Deathbed fk-8

by William X. Kienzle

  And, of course added to all this, like a preternatural gift, would be . . . the maneuver.

  He completed the shower, stepped out, and was about to dry himself when he recalled he was supposed to present himself fresh from the Ocean. Kinky. He liked that in a woman.

  “Aha!” He bounded into the room in a mikadoesque stance. By anyone’s standards, he was ready.

  “Aha! Ethel! Prepare to meet your fate . . . Ethel? Ethel?”

  She hadn’t mentioned anything about hiding. Besides, that was carrying this thing just a bit too far, dammit! There was such a thing as too much foreplay.

  “Ethel?” He looked in the closet. He looked in the two adjoining offices. “Ethel?” He looked under the bed. That was it. There was no place left to hide.

  She was not there. Could you believe it? After all, she was the one at whose initiative this whole thing had begun. Now she was nowhere to be found.

  And that was by no means all.

  His clothing was gone. All his clothing.

  Whatinhell am I gonna do now? There’s nothing left. And I didn’t get to use the maneuver. In fact, I haven’t used it since I got to this rotten place. Use it or lose it.

  But for the present, he had to get out of here, saving as much face as possible.

  Reacting as much from panic as anything else, he stripped the bed of its brown blanket, which he wrapped around himself. Cautiously, he let himself out of the room. Step by step, he inched along the welcome shadows of the corridor. When he reached the seemingly empty lobby, he knew he would have to make a dash for it. The switchboard operator was the sole inhabitant of the brightly lit foyer. She seemed absorbed in a paperback romance.

  He made a break for it, bare feet hardly making a sound as he pitterpattered over the terrazzo floor. No sooner was he outside the building than the bone-chilling cold of a January night hit his basically bare body with Arctic force. Cursing Ethel, he danced his way across the pavement and through the parking lot as if proving his faith over hot coals.

  George Snell, macho man that he was, never locked his car. So it was no problem for him to hot-wire the vehicle and get the heat going. For the first time in many minutes he could now relax slightly. He would drive home, don his other uniform, and get back here to try to retrieve the missing uniform at least in time to check out.

  As for Ethel, that crazy broad, he was unsure whether he never wanted to see that unmitigated pain again, or whether, to ease his dark night of the soul, he wanted just enough time with her to dissect her. Sufficient for later thoughts of revenge. Right now, he had to salvage what he could of his reputation as defender of the hospital and God’s gift to women.

  * * *

  Bruce Whitaker continued to make his way through the corridors as quietly and unobtrusively as possible. He had dropped the pliers only three more times. Fortunately, having eluded that guard, he was challenged by no one else.

  From time to time he caught a glimpse of someone who seemed to be preceding him down the hallways. A small figure hugging the walls and courting the shadows, much as was he. Now that was puzzling. But, whatever; he had his mission, which happened to coincide with God’s holy will, and he must carry it out.

  At long last, he reached the clinic. All along the way, he had wondered what had happened to the guard who had nearly discovered him. Strange. The man must have become preoccupied with whoever had made that distracting sound. Whitaker attributed it to providence. He had a tendency to attribute most of his luck to providence. Except that, in most instances, his luck was bad. This was an exception.

  Which made him wonder why, with a run of good luck going for him, something was going on in the clinic. No one should be in there at this hour. Given the infamous security of St. Vincent’s, it had been relatively easy to get a duplicate key made. But now he didn’t need it. The door was unlocked. Someone was in there. He detected a wavering flashlight beam. Someone was moving about, surreptitiously.

  Carefully placing the pliers inside his jacket pocket—a decidedly good move—Whitaker quietly eased his way into the clinic. He found a position from which he could see what was going on, yet be far enough removed so he would not, in turn, be seen.

  Once his eyes grew accustomed to the dark, he could see rather well. The dim glow from the streetlight glinting off the fresh snow cover added to the small illumination of the flashlight, making it possible to identify the person who had preceded him into the clinic.

  Sister Rosamunda. What in the world could she be doing here? She was rummaging about in a section that contained many bottles. She seemed to know what she was looking for and where to find it. She removed two bottles from a shelf and placed them within the folds of her ample traditional habit. Then she turned out the flashlight and moved toward the door.

  As she departed, she walked within ten feet of him. Seemingly, she did not notice him. He stood stockstill and made no noise. That in itself was a small miracle. Under ordinary circumstances, in a situation like this, he would have sneezed, coughed or, in his very intention not to move a muscle, knocked something off a shelf.

  This time, he did not. Providence. His good luck continued.

  Sister was gone. Whitaker stayed motionless for a short while, letting the peace, quiet, and emptiness of the place wash over him. Of course there were those institutional noises that old buildings make—squeaks and groans. But, in time, they took on a lulling character.

  He grew quiet within himself. He felt his pulse. It seemed regular, and slow enough. He guessed that his blood pressure might be close to normal—which, in itself, was a bit abnormal.

  It was time. He must carry out the mission with which his colleagues had entrusted him.

