Deathbed

“Mr. Haroldson, Koznicki looked up from the paper, “is this part of something like your diary?”

“Continue reading,” Haroldson replied. “All that you want will be there.”

I am the one who killed you. But you must know that. By now, you must know all the answers.

It was a mistake. It was a mistake ever to have set myself on this course. But that is of little consolation to you. It is too late for consolation. And I must confess I am sorry. But what good does that do you? It is too late for sorrow.

You are dead and this unbearable pain in my head goes on.

It was all so useless.

With all my heart I wish I could change the course of these events. I wish I could change what has already happened. But of course no one can do that. No one can bring you back to life.

If I were to tell this story to someone—and I may very well be forced to do so—where would I start?

I suppose I would start where so many hospital stones begin. In the emergency room . . .

Haroldson’s account went on to tell of how he had been in the background of the emergency room mostly to monitor the new substitute chaplain’s work. While there, Haroldson had noticed this odd character, a volunteer also trying to keep in the background.

Later, in his regular perambulations through the hospital, Haroldson became more aware of this uncoordinated dolt who managed to botch nearly everything he attempted.

Haroldson was about to dismiss the man he had identified as Bruce Whitaker. Even as a volunteer he was costing the hospital far more than he was worth.

And then came the incident of the mutilated curtain hooks. There was no reason for it. The most intriguing feature of the fiasco was that the hooks had been stored in the IUD drawer. He also noted that at a nearby cafeteria table, Whitaker seemed in a state of panicky confusion when the housekeeper presented the curtain hooks.

It had been simple for Haroldson to check out Whitaker. His name was on file as a volunteer. With Haroldson’s civic contacts, he easily learned of Whitaker’s background, his trial and conviction, and present parole. Haroldson recalled well the crime spree waged by Whitaker and his three arch-conservative friends. Armed with that background information, it was not all that difficult to surmise what Whitaker might be up to now.

Haroldson, at that point, made Whitaker a prime subject for surveillance. Gradually, Haroldson ascertained Whitaker’s scheme: to create a media event that would bring to light St. Vincent’s casual approach to authentic Catholic medical-moral ethics.

Well then, the hospital’s ethical standards were those of Sister Eileen. Whitaker’s objective was to force Church authorities to crack down on the hospital’s moral aberrations. If that were to happen, Eileen surely would go. She would not compromise her own beliefs. She was not that sort of person. If Whitaker was successful then not only his goal, but Haroldson’s too, would be achieved. Eileen would be forced out before she could pressure Haroldson into retirement.

What’s more, Whitaker was not trying to seriously harm anyone. Thus Haroldson would be able to oversee Whitaker’s foredoomed endeavors and amend them. All the while, by the principle of the indirect voluntary, Haroldson would be guilty of no sin. At least as far as his own conscience was concerned.

After a while, the revelation went on, it got to be a sort of contest for Haroldson. Surmising what Whitaker’s next ploy would be. Remaining undetected while following him. Trying to figure out what Whitaker was attempting to do when he did it. And finally, correcting Whitaker’s pitiful blunders.

Haroldson chronicled the alteration of Millie Power’s chart and how he removed the sticker that denoted her allergy to penicillin. A sticker that Whitaker unaccountably did not remove. Haroldson surmised that Whitaker’s plans included blowing the whistle before the patient lapsed into a terminal condition. If, typically, Whitaker had fumbled that too, he, Haroldson, would have seen to it.

And it would have worked had not the priest accidentally come upon the scene.

Finally, the statement told of the episode in the OR. His disgust at Whitaker’s feeble attempt to cause a breakdown in OR procedure. Of course it was a good idea; any hospital would be in the news should its OR shut down. But nitrous oxide tanks! The man was a functional idiot.

So, with the sabotaged nitrogen tank Haroldson at last had his media event. An event which Whitaker managed to move from the front page to the comic page. And, as the affair, along with the alleged perpetrator, became a farce, Haroldson’s last hope evaporated.

I cannot express how deep was my depression, how complete my sense of frustration. I had banked everything on being able to manipulate Whitaker to achieve my goal. When that failed, I failed.

That is why, in a moment of utter despondency, I poisoned the medication. I knew that Eileen would need it in the earliest stages of her convalescence. If I could not effect her removal from my beloved hospital, I wanted her dead.

It did not take me long to repent my completely un-Christian action. Just long enough for you to come upon the poisoned expectorant and consume it. When I returned to Eileen’s office and found you dead, I knew all was ended. Unwittingly, I have taken an innocent life. And for that I must pay. It is God’s law and I accept it.

I pray only that God will grant me time for penance, penitence and repentance so that in time I may become worthy to join you, with all the angels and saints in Paradise.

Koznicki finished reading. The statement was more a letter to the deceased Sister Rosamunda than a confession. But it was sufficient for his purposes. He had Haroldson sign the document.

Momentarily, Koznicki wondered whether an attorney might use this statement to begin building a defense of insanity. It was no more than a passing thought. Guilt was the decision of the courts. Koznicki had his perpetrator. As far as he was concerned, the case was closed.

But there were other concerns that needed resolution before all the loose ends were tied.

14

Joe Cox touched his champagne glass against the one Pat Lennon held. They made a pleasant, bell-like sound.

“To the victor . . .” Cox did not bother completing the quotation.

“It was hardly a battle.” Lennon sipped her champagne.

“I suppose that’s true. Once you got into it, the battle was over.” Cox closed one eye and squinted at the champagne. There are those who may be able to tell something of the quality of champagne by the coloration. Cox was not among them. Not unlike duffers who line up a putt the way they see the pros do it on TV. Except that the amateurs have no idea of what they are doing.

Lennon smiled. As she consulted the menu, her smile faded. “Joe, did you get a load of these prices?”

“Impressive, aren’t they? But it’s not as bad as it looks; don’t forget we’ll get a great rate of exchange.”

They were dining in Canada at the Windsor Hilton, almost directly across the Detroit River from the Renaissance Center and downtown Detroit. Among Detroit’s distinctions, it is the only major U.S. city from which one travels south to Canada. And many, many Detroiters do.

Windsor, easily accessible by tunnel or bridge, is a pleasant place to visit. Depending on monetary fluctuations, Canada can prove to be a country in which one can exchange U.S. currency advantageously. And, especially in a place such as the Windsor Hilton, Detroiters like to contemplate their own skyline with such highlights as Tiger Stadium, Cobo Hall, Ford Auditorium, and the monster complex of the Ren Cen that blots out much more that might have been viewed.

“Did you notice,” Lennon observed, “that one side of the menu is in French and the other in English?”