Before leaving the operating room, the mysterious figure dropped rubber gloves into a waste container. A precaution Bruce Whitaker had not thought to take.
11
“‘. . . Sincerely yours, et cetera.’ And Dolly, make sure that letter gets in tomorrow morning’s mail. It’s important that the Cardinal has advance notice that I won’t be able to attend next week’s vicariate meeting.”
“Yes, Sister.” Dolly had filled many notebook pages with Sister Eileen’s dictated letters. Ordinarily, instead of asking Dolly to stay late, Sister would have used the tape recorder. But tonight, it was as if Eileen were doing something akin to making out her last will and testament. She had caught up on all her correspondence, which was unusual for her. Odder still, she had cleared her calendar for the foreseeable future, canceling appointments and appearances. Dolly could not understand it. But she was not the type to question superiors.
Eileen gently massaged her forehead. She was not sure what was causing the pain. But if she could not shake it soon, she would be forced to let one of the doctors see if he could find anything. Meanwhile, she was so sure she was going to be incapacitated for at least some time, that she had kept Dolly overtime to finish the letters and clear the calendar. And now both were completed.
“Oh, and Dolly, as soon as you can, get someone from maintenance to change the locks on the cabinets and drawers in the pharmacy. And tell them to make sure only the pharmacists have the new keys. Then tell the pharmacists that it is my express order that they let no one else use their keys. No one, no matter who.”
“Yes, Sister.”
“That’ll be all for tonight, Dolly. You’d better get home and get some sleep. There’s a heavy snowfall predicted for the early morning hours. If you can’t get in on time, don’t worry. Just make sure sometime tomorrow you get those letters out. And that notice to maintenance and the pharmacists. That’s important. And Dolly: Thanks.”
“You’re most welcome, Sister.” Dolly exited into the outer office, where she put her notes together. She expected she would indeed be late arriving for work in the morning and she wanted everything lined up so she could get it all finished tomorrow. A feat she would accomplish only if there were no unforeseen obstacles.
She dialed the superintendent of maintenance and told him of Eileen’s order. Dolly knew Joe to be conscientious; he would not be upset at being called at home. Joe would, she knew, be in at the crack of dawn or earlier no matter how bad the weather became. And he would see to it that the parking area and the approaches to the hospital were cleared of snow.
Now that the pharmacy matter was taken care of, there was just the paperwork to do tomorrow. Dolly bundled herself warmly and made certain she had car keys in hand.
She was about to leave when she heard a small cry and a thud.
Dolly hurried to Sister Eileen’s door. She knocked. When there was no answer, she timidly opened the door and peered in.
Sister Eileen was sprawled on the floor. Clearly, she was, at best, unconscious.
Dolly experienced a moment of panic. But, with no one in the immediate vicinity to call on for help, she quickly pulled herself together and dialed emergency.
* * *
Dr. Fred Scott was told about the headaches Sister Eileen had been suffering. He knew she had been assaulted the other evening. Putting the two together, he ordered a CAT scan, which revealed what he suspected: Sister Eileen had a subdural hematoma.
Under the best of circumstances, this would be serious. But Eileen was in her late sixties and undoubtedly had been suffering from this condition for up to forty-eight hours. On top of which, she was a nun. Thus, particularly in a Catholic hospital, a Very Important Person. And on top of that, she was chief executive officer. Thus, anywhere, she was a Very, Very Important Person.
Nevertheless, standard protocol was followed.
Dr. Robert Rollins was the neurosurgeon on call. So he was called. But he did not answer. It was not immediately known why he did not answer. Not until the next morning, during the incredible confusion that was to come, was it learned there was nothing wrong with Dr. Rollins’s beeper. The trouble was that Dr. Rollins was not wearing his beeper during the time it was beeping. Indeed, Dr. Rollins was not wearing anything.
Dr. Rollins was attending one of the seasonal parties by which Detroiters try to defeat the post-New Year’s doldrums. For no discernible reason, Dr. Rollins simply assumed he would not be called while he was on-call. Thus, he entered into the high spirits of the party. So Dr. Rollins’s beeper, along with all his clothing, was two rooms removed from the bedroom wherein the doctor and several others were cavorting.
Trying to get Dr. Rollins to respond to his call consumed considerable valuable time. Mostly because the patient was a Very, Very Important Person, a halt was called to the futile efforts to raise Dr. Rollins and the decision was made to contact the first available and qualified neurosurgeon.
Of course it took more time to rouse another neurosurgeon. Then it took more time for the neurosurgeon to dig out and drive down to the hospital. The gently, but steadily, falling snow made the almost deserted streets resemble a picture postcard. But it also made driving slow and treacherous.
* * *
Bruce Whitaker had worn white coveralls for his tour of the operating room area. He did so because whites, if not the scrub uniform, were required in that section of the hospital. In the event he had encountered anyone, he would not have been stopped for being out of uniform. As it happened, he had, as far as he knew, come through the venture unscathed. But it never hurt to be careful, as he was learning.
As was the custom, he had donned the white paper coveralls over his street clothes. He was now having considerable trouble getting the overalls off. He had perspired generously and the garment clung to his sweat-laden clothing. It did not occur to him that, particularly since whites routinely were discarded like wastepaper, he could simply rip them off. As he struggled to work the coveralls down over his hips, he heard the locker-room door open. He stood absolutely still. The perspiration began again.
“Anyone here?” a small voice inquired.
Whitaker’s surprise at hearing a female voice in the men’s locker room caused him to topple backward over the low wooden bench. The crash was substantial.
“Who’s there?” the small voice asked.
Whitaker, scrunched in the corner, contemplated the folly of overconfidence. Everything had been going swimmingly! Now he would be discovered.
Tentatively, Ethel Laidlaw peered around the corner of the lockers. It was impossible to identify who it was wrapped like a pretzel. “Who is it?”
“Ethel?”
“Bruce?”
“Ethel!”
“Bruce!”
“Ethel, help me.”
