really was a lot of ill feeling toward Eileen coming from Dr. Kim, John Haroldson, Sister Rosamunda, and Ethel. Except that it wasn’t a murderous anger ... at least in retrospect it seems not to have been homicidal. That is until the whole scheme fell apart. Then poor John, I feel, just took leave of his senses.
“I guess we’ll never really know, since all that conflict is resolved now.”
“But you got on the right track.”
“Only when Lieutenant Harris pointed out that in the OR no one could have been trying to kill Eileen since no one could have known she would be a surgical patient, let alone that the nitrogen tank would be needed for her. It was more like a paramecium finding its way. Or a mouse successfully negotiating a maze. When I realized we weren’t looking specifically for someone intent on murder, I simply moved one notch over and tried to imagine someone whose moral approach to things might match the MO exhibited by Bruce Whitaker and his friends.
“That’s when I remembered my conversation with John Haroldson. Of everyone I knew in the hospital, he was the only one whose natural law approach to morality, specifically the indirect voluntary, came very close to what Whitaker was actually doing.
“I must say, though, Inspector, there is nothing intrinsically wrong with the principle of the indirect voluntary or double effect. It is a very legitimate theological school of thought. But, like everything else, if it gets twisted by a sick mind—as happened with John Haroldson—it can become pathological. And so it did.
“But, back to Bruce Whitaker. From the news broadcasts and papers, I was never clear on what happened to him. Is it true that no charges were brought against him . . . even after all he did at St. Vincent’s?”
“I do not blame you for being less than enlightened by the news accounts. After that initial incoherent story in the
Koznicki paused to take another small sip of Frangelico. It was his plan to make this small snifter of liqueur last until the coffee Koesler had made would be cold and, thus, for more than one reason, undrinkable. Koesler’s coffee was legendary.
“You see, Father, the prime difficulty in this case always is this business of Mr. Whitaker’s mistaking curtain hooks for intrauterine devices. Everyone knows it must be a crime of some sort. It is just difficult, after that, to remain serious about the whole affair.
“I remember very well when presenting this case, the prosecuting attorney said, with a straight face, ‘We are talking about first-degree, premeditated mutilation of curtain hooks, right?’
“You see, it was difficult to be serious after that.
“But the statutes did reveal that malicious destruction of property under $100 valuation is a misdemeanor. Over $100 is a felony. Since the hooks were worth less than $100, we had no more than a misdemeanor.
“The only real problem Mr. Whitaker faced was the alteration of a patient’s chart. The technical charge would have been ‘assault with intent to do great bodily harm.’ But since the real harm was done when Mr. Haroldson amended the chart’s alteration, and adding the overall considerations in this case, the decision was made not to charge Mr. Whitaker as long as he made restitution and promised to stop harassing the Catholic Church.
“When the authorities were finished with Mr. Whitaker, I can assure you he was one deeply impressed young man. Then, his parole and the new probation were transferred to California along with Mr. Whitaker.”
“But,” Koesler interjected, “what about what Whitaker did in the operating room? I mean, with the nitrous oxide?”
“In effect, the prosecutor’s opinion was that he had done nothing. Oh, possibly he had created a nuisance for which he would be banned from the hospital. But then, no hospital would ever want his services again.
“On the other hand, the charge against Mr. Haroldson was most serious. Placing an explosive with intent to destroy and causing damage to property is punishable with twenty-four years in the state prison. But that sentence, as you know, pales when compared with life imprisonment for murder in the first degree.”
“Yes, I know those sentences were imposed on Haroldson. But I wondered about first-degree murder. After all, he did repent and intended to retrieve the poisoned medication. Except that Rosamunda got there first. And he never intended to do any harm to Rosamunda in the first place.”
“Well, his repentance may or may not have something to do with his moral guilt. It has nothing to do with his guilt in criminal law. Neither does the fact that he got the wrong person. It is called transferred intent. If a man wants to shoot Inspector Koznicki and the bullet hits Father Koesler instead, he is not innocent of murder because he killed the wrong man.”
“Poor John!” Koesler noticed that Koznicki’s coffee was not only untouched, it by now appeared quite cold. “Oh, Inspector, may I hot-up your coffee?”
“Oh, no; no, please! I must be going very soon.”
“As you wish. You know, I intend to visit John at Jackson sometime soon. It’s such a pity: Here he will be locked up with real criminals probably for the rest of his life. And he could be enjoying a trouble-free retirement.”
“But that is the point, is it not, Father: that he felt he could not enjoy a trouble-free retirement. That is what led him into this much troubled retirement.
“Well, I must be going. It is getting late.”
Koesler retrieved Koznicki’s coat and hat from the closet. “Oh, I meant to ask you, Inspector: What was the poison John used?”
“Isopto Carpine. An eye medication, highly toxic.
“He got it from the hospital pharmacy. He tried to use his own key, but the locks had been changed by then. As chief operating officer, he was about the only one in the hospital who could countermand Sister Eileen’s order.
“Of course, with his having done so he was not thinking very clearly at this point—it would have been easy to trace the drug back to him. However, we did not need to do so as he was in a most confessing mood.”
The high that had been sustaining Koesler took a sudden dip. “I’m afraid I did not contribute much to help you. You were on the verge of the solution yourself.”
“Not at all, Father. You discovered the vital link between the crimes we knew of, largely defective though they were, and the crimes we were trying to solve.”
“But if I had been more perceptive and quicker, I might have been able to prevent Rosamunda’s death.”
“Possibly. But if you had, Sister now would have been forced into that retirement which she so dreaded. And even if you had discovered the link sooner, Mr. Haroldson would still be serving the twenty-four-year sentence for tampering with the nitrogen tank. And, at his age, the difference between twenty-four years, even with good time, and life may be negligible.
“Besides, I am quite convinced that you very probably saved Mr. Haroldson from suicide.”
“You think so?”
“I am quite certain. So, as they say, God writes . . .”
“. . .straight with crooked lines.”
“Exactly. Well, thank you, Father, for the lovely meal and, as usual, for good companionship.”
“Not at all, Inspector. You sure you wouldn’t like a little hot coffee before you go out into the cold?”
For a moment, Inspector Koznicki toyed with the idea of telling his friend the truth about the execrableness of his coffee. Almost, but not quite. It was late and he wanted to get home.
“I think not, Father. Thank you just the same.” And the Inspector departed.
Koesler closed the door and reflected. It was odd. As often as he dined at other people’s homes or in restaurants, everyone usually had more than one cup of coffee. Sometimes several cups. Yet he could not recall anyone’s ever having more than one cup of his coffee. Often, the first cup was never finished.
It was a mystery he simply could not solve.
* * *
“Do you still love me?”
“Of course I do; don’t be silly.”
“I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t.”
“How can you say a thing like that?”
“You know!”
“Ethel, I love you. With the exception of my mother and Holy Mother Church, you’re the only one I’ve ever
