospital pharmacy. He tried to use his own key, but the locks had been cha
nged by then. As chief operating officer, he was about the only one in the hospital who could countermand Sister Eileen’s order.

  “Of course, with his having done so he was not thinking very clearly at this point—it would have been easy to trace the drug back to him. However, we did not need to do so as he was in a most confessing mood.”

  The high that had been sustaining Koesler took a sudden dip. “I’m afraid I did not contribute much to help you. You were on the verge of the solution yourself.”

  “Not at all, Father. You discovered the vital link between the crimes we knew of, largely defective though they were, and the crimes we were trying to solve.”

  “But if I had been more perceptive and quicker, I might have been able to prevent Rosamunda’s death.”

  “Possibly. But if you had, Sister now would have been forced into that retirement which she so dreaded. And even if you had discovered the link sooner, Mr. Haroldson would still be serving the twenty-four-year sentence for tampering with the nitrogen tank. And, at his age, the difference between twenty-four years, even with good time, and life may be negligible.

  “Besides, I am quite convinced that you very probably saved Mr. Haroldson from suicide.”

  “You think so?”

  “I am quite certain. So, as they say, God writes . . .”

  “. . .straight with crooked lines.”

  “Exactly. Well, thank you, Father, for the lovely meal and, as usual, for good companionship.”

  “Not at all, Inspector. You sure you wouldn’t like a little hot coffee before you go out into the cold?”

  For a moment, Inspector Koznicki toyed with the idea of telling his friend the truth about the execrableness of his coffee. Almost, but not quite. It was late and he wanted to get home.

  “I think not, Father. Thank you just the same.” And the Inspector departed.

  Koesler closed the door and reflected. It was odd. As often as he dined at other people’s homes or in restaurants, everyone usually had more than one cup of coffee. Sometimes several cups. Yet he could not recall anyone’s ever having more than one cup of his coffee. Often, the first cup was never finished.

  It was a mystery he simply could not solve.

  * * *

  “Do you still love me?”

  “Of course I do; don’t be silly.”

  “I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t.”

  “How can you say a thing like that?”

  “You know!”

  “Ethel, I love you. With the exception of my mother and Holy Mother Church, you’re the only one I’ve ever loved. Now, it’s late. Why don’t we just go to sleep. I’ve got a busy day tomorrow.”

  “That’s it, Bruce!”

  “What’s it, Ethel?”

  “Your busy days.”

  “Ethel, do you remember just a few weeks ago? Your hospital was going out of business and you were about to be unemployed with absolutely no prospects for another job.”

  “I remember.”

  “And I was in a holding cell charged with a misdemeanor and a felony. And I couldn’t afford a lawyer. And I had failed miserably in my mission. The only reason the mission finally worked is because somebody much smarter was following me around doing things right. And I couldn’t even get in touch with my three friends in Van’s Can because they were being held incommunicado because of the riot there.

  “And because we’ve started a new life and they would never understand, I will probably never see them again. And it was only because of a miracle and a sympathetic judge that the charges against me were dropped. And, finally, it was only through the grace of God and your faith in me that I got this job out here.”

  “So what are you driving at, Bruce?”

  “What I’m driving at, Ethel, is that you and I just ought to be real grateful for what we’ve got and not ask any questions . . . see?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Look. I could be in jail. You could be on the outside waiting for me, maybe for a lot of years. Or we could both be free and both be out of a job and lucky just to live in some godforsaken barn like the Back Porch Theatre attic. . . see?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. I gotta admit I like your title . . . associate director. And the corporation is certainly high class. Gosh, the Center for Id Expression runs lots of big ads in lots of expensive magazines. And the Maharidian Maker Shalal Hash Bash is a great boss. At least he’s been very generous so far.

  “But Bruce, I can’t help being jealous . . . what wife could?”

  “Ethel, I’d be the first to admit that I am not all that wise in the ways of the world. But I gotta think that most wives would be very happy if their husbands brought home $33,000 a year plus incentives. That’s not hay.”

  “Maybe so, but most wives’ husbands aren’t sex therapists.”

  “Somebody’s got to do it.”

  “I suppose. But—it’s only natural—I still get jealous of all those women who have you all day long.”

  “Ethel, what can I do? Before I met you I proved beyond the shadow of a doubt that I could do nothing. Not anything. And then, in one magic moment, on a cart in a chapel in a Catholic hospital I discovered a talent that—well, let’s face it, Ethel: the chapel, the Catholic hospital, the way we are destined to do God’s will—it’s a talent that’s got to be God-given.”

