* * *
“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
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 publication.
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
