William Kienzle - Deathbed

Those dining in St. Vincent’s cafeteria did not applaud. But it was evident that they very definitely approved.

After helping themselves from the buffet counter, Eileen and Lennon threaded their way toward the far side of the cafeteria. They stopped momentarily at the table where John Haroldson sat. The COO’s customarily effusive greeting was muted this day.

The two women moved quickly to the next table, and Eileen introduced Lennon to Sister Rosamunda, Doctors Scott and Kim and Father Koesler.

Lennon had met only Koesler previously, and she showed some wonder at his presence. Occasionally in the past, Lennon had covered news stories that had involved Koesler. In addition, Koesler was a periodic source for her on religious stories, particularly those involving the Catholic Church. Now he briefly explained to her his substitute status at the hospital.

Table conversation was at first stilted. Neither Lennon nor Sister could know that Eileen had been the principal subject of dialogue only a few moments before.

But Lennon quickly became the cynosure, with questions coming from all sides about newspaper work and routine, stories she had covered, and the feature she was now developing on the hospital for Michigan Magazine.

This was acceptable to Lennon. She could not have interviewed these people in such a group in any case. Now, as they questioned her, she could make assessments and decide which of them might make better subjects for interviews.

Among the judgments she made was that Sister Rosamunda would make a smashing interviewee. She seemed the embodiment of that sweet little old nun of the past. The one who, in full religious garb, would be photographed swinging a bat, riding a roller coaster, or wearing a funny hat atop her headpiece.

Lunch was pretty much over for everyone when a rather round lady entered the cafeteria, glanced around obviously looking for someone specific, then headed purposefully toward Sister Eileen. As the expression has it, the lady wore the map of Ireland on her face. Wheezing up to the table, she stood facing Eileen. Held before her in both hands was a large rectangular box, apparently the cause of the lady’s concern.

Bruce Whitaker recognized the box instantly. He would never forget it. It was one of the three boxes containing the IUDs he had altered! Somehow, someone had uncovered the plot.

Bruce had been wishing it would just be over by now . . . that the damage had been done and, he hoped, repaired. And that this hospital’s policy had been exposed by the news media.

Instead, the plot had been discovered. He would be found out. At best, he would have to begin again. The blood drained from his head. He felt giddy and faint. Only with massive determination was he able to remain conscious.

“Sister,” announced the lady holding the box, “and you too, Mr. Haroldson, would you ever be lookin’ at this! Now, I’m well aware that the two of yez are lookin’ to hold down costs and manage the place’s money as best ye can. But if anybody pays for these things, it’ll be a crime callin’ to heaven for vengeance. Just look at it, would ya!”

She took an object from the box and held it high for everyone’s inspection. Clearly, she was seething.

The object she was holding suggested an S-shaped piece of metal, but one end appeared to have been clipped off and the new terminus was twisted out of shape.

“All right,” Eileen said at length, “I give up. What is it?”

“What was it supposed to be is maybe the better question, Reverend Sister.”

“All right then: What was it supposed to be?”

“This is one of a new shipment of curtain hooks. They came in just the other day. I didn’t have a chance in heaven of inspectin’ the delivery what with everything else I had to be doin’ at the time. So I took them three boxes and shoved them in the IUD drawer—we’re running low on them too, wouldn’t ya know. So today, I gets me first chance to get ’em up on the rods in the clinic—and what should I find? All three boxes of the blessed hooks is deformed!

“Now I ask yez, do they expect us to pay for them things? Why, if they’d fit in the curtains at all, they’d rip the poor things to shreds as well. What with their bent ends and all. It’s a disgrace, it tis. And Mr. Haroldson, sir, if I was you, I’d stop payment on this. Honest to God, the workers today couldn’t hold a candle to the good men and true of just a generation back!”

She was breathing heavily. It had been a long and impassioned speech for one struggling with a weight problem.

Bruce Whitaker could scarcely believe his hearing. Curtain hooks? Curtain hooks! Fate had been unkind to him for too long. Granted he had never seen an IUD and had only a vague notion of what its function might be. But dammit, that S-shaped device certainly looked as if it were what the doctor ordered, literally. And the damn things had been in the goddam IUD drawer.

Under ordinary circumstances, Whitaker was neither vulgar nor did he blaspheme. But this was one of those moments that tried men’s souls. Now what was he to do? How could he ever tell his colleagues that he had penetrated St. Vincent’s security systems, crept through the hospital after hours, and—with the unexpected help of Ethel—made it into the sin-wracked clinic, only to spend hours mutilating curtain hooks?

At this point, life was not pretty.

“Well, you’re absolutely correct,” Eileen said. “And it was good of you to find these things so promptly and bring them to our attention. We’ll certainly not pay for such execrable workmanship. Please give all the details to Mr. Haroldson. He’ll take care of it.” Then, to the others at table, in effect dismissing the lady with the mutilated curtain hooks, “Can you imagine! I’ve seen some shoddy work in my day, but that ranks with the worst I’ve ever seen.”

“Probably a disgruntled worker at the factory.” Lennon was trying not to laugh. Likely it was not funny if one was fighting to contain costs with extremely limited funds as was surely the case with St. Vincent’s Hospital.

But one person was taking this very seriously. No sooner had the lady drawn the connection between the curtain hooks and the IUD drawer, than did this person begin to draw another connection. It was most tenuous at first, but the longer this person thought about it, the more sense the hypothesis made.

This person had observed, over the past several days, with growing interest, the behavior of one Bruce Whitaker. There was an incredible series of disasters that seemed inevitably to follow in Whitaker’s wake. Whitaker definitely seemed to march to a different drummer.

There was no telling where Whitaker might turn up next. His whereabouts in this institution had little, if anything, to do with his services as a volunteer. Of course there were times when he would be delivering or gathering or on some assignment. The sort of thing that a volunteer should do.

But most of the time, if one were paying careful note, Whitaker seemed to be on some inner-directed mission. Doing his own thing . . . whatever that might be.

Now, put it all together.

Who in his right mind would mutilate curtain hooks? No one at the factory. If someone at the factory-level, for whatever reason, wanted to sabotage a shipment of curtain hooks, he wouldn’t go to all the trouble of clipping off an end and bending the hook out of shape. Simply snapping it in two would serve the purpose better and more expeditiously. In addition to which, the quality inspector would have caught it before it got out of the plant.

No, the boxes of curtain hooks had been placed—misplaced really—in the compartment reserved for IUDs and identified as such.

Supposing someone wanted to mutilate IUDs—whatever the person’s reason for doing so would have to wait for additional revelation—but supposing that, for whatever reason, someone wanted to mutilate the IUDs. Botching the job as incredibly as this had been bungled would require an amazing degree of ineptitude. The kind exhibited by Bruce Whitaker.