  Ethel smiled in spite of her fears. “That was a magic moment, wasn’t it, Bruce?”

  “Yeah, it was. I never did anything right before in my life. But that moment! There was something about that hospital. It was like the power was flowing out of someone else—God, I guess—and flowing into me. Right after I experienced my reaction and felt your response, I knew this was a God-given gift and it had to be used for the betterment of mankind.”

  “Womankind.”

  “Whatever. Anyway, it felt kind of funny making a demonstration tape and sending it to the Maharidian. But since I was doing it with you, it wasn’t so bad.”

  “And it was on the strength of that tape that you were hired.”

  “That’s true, Ethel. But in no time now I’ve worked my way up here at the Id Center to be the number-one surrogate. You should be proud.”

  “I am. But I’m jealous too.”

  “Don’t be. I’m doing it for the greater honor and glory of God—like the Jesuits say—AMDG. Besides—now don’t you go telling this to anyone; it might ruin me—”

  “Okay.”

  “I don’t get any pleasure from it.”

  “You don’t get any—! How can that be?”

  “I save all my pleasure for you.”

  “You do?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Oh, Bruce. That makes me so happy. I’m even happier now that the Maharidian has named it—you know, the thing—after you.”

  “Uh-huh. The Whitaker Maneuver! Can we go to sleep now, Ethel?”

  “Sure, Bruce.”

  “Bruce?”

  “What, Ethel?”

  “Could we do it just once? It helps me go to sleep real good.”

  “Ethel!”

  “Please.”

  “Oh, okay. Give me a moment.”

  “Are you ready yet?”

  “Wait a minute.”

  “Yet?”

  “Um-hmm.”

  “Now?”

  “Oh!”

  “Bruce, I think you’re ready.”

  “It’s God’s will!”

  “God’s will be done!”

  Acknowledgments

  Gratitude for technical advice to:

  Sgt. Roy Awe, Homicide, Detroit Police Department

  Ramon Betanzos, Professor of Humanities, Wayne State University

  Patricia Chargot, Staff Writer, Detroit Free Press

  Jim Grace, Detective, Kalamazoo Police Department

  Mary Ann Hayes, R.N.

  Timothy Kenny, Deputy Chief of the Criminal Division, Wayne County

  Prosecutor’s Office

  Patrick McAlinden, Director of Treatmen
t, Western Wayne County Correctional Facility

  Sgt. Daniel McCarty, Police Arson Unit, Detroit Police Department

  Neal Shine, Senior Managing Editor, Detroit Free Press

  Samaritan Health Care Center, Detroit:

  Sister Bernadelle Grimm, R.S.M.

  Sister Rose Petruzzo, O.P., Director, Department of Pastoral Care Service

  Sister Genevieve Shea, S.L.W., Chaplain

  Sister Marie Thielen, R.S.M., Vice President for Sponsorship

  The Reverend Roland Schaedig, Chaplain

  James Culver, Pharm. D., Director of Pharmacy

  Donald Grimes, Quality Assurance Coordinator, Pharmacy

  Dolly Wasik, Secretary, Pastoral Care Department

  Barbara Wineka, Director, Department of Volunteer Services

  Mt. Carmel Mercy Hospital, Detroit:

  Thomas J. Petinga, Jr., D.O., FACEP, Chairman, Department of Emergency Medicine

  Rosemary Clisdal, R.N., Assistant Charge Nurse, Department of Emergency Medicine

  William M. Collins, CRNA, Staff Anesthetist, Department of Anesthesia

  Vivien Dishmon, R.N., Assistant Head Nurse, Department of Surgery

  Scott T. Harris, M.D., Chief Surgical Resident, Department of Emergency Medicine

  Willard S. Holt, Jr., M.D, FCCP, Chairman, Department of Anesthesia

  Gloria Kuhn, DO., FACEP, Director of Residency, Department of Emergency Medicine

  Maureen Loose, R.N., Staff Nurse, Department of Surgery

  Bob Mahanti, Surgical Assistant, Department of Surgery

  James Patton, Biomedical Engineering Technician

  Robert Roussin, R.N., Assistant Charge Nurse, Department of Emergency Medicine

  Deathbed copyright © 1986, 2012 by Gopits, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever except in the case of reprints in the context of reviews.