Deathbed

us has had an accident or done anything to attract the guard’s attention or anything like that. Now I ask you: Doesn’t that bode well?”

“Maybe. But I still think we’ve got to keep our options open on Father Koesler. He may have to be eliminated.”

“I don’t even want to think about that,” said Whitaker.

“Don’t think about it,” the Fourth Man reassured. “As I said before, we’ll put that on the back burner. We may have to consider it, but, for the moment, let’s just put all our chips on Bruce’s plan. We’re behind you, Bruce.”

“Wait a minute!” The Third Man looked searchingly at the First Man. “Did you take anything from the Big Top again?”

“No . . . .” The First Man hesitated.

“How about the chow cart?”

“No, absolutely not.”

“Then what’s that bulge under your shirt?”

“Nothing.”

“Something. Obviously something.”

“Well, maybe I took a little something out of the Big Top.”

“You’re going to do it to us again, aren’t you, dummy!”

“I’m not doing anything to you guys. It’s just that I get hungry. It’s just for me and don’t worry about it. I can take care of myself. No one is going to catch me at this. I am going to get away with this, just watch.”

And it’s likely he would have gotten away with it if he hadn’t, as he walked past the guard, folded his arms so tightly across his chest that one end of the loaf protruded from the open collar of his shirt. No guard could miss that. And this one didn’t.

*       *      *

“Let me understand this,” Sister Eileen addressed her somewhat apprehensive secretary, “a patient entered St. Vincent’s with a mild case of pneumonia. Her prognosis was good. There were no known complications.”

Dolly nodded.

“Somehow she was put in a test group that was to be given penicillin, even though she had stated that she was allergic to the drug.”

Dolly nodded.

“The admissions clerk’s records show she was given the correct protocol number that would have excluded her from the test group. Yet, that is not the number that was found on her chart. The number on her chart automatically placed her in the study and insured that she would receive the penicillin.”

Dolly nodded.

“We have on record that someone remembers seeing the allergy-warning sticker on her chart. Yet the sticker seems to have just disappeared somewhere along the way.”

Dolly nodded.

“She was given penicillin and we almost killed her. Is all that a fairly accurate history of this patient?”

“Yes, Sister.”

Eileen leaned forward, resting her elbows on the desk. She massaged her temples with her fingertips. “Why wasn’t I told about this immediately?”

“Because”—Dolly shifted her weight; she’d been standing quite a while—“Mr. Haroldson took immediate charge of the investigation. He told everyone you were not feeling well and you were not to be disturbed. But after I thought about it for a while it seemed to me you’d want to know no matter how you felt.”

“I feel fine !” Eileen snapped, though she did not appear well. The unrelenting headache had left her pale and in obvious pain.

“Yes, Sister.”

“On top of it all, the patient might actually have died if Father Koesler had not remembered a conversation wherein she had mentioned her allergy to penicillin.”

“Well, that’s probably true, Sister. Except that the doctors told Mr. Haroldson that they would probably have identified the allergic condition if her symptoms had continued much longer. And Mr. Haroldson says that’s probably true.”

Eileen thought about that for a few moments. “All right, so she probably would not have died. The fact remains, we made her a very sick person.”

Dolly nodded.

“I suppose we ought to prepare for a malpractice suit.”

“I don’t think so, Sister.”

“No?” Eileen was surprised.

“No. It seems Mrs. Power is a very religious woman. According to Father Koesler, she tends to put herself in the hands of God. Father mentioned that she refers to God as ‘Dr. Jesus.’ Anyway, everything that happens to her is fate—”

“Or providence.”

“Yes. So the bad period she just went through—”

“Was God’s will . . . is that it?”

“That’s it.”

“It seems I’ve been getting a lot of ‘good news-bad news’ packages lately.” Her frown intensified. “Whatever else happens, we’ve got to get to the bottom of this. We’ve got to find the responsible party or parties and take appropriate action. This particular calamity seems to have had a relatively happy ending, but there is no doubt it could have been a disaster. We’ve got to find out who’s responsible for this. Dolly, please tell Mr. Haroldson to see me about this at his earliest convenience.”

“Yes, Sister.” Dolly exited.

Eileen continued to massage her temples. Something was wrong; no doubt about that. Never before had she had such a persistent and intense headache. But now was not the time to be sick. So she would not be. She could not be. She had to stay on top of this mess.

Thanks to the remarkable faith of Millie Power, there would be no outside repercussions. But there might have been. There could have been. A malpractice suit could have caused such an increase in their insurance premiums that St. Vincent’s simply could not have afforded it. With no insurance coverage, St. Vincent’s would have been forced, at long last, to close its doors for good and all. And if the unaffordable insurance had not done the job, the media coverage would have accomplished the same.

Cardinal Boyle could be counted on to look the other way as St. Vincent’s fudged on Catholic teaching in order to be relevant to its community. But massive media coverage could not be overlooked. Sister Eileen could not guess how the hierarchy would react to a media expose of St. Vincent’s. And she didn’t want to find out.

In either eventuality—litigation or publicity—St. Vincent’s seemed the loser.

*        *        *

Pat Lennon riffled through her notepad. She appeared to be studying the contents. Actually, her attention was some distance from the city room of the Detroit News. She was thinking about St. Vincent’s. She was supposed to be doing a story on St. Vincent’s. But there wasn’t much connection between her notes on St. Vincent’s and her musings about St. Vincent’s.

She had completed all the research needed for the Michigan Magazine article. She had gathered all the background information and done all the interviews. The facts were scattered throughout her notebook. All she had to do was put them together. But rather than collating the material, she was woolgathering.

It was unlike Pat Lennon. She was a professional who could be depended upon. Editors had become used to giving her an assignment and then not having to be concerned about it again. Lennon would bring it in acceptably and on time. While time on a piece for the Sunday magazine was somewhat more leisurely measured than for the regular daily deadline, she was admittedly procrastinating. She had the data. All she had to do was write it up.

But she was distracted by something she could not quite define. Call it a sixth sense, or intuition, or perhaps a hunch. There was some impending danger at St. Vincent’s Hospital. She had felt it during some of her interviews, notably with John Haroldson and Dr. Lee Kim. There was some unrest among certain of the nursing staff. Even Sister Rosamunda seemed to be holding something back. And Lennon had anticipated nothing but the stereotypical