  He moved forward. Carefully, he picked his way among the cabinets filled with fragile containers. He could not believe he was doing all this, especially in relative darkness, without breaking anything or causing any commotion.

  His narrow penlight beam fell on it. There it was. The drawer with the label reading, “IUDs.” He opened it. There were several boxes inside. He removed the first box, put it on a nearby counter, and opened it.

  So this was what it was all about. Even so he was not sure what it was all about. Not only had he never seen an IUD, he was pretty much unfamiliar with female anatomy. But, putting two and two together, he came up with what he hoped was four.

  This form of contraception, according to the best lights of Bruce Whitaker, took place in the following manner:

  Through intercourse, the male deposited the germ of human life in the female’s womb (as in “. . . blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus”). This germ, or seed, grew in the womb for nine months. However, if an IUD were inserted, there would not be room enough for both the device and the baby. Thus, since the device was metallic and the baby mere flesh and blood, eventually the device would push the baby out before due time. There was no danger to the woman. She just let the baby and the device fight it out.

  But all that was about to be changed.

  Whitaker removed the first device from the box. So this was it. This was the tool of the devil that interrupted pregnancies against the teachings of the Holy Pope of God and his bishops.

  With his pliers, Whitaker twisted one end of the device slightly out of shape, then with the side cutter pinched off one blunted end, creating a cruelly sharp point.

  He deeply regretted the need to do this. But it was his mission. He must do it over and over—to each of these devices. It would take him the better part of this night. But never again, in this clinic at least, would women get away with forcing their babies out of their wombs with impunity. Now they would begin to pay for their crimes as the sharp, twisted edge of the device would tear at their wombs.

  Actually, he and his colleagues were certain this bloody procedure would not be repeated that frequently. It wouldn’t take many perforated wombs before the attention of the medical and police establishments would be focused on St. Vincent’s. The hospital’s immoral practice of contrace
ption would be publicized by newspapers, TV, and radio.

  The local Church authorities would not have the luxury of looking the other way. They would be forced to take action against the sins of this hospital.

  Then would he and his colleagues be vindicated. Of course their identity would have to remain secret. But the important thing would be that they had served God and the true Church. That would be reward enough.

  Besides, the cloak of anonymity would protect them for further work for the Church. Then would their martyrdom of imprisonment be avenged.

  He found it difficult to believe he was actually carrying this off. It was a smooth operation. As he went through box after box, altering the IUDs, he found it arduous, monotonous work. But, in his hands, it was a labor of love.

  * * *

  “I been tryin’ to raise you for ’bout an hour. Where you been?” Chief Martin seemed more amused than angry.

  “Oh, around. “ Guard George Snell gave every indication that he would not go out of his way to communicate.

  “Been quite a while since you started your tour of duty.”

  “I guess.”

  “Have any trouble?”

  “Can’t say that I did.”

  “Anything unusual happen?”

  “Just the usual. Place’s pretty quiet now.”

  “Uh.”

  “Any calls?”

  “Nope. Say, I see you’re not wearing your beeper. That must be why I couldn’t contact you.”

  “Oh”—as if noticing for the first time—“I must have left it home.”

  “Strange; I thought I saw it on you earlier . . . when you first got in tonight.”

  “No... I musta forgot it.”

  “Mmmmm. “ Martin reached under his desk, fished about, and came up with a small black electronic device. “Could this be yours?”

  Snell’s jaw dropped. He felt as if he had stepped into a pit and was sinking deeper by the minute. “I don’t think so . . . couldn’t be: I forgot mine at home.”

  “Oh, then this isn’t yours either. “ Martin edged a carton out from under his desk. It contained a uniform. Identical to that which George Snell was wearing.

  Snell stared at the box, speechless.

  “This is yours.” It was more a statement than a question.

  “. . . uh . . . what makes you think so?” Snell tried to defer inevitability as long as possible.

  “For one thing, it’s an extra-large that’s been let out. You’re my only guy who wears anything that big. For another, the jacket’s got a food stain—which I noticed when you showed up for work tonight and which the jacket you’re wearing hasn’t got. For another thing, your beeper was attached to the belt.

  “And finally, you’re the only guy I know who would wear bikini undershorts with red hearts all over ’em.”

  During the ensuing pause, Snell assessed the evidence. “That’s my uniform,” he finally concluded.

  “I know it’s your goddam uniform! What I want to know is how you happened to lose a whole goddam uniform on duty—including your shoes, socks, and underwear!”

  “. . . uh . . . where did you find it?”

  “I didn’t. One of the other guys checked out the laundry. Somebody threw the whole goddam mess down the chute.

  “I repeat: How’d you lose every stitch you were wearing—while you were on duty?”

  “. . . uh . . . I’d rather not say.”

  Martin leaned back in his chair. “Rather not say, eh? Well, I’m certain sure you’ll get bugged by the other guys, so, eventually you’ll talk.”

  “. . . uh . . . the guy who found it: Does he know it’s mine?”

  Martin shook his head. “So far, only me—and you.”

  “What’s it gonna cost for you to sit on this?”

