William Kienzle - Deathbed

At long last, he reached the clinic. All along the way, he had wondered what had happened to the guard who had nearly discovered him. Strange. The man must have become preoccupied with whoever had made that distracting sound. Whitaker attributed it to providence. He had a tendency to attribute most of his luck to providence. Except that, in most instances, his luck was bad. This was an exception.

Which made him wonder why, with a run of good luck going for him, something was going on in the clinic. No one should be in there at this hour. Given the infamous security of St. Vincent’s, it had been relatively easy to get a duplicate key made. But now he didn’t need it. The door was unlocked. Someone was in there. He detected a wavering flashlight beam. Someone was moving about, surreptitiously.

Carefully placing the pliers inside his jacket pocket—a decidedly good move—Whitaker quietly eased his way into the clinic. He found a position from which he could see what was going on, yet be far enough removed so he would not, in turn, be seen.

Once his eyes grew accustomed to the dark, he could see rather well. The dim glow from the streetlight glinting off the fresh snow cover added to the small illumination of the flashlight, making it possible to identify the person who had preceded him into the clinic.

Sister Rosamunda. What in the world could she be doing here? She was rummaging about in a section that contained many bottles. She seemed to know what she was looking for and where to find it. She removed two bottles from a shelf and placed them within the folds of her ample traditional habit. Then she turned out the flashlight and moved toward the door.

As she departed, she walked within ten feet of him. Seemingly, she did not notice him. He stood stockstill and made no noise. That in itself was a small miracle. Under ordinary circumstances, in a situation like this, he would have sneezed, coughed or, in his very intention not to move a muscle, knocked something off a shelf.

This time, he did not. Providence. His good luck continued.

Sister was gone. Whitaker stayed motionless for a short while, letting the peace, quiet, and emptiness of the place wash over him. Of course there were those institutional noises that old buildings make—squeaks and groans. But, in time, they took on a lulling character.

He grew quiet within himself. He felt his pulse. It seemed regular, and slow enough. He guessed that his blood pressure might be close to normal—which, in itself, was a bit abnormal.

It was time. He must carry out the mission with which his colleagues had entrusted him.

He moved forward. Carefully, he picked his way among the cabinets filled with fragile containers. He could not believe he was doing all this, especially in relative darkness, without breaking anything or causing any commotion.

His narrow penlight beam fell on it. There it was. The drawer with the label reading, “IUDs.” He opened it. There were several boxes inside. He removed the first box, put it on a nearby counter, and opened it.

So this was what it was all about. Even so he was not sure what it was all about. Not only had he never seen an IUD, he was pretty much unfamiliar with female anatomy. But, putting two and two together, he came up with what he hoped was four.

This form of contraception, according to the best lights of Bruce Whitaker, took place in the following manner:

Through intercourse, the male deposited the germ of human life in the female’s womb (as in “. . . blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus”). This germ, or seed, grew in the womb for nine months. However, if an IUD were inserted, there would not be room enough for both the device and the baby. Thus, since the device was metallic and the baby mere flesh and blood, eventually the device would push the baby out before due time. There was no danger to the woman. She just let the baby and the device fight it out.

But all that was about to be changed.

Whitaker removed the first device from the box. So this was it. This was the tool of the devil that interrupted pregnancies against the teachings of the Holy Pope of God and his bishops.

With his pliers, Whitaker twisted one end of the device slightly out of shape, then with the side cutter pinched off one blunted end, creating a cruelly sharp point.

He deeply regretted the need to do this. But it was his mission. He must do it over and over—to each of these devices. It would take him the better part of this night. But never again, in this clinic at least, would women get away with forcing their babies out of their wombs with impunity. Now they would begin to pay for their crimes as the sharp, twisted edge of the device would tear at their wombs.

Actually, he and his colleagues were certain this bloody procedure would not be repeated that frequently. It wouldn’t take many perforated wombs before the attention of the medical and police establishments would be focused on St. Vincent’s. The hospital’s immoral practice of contraception would be publicized by newspapers, TV, and radio.

The local Church authorities would not have the luxury of looking the other way. They would be forced to take action against the sins of this hospital.

Then would he and his colleagues be vindicated. Of course their identity would have to remain secret. But the important thing would be that they had served God and the true Church. That would be reward enough.

Besides, the cloak of anonymity would protect them for further work for the Church. Then would their martyrdom of imprisonment be avenged.

He found it difficult to believe he was actually carrying this off. It was a smooth operation. As he went through box after box, altering the IUDs, he found it arduous, monotonous work. But, in his hands, it was a labor of love.

* * *

“I been tryin’ to raise you for ’bout an hour. Where you been?” Chief Martin seemed more amused than angry.

“Oh, around. “ Guard George Snell gave every indication that he would not go out of his way to communicate.

“Been quite a while since you started your tour of duty.”

“I guess.”

“Have any trouble?”

“Can’t say that I did.”

“Anything unusual happen?”

“Just the usual. Place’s pretty quiet now.”

“Uh.”

“Any calls?”

“Nope. Say, I see you’re not wearing your beeper. That must be why I couldn’t contact you.”

“Oh”—as if noticing for the first time—“I must have left it home.”

“Strange; I thought I saw it on you earlier . . . when you first got in tonight.”

“No... I musta forgot it.”

“Mmmmm. “ Martin reached under his desk, fished about, and came up with a small black electronic device. “Could this be yours?”

Snell’s jaw dropped. He felt as if he had stepped into a pit and was sinking deeper by the minute. “I don’t think so . . . couldn’t be: I forgot mine at home.”

“Oh, then this isn’t yours either. “ Martin edged a carton out from under his desk. It contained a uniform. Identical to that which George Snell was wearing.

Snell stared at the box, speechless.

“This is yours.” It was more a statement than a question.

“. . . uh . . . what makes you think so?” Snell tried to defer inevitability as long as possible.

“For one thing, it’s an extra-large that’s been let out. You’re my only guy who wears anything that big. For another, the jacket’s got a food stain—which I noticed when you showed up for work tonight and which the jacket you’re wearing hasn’t got. For another thing, your beeper was attached to the belt.

“And finally, you’re the only guy I know who would wear bikini undershorts with red hearts all over ’em.”

During the ensuing pause, Snell assessed the evidence. “That’s my uniform,” he finally concluded.