10
“It was all a matter of timing.”
“Timing!”
“Yes,” affirmed Whitaker. “The timing was off just a bit.”
“Bah! “ said the Third Man. “That’s like a weather forecaster saying that if only the day had lasted forty-eight hours, his prediction of rain would have come true.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“Hear him out,” said the Fourth Man.
“Everything worked!” Whitaker said in a tone of incredulity. “It worked just as I had it planned. They gave her the penicillin routinely, without asking any questions or informing anyone else. Just because her chart indicated she was in that study group, they gave her the penicillin. And she had her allergic reaction to it. She got sick and she was getting sicker as time went on.”
“So what was wrong with the timing?” the First Man demanded.
“I’m getting to that. I was watching her very carefully. I was waiting for her to get sick enough so that they would really worry about her dying. Then I was going to get a note to that reporter—Lennon—and inform her of what was going on. That a patient was dying because the hospital messed up her chart and, even though she told them she was allergic to it, they were giving her penicillin for her pneumonia. Once the reporter got involved in saving the woman from the hospital’s mistake, she would have to report what’s going on there. And just as soon as the media started getting in there, the lid would come off.”
“He’s right, you know,” the Fourth Man said. “When a Catholic hospital refuses to follow the clear teachings of the Catholic Church, that’s news. All we have to do is show them what’s going on.”
“Oh, yeah?” the First Man said. “If that’s so, then why didn’t that reporter write up the hospital’s policy on birth control? She knew about it. You led her to it. Or so you said!”
“I did lead her to it! And she did see what was going on! And after that . . . I don’t know!”
“Quiet down,” the Fourth Man cautioned, “or that guard will come over and break up our meeting.”
“I don’t know,” Whitaker repeated in a more restrained tone. “I really don’t. Somebody told me she was working on a feature story on the hospital. But I don’t know; if she changed her mind and was going to do a story on the immoral birth control, she would have just done it. Don’t you think?”
“All I can think of is that the nun must have charmed her, or scared her, or something. But I’m positive Lennon could not look the other way if I could have handed her the story of how the hospital was killing one of its patients. And we would have had it all—the story would have been out and Lennon would have stopped the experiment before it had gone too far and killed the patient!”
“Okay,” the Third Man said, “if, as you claim, you finally did something right, what happened? What threw your goddam timing off?”
“Watch your language!” the Fourth Man cautioned. “There’s no need to take the Lord’s name in vain!”
The Third Man shrugged. “What threw your timing off?”
“That priest! Koesler!”
“What! How?”
“Somehow he found out what was going on. I don’t know how. But he told one of the nurses that the patient was allergic to penicillin. The only thing I can figure is that the woman herself must have told him. It’s the only way he could have known. Just lucky!”
“Was he ‘just lucky’ when he saw through our plot to even the score with those seminary professors a few years ago? Was it just luck that put us in here?” the Third Man challenged.
“You’re right,” the First Man said. “You’re absolutely right. Koesler is a clear and present danger to us. He’s going to ruin our plan again.”
“Unless we do something about it!” The Third Man’s meaning was evident.
“Now, wait a minute!” Whitaker said.
“Yes, wait a minute!” the Fourth Man agreed.
“Why not?” the Third Man pressed. “We are just trying to do God’s holy will and Koesler keeps getting in our way.'
“He’s a priest!” Whitaker protested.
“So? What was it, you know, Peter O’Toole said—Will no one rid me of this troublesome priest?”
“Yes,” Whitaker said, “and they went out and killed Thomas a Becket. And he became a saint.”
“That was different. Henry was wrong. And we are doing God’s work. I only brought that up to show that it’s possible to at least think about killing a priest.”
“The whole thing makes me shudder,” Whitaker complained. “We are doing God’s will. We’re not trying to kill anybody.”
“We may have to.”
“I don’t want to think about it.”
“Let’s just put that notion on the back burner,” the Fourth Man said. “What we must consider is where, if anywhere, we are going from here.”
“I’ve got another idea,” Whitaker volunteered.
“No!” the First Man said.
“Not again,” the Third Man said.
“Let’s hear him out,” the Fourth Man said.
“I’ve been keeping my eyes and ears open and I’ve got a plan. A very good plan. What would you say if I told you I could shut down the operating room?”
“I’d say you couldn’t do it,” said the Third Man.
“I’d say so what?” the First Man said.
“So what,” Whitaker replied, “is just this: The operating room is the hub of the hospital. It’s where the hospital makes most of its money. If the operating room closes down, there is no possible way the hospital can avoid tons of publicity. It’s like a baseball team trying to play without any pitchers. I guarantee you, once the operating room closes, there will be reporters, radio, and TV crews all over the place. From that point on, it will be easy to get them interested in ‘other things’ that are going on in that supposedly Catholic institution.”
“So,” the Third Man evidently was not convinced, “how can you do that?”
“Leave it to me.”
“Ha!” the Third Man commented.
“We have no one else,” the Fourth Man said. “We must leave it to you. We put our trust in you. “
“Thanks. I won’t fail you. And ... I have this feeling. I mean there are a couple of portents that seem to indicate that things have turned around for us . . . that things are looking up.”
“What are they, Bruce?” The Fourth Man said. “God knows, we certainly could use a favorable sign or two.”
“Well, for one thing, there was that control-group experiment at the hospital.”
“You mean when you got the patient to be given penicillin when she was allergic to it?”
“Yes. I overheard some of the hospital personnel talking about it, several times, as a matter of fact. They kept talking about how not only did she have the wrong protocol number that would include her in the experiment, but she also did not have any sticker on her chart that indicated she was allergic to the medicine.
“So I remember very clearly removing the number they gave her when she was admitted and substituting the number that would put her in the experiment. But I don’t remember pulling off the sticker that said she shouldn’t be given penicillin.”
“How could you—”
“That’s just it—I must have. There was no other way it could have worked. I take that as a sign—a sign that things are turning around for us. It was a miracle, I guess, how that sticker disappeared from the lady’s chart. It must have been a miracle. I didn’t take the sticker off—and yet, I did. What else could anyone call it?”
“Dumb luck,” the Third Man said.
“Maybe he’s right,” the Fourth Man said. “Anyway, Bruce, you said there were a couple of portents that augured well for us. What else beside the disappearance of the telltale sticker?”
“Well, this very meeting right now. We’ve been talking for a long time and nothing’s gone wrong. Not one of