  “I thought we’d get to that. One: From now on, you show up on time and don’t leave early. Two: You keep a log on where you are when you’re on duty. Three: No more loafing around. Keep movin’ all the time you’re on. And that, of course, means no more nookie.

  “I may think of some more later on . . . but that’ll do for the moment. Deal?”

  Snell, shifting from one foot to the other, gave it some thought. “Okay, deal.”

  “Good. Might just as well start now. Get your ass moving; you’re still on duty. You can pick up your . . . spare . . . uniform after your shift.”

  Snell resumed his patrol. He knew—there was no doubt—he’d never be able to live up to that agreement. He’d have to figure out how to explain tonight’s embarrassing episode or how to deal with unemployment. Neither alternative was attractive. But one had to plan for one’s future.

  As soon as Snell left the office, Chief Martin began to chuckle. Then he began to laugh. He spent the rest of the night either chuckling or guffawing as he pictured Snell tiptoeing down the corridors, then dashing through the cold and having to drive home, all while virtually naked. Given Snell’s history and reputation, there was little doubt what had occasioned his nakedness. The only missing part of the puzzle was the identity of the broad who had turned the tables on Snell and screwed him. All in good time. All in good time.

  * * *

  “So what’s got you so preoccupied?” Joe Cox asked.

  “What?” Pat Lennon had, indeed, been lost in thought. “Oh, sorry.”

  “Nothing to be sorry about . . . you’ve just been mighty quiet this evening.”

  “Oh, a problem I’ve been trying to work out.”

  “Want to talk about it?”

  “Nothing much to talk about . . . it’s a decision I’ve got to make.”

  “Okay.”

  The television was on, but neither was paying much attention. Cox had been alternating between mild attentiveness to PBS’s offerings and the latest USA Today.

  Lennon had been paying even less attention to TV. Mostly, she’d been staring out of the window both meditatively and absently. Reclining on the sectional couch, it was easy to be mesmerized by the view from their apartment high atop Lafayette Towers.

  Only the main thoroughfares had been plowed and/or salted. Most of the side streets in Detroit had only one hope of snow removal: spring. From this perch, one certainly had an overview. One fascination was to watch two cars traveling toward each other on the same side street. Each had little opportunity but to follow the ruts carved out of the hardened snow. Eventually, that would lead the cars on a literal collision course. When that inevitably happened, it was interesting to see which driver would back off and how.

  While watching the sparse traffic flow, Lennon was trying to reach a decision on how she should treat her St. Vincent’s story.

  As far as she could judge, the raison d’etre of the hospital had become quixotic. More than a century ago, St. Vincent’s had been a necessity for the city—the region, for that matter. It had once been the only hospital in the Northwest Territory. But over the decades things had drastically changed.

  Where once St. Vincent’s was Detroit’s necessity, now, arguably, the city could get along without the hospital. Particularly in the core city, the municipally owned hospitals were adequate—roughly—for the patient load. The well-to-do to the downright wealthy who inhabited downtown’s swank high-rises and townhouses would, outside of the most pressing emergency, never see the inside of any of the area’s hospitals. Their doctors were affiliated with only the better suburban health-care facilities.

  As for the poor who were trapped in the inner city, they made few if any elective visits. Governmental charity addressed only the most crucial medical problems, and then only for the briefest periods.

  Her original slant on this had been, she was convinced, an honest feature piece for the magazine. What she had stumbled on was quite another story. A Catholic hospital giving broad birth control counseling, providing contraceptives, even performing sterilizations, was front-page news. No doubt of it. She was too good a journalist not to recognize that.

  The problem was the probable consequence following publi
cation.

  Could she blow the whistle on this operation? Certainly end the career of Sister Eileen Monahan? Likely cause the closure of this if nothing else historically important hospital?

  Many nonjournalists would have little difficulty making the decision not to publish. Possibly only another journalist could understand her inner turmoil. As defense attorneys are expected to defend no matter how they feel about or what they know about their clients, reporters are expected to report. Editors and publishers are expected to be concerned about what to publish. Reporters report and frequently must struggle and scramble in order to do so.

  That tendency to report is simply more finely tuned in the case of a staff writer of the caliber of a Pat Lennon.

  At this moment, she was trying to reach a less drastic, but possibly contributory, decision: whether to let Joe Cox in on her problem.

  Lennon and Cox were an interesting study. Few would argue that the two were among the best, if not actually the best, investigative reporters in the city. At one time both had worked out of the Detroit Free Press. Lennon had moved to the News several years ago. So now, while they competed for stories, they also worked for genuinely competitive publications.

  In this, Detroit was among the dwindling number of fortunate major cities whose metropolitan newspapers were in sharp contrast with one another in almost every conceivable facet.

  During the time both had been at the Free Press, Lennon and Cox had begun living together without benefit of clergy. Each had a previous marriage; neither had children. Both felt they had chanced upon something rare and fine: a relationship that found them loving each other and growing in that love. It was the epitome of what one might hope to find in an exemplary marriage. Neither wished to chance mucking up what they had by getting the certificate that society expected them to acquire stating they were married.