On the negative side: He didn’t have to patrol the ill-lit corridors. Thus he would have no opportunity to find empty rooms with empty beds and a growing list of willing nurses and aides to help fill them. This was the one and only negative factor. But given Snell’s proclivity for rambunctious sex, it was nearly enough to offset all the positive factors.
Upon further thought, he would add one more drawback. It was dull.
He tilted his chair back and propped his feet on the desk. He scanned the four monitors. One was out of order. Well, he thought, three out of four ain’t bad. The three functioning screens revealed little. The areas they covered were, by and large, not sufficiently illuminated to avoid obscuring shadows. Some system, thought Snell; if thieves wanted to clean out St. Vincent’s, nighttime, with a skeleton staff and monitors that were either inadequate or nonfunctioning, would be the time to do it.
Fortunately, there was a commercial television set in the room. It was a miniature set, identical to those provided the patients. The set might be small but the picture was in color and it provided just the distraction that Snell would need to get him through the night.
WKBD-TV, Channel 50, was carrying a rerun of an old “Barney Miller” episode. Snell had seen practically every “Miller” show repeatedly. He now was able to anticipate most of the dialogue. From the first few frames of tonight’s program, Snell instantly recalled the entire plot. Wojo’s girlfriend bakes a batch of cookies. Wojo brings the cookies to the squad room where Sergeants Harris and Yamana eat a goodly supply and then begin to react. Eventually, Barney wants to know what’s happening. A bemused Harris diagnoses that the cookies have been laced with hashish.
Snell could hardly wait for Harris to say he thought there was hash in the cookies. “. . . from the way that I feel . . .” Then Yamana would continue the thought in song: “. . . when that bell starts to peal. Why, it’s almost like being in love.”
Great episode. Snell had always thought Barney Miller was the coolest dude. He intended this as a compliment from one law-enforcement officer to another, of course.
* * *
Before beginning his own evening program, Bruce Whitaker took the time to check out the command center. He was overjoyed to find George Snell ensconced there and completely absorbed by a TV program.
This Bruce took to be a further sign of divine providence. Snell had appeared to be his nemesis. Twice, when Whitaker was on his way toward that ill-fated mission to mutilate the IUDs and while he was altering the pneumonia patient’s chart, he had almost been apprehended by the same guard—George Snell.
But increasingly, Whitaker was becoming convinced that God was prospering his objective.
There was no question that the IUD caper had been botched. But how could anyone have expected him to know the difference between an intrauterine device and curtain hooks when he’d never even seen an IUD and the curtain hooks were in the drawer reserved for IUDs?
On the positive side—and for Whitaker a very definite plus—he hadn’t been caught. That was definitely providential.
God’s protective hand had been even more in evidence in his second attempt, Whitaker thought. While he was altering that woman’s chart, Snell had had him dead-to-rights. All the guard had to do after calling out to him was simply walk the rest of the way down that corridor and Whitaker would have been apprehended red- handed.
But something miraculous had happened: The guard had disappeared somewhere. Figure the odds on something like that! So, Whitaker had been able to finish his work. And even though for the life of him, Whitaker could not remember removing the allergy sticker from the chart, that plan had worked. God was indeed good.
Or at least the plan would have worked if that priest hadn’t interfered. If only the woman had been given the penicillin a bit longer! When she had gotten near death, Whitaker would have seen to it that the news media got the story, and the hospital and all of its immoral deeds would have been exposed for all to see. Then the archdiocese would have been forced to act . . . .
But now he was on the right trail. He knew it. He sensed it. The very fact that his nemesis, Guard Snell, would not be out roaming the halls was an added and very welcome sign that God was with him. God wills it! The battle cry of the Crusades—those of yore as well as this present one.
After checking out the command center, such as it was, Whitaker made his way through the empty corridors en route to the operating room area.
At least Whitaker
Cautiously, Whitaker eased open the door to the operating room area. A soft, indirect light illuminated the area just enough so that anyone unfamiliar with the territory might avoid running into anything. That is, if he—or she—were careful.
At least one possible major block was missing. No one was in the area. Of course there was no elective surgery at this late hour, but there was no emergency surgery either.
Whitaker had the place to himself. Or so he thought. Aware of his penchant for clumsiness, he moved very slowly and carefully. As he moved, he noted that he was colliding with nothing, upsetting nothing, making no noise whatever. This he again interpreted to mean that God was with him.
Whitaker now stood in the doorway of Operating Room One. By now, his eyes had adjusted to the dim light. He looked around the room. It was an old hospital and an old room. But the equipment was about as up-to-date as St. Vincent’s tight budget could afford. It had long been the hospital’s policy that while they must scrimp on some facilities and functions, OR was given a prime budget position.
Whitaker allowed himself a moment of awe at the many complex machines as well as the thorough sterility of the place.
But he knew what he had to do. He’d gone out of his way both to remain undetected and, at the same time, to listen in on conversations of personnel in the anesthesia department. He had also spent considerable time in the medical library. All this research led him to the head of the operating table, the area where the nurse anesthetist would function.
It was easy to find the container of nitrous oxide. The canister was clearly labeled. Deliberately, Whitaker turned the handle, releasing the gas. That was really all he had to do—just let the gas escape.
He then repeated this same procedure in the other operating rooms.
Tomorrow, when the anesthetists attempted to anesthetize their first patients, an inadequate supply of nitrous oxide would be delivered. The patients would be near death. The anesthetists would notice this and “bag” the patients, manually delivering life-saving oxygen. But the operations would have to be canceled. And no one would know why the patients had arrested. Without knowing the cause of this life-threatening situation, they would have to close down the operating rooms—the chief money-making section of the hospital.
If shutting down the operating rooms for unexplainable reasons didn’t qualify as a good news story . . . well, he certainly missed his guess. And once the news people were in here, he’d make certain they became interested in more than the operating rooms.
And that was the scenario according to Bruce Whitaker!
Having done the deed, he moved most cautiously out, taking extreme care to upset nothing. In this, he succeeded. God was good!
The eyes that had watched intently as Whitaker had busied himself in the operating rooms now watched him leave. It was not difficult to remain undetected, shielded by the dim light, the shadows, and the huge machines. Particularly if one were familiar with the area.
Once Whitaker was gone, allowing a few minutes more to make sure he would not return, the figure moved out of the shadows to the head of the operating table.
