“As soon as Lieutenant Harris reminded me that in the operating room no one was trying to kill Sister, it dawned on me that we were looking for someone who, far more than being in agreement with Whitaker’s objective, was as one with Whitaker’s method of operation.
“Whitaker did not want to kill anyone. He kept doing things that would have multiple effects. He wanted to mutilate IUDs, he planned on making a sick person a little more ill, he plotted to close down an essential hospital function. Each of these plans was intended to have a side effect: the creation of a media event for the purpose of getting St. Vincent’s in alignment with official Church teaching.
“Well, not too long ago I had lunch here with a gentleman who was actually lecturing me about the same sort of philosophy. He even corrected me when I referred to the method as the principle of double effect, which is its more popular identification. He insisted on calling it the principle of the indirect voluntary, which is more technically correct.
“This person, John Haroldson, was extremely comfortable with the indirect voluntary. For instance: A surgeon operates, a good or indifferent action; the first effect—and the one desired—is the health of the patient; a secondary, only tolerated, effect is the removal of an ectopic pregnancy.
“Or one alters a patient’s chart, perhaps an indifferent action; the desired effect is that this will draw in the media who will be instrumental in returning the hospital to orthodoxy as well as removing Sister Eileen from the scene; the only tolerated effect is that the sick person becomes a little more ill before an intervention is made and the patient is saved.
“Although Mr. Whitaker would seem to be a very traditional Catholic, he probably would be hard pressed to explain either the indirect voluntary or the double effect. But, as it happens, what he was trying to do very closely resembled the indirect voluntary.
“Someone like John Haroldson would easily recognize the comparison. It was natural that the scheme would appeal to him. And very understandable that, to accomplish his own goal of ridding himself of Sister Eileen, he would find Whitaker’s scheme particularly appropriate.
“Now, the special problem that presents itself is, as Inspector Koznicki has mentioned, that the whole scheme has not worked. Because of John Haroldson’s expertise, both as theologian and medical student, the media event did occur. But, to date, no one has been able to take Mr. Whitaker seriously. After all this, the plan has failed. And, as far as Mr. Haroldson is concerned, it matters little that St. Vincent’s is still doing business as usual. What matters to him most is that Sister Eileen is still in place as CEO.
“Haroldson’s tenure here at St. Vincent’s grows shorter and more tenuous by the day. But I think that is less significant to him than the frustration he must feel now that what must have been his last-ditch plan to unseat Sister Eileen is in shambles. I’m just afraid that now he may be tempted to do something . . . uh . . . drastic.”
Koesler halted. There was nothing more to say. He had presented his theory, explained it, and drawn his conclusion. Either these officers would, in the face of his previous blunder, stretch credulity and believe him, or they would not. He looked about. The expressions reflected everything from the friendly faith of Inspector Koznicki to the hostile skepticism of Lieutenant Harris, and all points between.
“I think,” Koznicki said at length, “that in view of what Father has expressed, and as a matter of precaution —”
He was interrupted by a series of hysterical shrieks coming from nearby.
Led by Koznicki and Harris, Koesler and the officers rushed from the room in search of the source of the sound. The screams were coming not from the adjoining office but from the one adjoining that.
It was Sister Eileen’s office. It was her secretary, Dolly, who was screaming.
Koznicki, unexpectedly agile for his size, was first to enter Sister’s office. He saw Dolly standing near the large executive desk. At sight of him, she ceased screaming, but stood badly trembling.
Koznicki followed her riveted gaze to the knees and feet of a prostrate figure half hidden by the desk. It was a nun; he could see the white habit extending to sensible black shoes.
As one of the officers steadied Dolly, Koznicki crossed behind the desk and knelt beside the still figure of Sister Rosamunda. Father Koesler eased his way through the now crowded office and knelt on the other side of Sister’s body.
Koznicki felt for an artery in Sister’s neck. There was no pulse. He shook his head. A small bottle lay on the floor a few inches from Sister’s outstretched hand. It was empty, or nearly so. Only a few drops remained.
Koznicki read the label: “Elixir Terpin Hydrate.” He sniffed at the bottle. “Nothing I can identify. But poison, I assume.” He looked intently at Dolly and by sheer force of his will drew her gaze. “These questions are important, so please compose yourself.” He waited a moment until he could tell that she was in greater control of herself. “All right. Now, where is Sister Eileen?”
“In there.” Dolly pointed to the rear door that led to Eileen’s living-and-bedroom suite.
Koznicki jerked his head toward the door. Instantly, Lieutenant Harris entered the inner suite after a perfunctory knock on the door.
“Why is Sister Eileen back in her suite so soon after major surgery?” Koznicki asked.
“She was doing so well,” Dolly explained in a low tone. Though she seemed composed, the tremolo in her voice betrayed her continuing anxiety. “Of course she was taken to ICU after her operation. But she recovered remarkably well. And she asked . . . well, she demanded to be returned to her own room instead of one of the regular hospital rooms. And she is CEO, you know . . . .”
“Of course.”
Harris reentered the office. “She’s okay. Just sleeping.”
“She’s been heavily medicated,” Dolly added.
“Did you know Sister Rosamunda was in here?” Koznicki asked.
“No, I didn’t. I knew Sister Eileen was here, of course. But I didn’t know Sister Rosamunda was. She must have come in before I came on duty.”
“Dolly . . .” Father Koesler looked up from his kneeling position; although she was quite obviously dead, he had given the nun conditional absolution. “. . . has John Haroldson been in here since you came on duty?”
“Why, yes . . . just a short while ago. But . . . you don’t think that he—oh, my God! You can’t think that he —”
“Show us to his office, Father. Quickly.” Koznicki was off his knees and pushing Father Koesler out the door.
* * *
All told, there were only six officers and one priest. But because they were all large men, the number seemed larger.
Almost as one they stormed through John Haroldson’s outer office. His secretary was not there. With no preliminaries they burst into his inner office.
Haroldson looked up from his desk. He had been writing. His expression was grave; his visage seemed drained as if he were about to faint.
“Mr. Haroldson . . .” Koznicki began.
Haroldson held up a restraining hand. Everyone stopped in his tracks. For several moments Haroldson continued to write. Then he laid his pen to one side.
He picked up several sheets of paper and offered them to the Inspector. “I believe this is what you want.”
Koznicki did not move to accept the papers. “Before I accept or read what you have written, I will ask Lieutenant Harris to apprise you of your rights.” He nodded to Harris.
Lieutenant Harris took a card from his wallet and began reading the Miranda Warning. Harris of course knew the warning by rote. But reading it was accepted police procedure. Thus, if a defense attorney were to ask an arresting officer how he could be certain he had given the required warning, the officer could honestly respond, “I read it to him.”
The scene resembled a tableau. No one moved as Harris delivered the text. Haroldson continued to extend his papers toward Koznicki, who made no move to accept them. Until the warning was completed.
Then Koznicki asked, “Do you understand what has been read to you, Mr. Haroldson?”
Haroldson nodded and shook the papers insistently.
Koznicki took them, put on his reading glasses and began to peruse the neat, precise script.
