dressed one minute and naked the next. But, glory, glory, they sure are makin’ a production out of gettin’ undressed.”
Although Snell had seen his share of pornographic films, he always found them stimulating. To him, sex was a sport for all seasons, for spectators and participants alike. There were those who acknowledged him, and rightly so, to be an expert. Thus, when he viewed a skinflick, it was as an epicurean critic.
“They sure as hell need somethin’ bigger than that little cot. Only experts could function on somethin’ that small,” Snell commented. “Amateurs! You’d think at least they could get pros. How did those two rubes ever get cast for a flick like this? It’s come to a sorry state. That’s all I can say. A sorry state!”
“Is it over? Did we do it?” Bruce Whitaker was perspiring mightily. He wasn’t sure what had happened, but he felt rather indescribably good about it.
“I think so,” Ethel said. “At least from what I’ve read about it, I think we did it. Did it feel good to you?”
“I think so. It all happened so fast. I don’t think I was thinking about anything at all. How about you?”
“I guess I didn’t feel anything. Maybe I’m not supposed to. I’ve heard women say they got nothing out of it. Maybe this is what they mean.”
“Oh, it couldn’t be that way. God would not be so unfair. If a man is supposed to get something out of it, certainly a woman should too. But what?”
Ethel pondered that for awhile. “I’ve been thinking,” she announced. “I mean, some of the things I’ve read said that something like this could happen.”
“Something like this?”
“Yes. The first time. The books warn that the first time can be disastrous.”
“Disastrous!” As time passed, Bruce was feeling better and better. “I would hardly say it was a disaster!”
“That’s right, don’t you see? So, if the books are right, it should get better the second time.”
“What do the books say?”
“That the first time is liable to be too rapid and the secret is in slowing everything down, which can be better done the second time. Particularly if the second time immediately follows upon the first time. I think I’m quoting exactly. It also says that when we are able to go slowly, we might become more imaginative. At least we are supposed to open ourselves to our imaginations.”
“Are you quite sure this is God’s will?”
“Oh, yes, quite certain.”
“Then”—Brace’s smile was beatific—”God’s will be done!”
“There they go again,” said George Snell, who had come close to turning back to
He looked at the screen a bit more sharply. “Wait, that’s not bad! Wonder what happened to that technique the first time around? Maybe that was a teaser. Musta been. They’re beginning to look like pros. And looka that! How many times in a flick like this does the broad look like she’s really enjoyin’ it?
“And look at the guy! I don’t believe it—he’s going to . . . God, even I—wait a minute! Wait a minute! Wait a minute! He’s going to . . . he couldn’t be . . . he’s not . . . he is! Holy glory ... it’s the . . . he’s gonna . . . he’s gonna . . . IT’S THE SNELL MANEUVER!”
George Snell was standing, the chair tipped over behind him. He felt as if his copyright had been violated. He felt as if he’d been violated.
“Oh, Bruce,” Ethel sighed.
“Ethel,” Bruce whispered.
It was just at that moment the explosion occurred.
“What in hell was that!” Snell cried.
Bruce and Ethel were dumped from the gurney.
It was only later, much later, that Snell reflected that the two people he had thought were part of a movie also experienced the explosion at the same instant he did.
And it was only later, much later, that it occurred to him that he recognized both those people who he had thought were actors.
12
Chaos. In what had been an orderly, neat, sterile operating room.
The police technicians had been at their job for hours. Some, particularly the photographers, had completed their work. All the technicians, as well as the investigating detectives, had treated—and were continuing to treat— the crime area with the reverence reserved for the only witness that was guaranteed truthful: the evidence at the scene.
Photographs had been taken from almost every angle. Surfaces had been dusted for prints. Detectives were questioning anyone and everyone who was or might in any way be involved in this case.
A hospital maintenance crew was putting a temporary patch over a huge hole in the outside wall. Since their work was not yet completed, the room was not that much warmer than the 29 degrees Fahrenheit that downtown Detroit was experiencing.
Uniformed police from the Third (downtown) Precinct were barring entry to inquisitive gawkers while permitting access to legitimate hospital personnel. Thus, among those present in OR One were John Haroldson, Dr. Lee Kim, Sister Rosamunda, and Dr. Fred Scott. Among the gawkers persistent enough to remain at the very edge of OR One were Ethel Laidlaw and Bruce Whitaker.
Channels 2 and 7, the CBS and ABC affiliates respectively, had completed their filming and departed. But not before Bruce Whitaker had tried his best to interest them in other aspects of the hospital. All, as it turned out, to no avail.
Gerald Harrington, the smooth, imposing black reporter for Channel 4, the NBC affiliate, was almost ready for his stand-up report. He needed to gather only a bit more information. His crew was setting up camera and sungun.
By far the most imposing figure in the room was Inspector Walter Koznicki. Imposing, not in any vehement or aggressive manner. If anything, he would more accurately be described as reticent and almost shy. But his bulk was considerable and his demeanor commanding.
Koznicki had been on the scene almost from the very beginning. As it happened, he had been serving his tour of duty in what the police call Code 2400, which consisted of a driver and an inspector ready to take charge immediately in any emergency. And what had occurred at St. Vincent’s clearly qualified as both a police emergency and a media event.
At this moment, Koznicki was addressing a biomedical engineering technician, one Frank Reese. Reese had been over the details many times, but this was the first time with the Inspector.
“I am well aware that you have answered these questions before, Mr. Reese,” Koznicki said, “but I am sure you will be kind enough to go over the matter one more time with me. And I have asked Dr. Scott to fill in the details so that we will have a complete picture of what took place.”
This benevolent invitation coming as it did from Koznicki was equivalent to a command performance.
“Dr. Scott, you will begin?”
“Well, it was late last night, maybe ten-thirty or eleven o’clock, when Sister Eileen was taken to emergency. She was comatose. She had been complaining of headaches and she had been the victim of an assault earlier— though she gave every evidence of having come through that with no ill effects. But sometimes . . .
“In any case, I ordered a CAT scan, which revealed a subdural hematoma—in layman’s language, the blood was squishing her brain.
“I scheduled her for surgery stat. But we had the devil’s own time trying to locate the neurosurgeon on call. By the time we located another one and he got down here and we got ready, it was nearly four in the morning.
