William Kienzle - Deathbed

“Something like ourselves,” the First Man admitted.

“Speak for yourself, Rumdum,” the Third Man said.

“Now, now,” the Fourth Man cautioned, “let’s not have any falling out. We’ve got to be united to be effective.”

“Yes, you’re right. It’s like what I saw in the emergency room the other day. A man was brought in unconscious. They almost sent him up for X-rays. But at the last second, one doctor decided to give him some test. Then they gave him some medicine and he recovered. Like almost immediately. It was like a miracle. And if they’d sent him up for the X-rays, he would have died. Is that your idea?”

“Yes. The idea is that newspapers—and magazines, for that matter—feature prominently the mistakes, blunders, and accidents that happen in hospitals. They happen all the time. But even though there are many, many accidents, there are never too many, it seems, for the media to overlook.”

“I think I understand,” the First Man said. “Sometimes so many instances of a normally noteworthy occurrence take place that the news media tend to overlook the latest happening. Like there are so many murders in a city like Detroit or New York or Chicago, that not all of them get big headlines or are even reported. Whereas, when a murder occurs in someplace like Kalamazoo, that gets a lot of notoriety there.”

“That’s it,” the Fourth Man chimed in. “But somehow, for some reason, when major blunders happen in hospitals, they always seem to get well publicized. I guess it’s because on the one hand, you come to expect a certain level of violence in a big city. But hospitals are supposed to be places where, even if cures can’t be worked all the time, at least you expect good care to be taken of the patients. So when the wrong fluid is injected in a spinal column or the wrong kind of anesthetic is used and the patient ends up as a vegetable, crippled, or dead, that’s big news as far as the media are concerned.”

“Sort of like when a dog bites a man as opposed to when a man bites a dog,” Whitaker added. “But what has this to do with where we are now in our project?”

“Only to put it in perspective,” the Fourth Man said. “We had a good plan and we still have a good plan. All right, so we suffered a minor setback when somebody put the wrong thing in the right drawer. And so the lady reporter at St. Vincent’s, for whatever her reason, seems to be avoiding a story that’s right there in front of her. It’s still a good plan. If we can make something happen at that hospital that is newsworthy, somebody in the media is going to pick it up and use it. And all we need to do is get one segment of the media to use it prominently and all the rest of the media will jump on board.

“Once we do that, the spotlight of investigation and publicity will be on St. Vincent’s and the evil that’s going on there will be exposed. Then the archdiocese will be forced to act. And then we will have achieved our mission.

“Now, what do you say? Let’s get back in this and see what we can do. Any suggestions?”

“Well, yes, “ Whitaker said. “I have a few ideas. I’ve been reading up on this. But mostly I’ve been trying to overhear some of the doctors when they are talking over some of their problems. And from all this, I have a few ideas, one of which I’d like to try next. Want to hear it?”

“Yes, yes, of course.” The Fourth Man was enthusiastic. Among other goals, he hoped to infuse his colleagues with a new sense of confidence.

“Would anyone like something to eat?” the First Man inquired.

“What!” the Third Man exclaimed. “You didn’t do it again! Tell me you didn’t do it again!”

“It’s just a slice of baloney.” The First Man removed his right hand from his trouser pocket. Clutched in his fist was what at one time had been a thick slice of baloney. It now resembled modeling clay squeezed into the shape of inverted brass knuckles. Also, it was beginning to lose much of its savory piquancy and take on the stench of sweaty prison clothing.

“God! How can you do that to food?” the Third Man demanded.

“Where did you get that?” the Fourth Man asked.

“The chow cart. There’s never enough to keep from getting hungry between meals.”

“You idiot!” the Third Man exclaimed. “We’ve got to get rid of that somehow. You try eating that and the guard will be on you in a minute. And the way it’s beginning to smell, we’re not going to keep it a secret much longer. You stupid bastard! This is just like the goddam cheese!”“Cheese?” Whitaker asked. “You mean the cheese you hid in the heat duct last time?”

“That’s it.”

“What happened? I thought you hid that good enough.”

“Not quite,” the First Man explained. “At first, they thought they were looking for a dead animal. Then they found the cheese. I guess they knew it didn’t get in the heat duct all by itself. So they looked some more.”

“And it wasn’t all that difficult an investigation,” the Third Man continued. “Dumdum here couldn’t get the odor out of his armpit.”

“So,” the First Man said, “they knew we had been sitting together in here. So they took good time away from all three of us.”

“And now,” the Third Man said, “this idiot comes in with a putrid piece of baloney. So what the hell are we going to do?”

“I’ll take it,” Whitaker volunteered. “I’ll be leaving in a few minutes. They won’t check me on the way out. I’ll get it out of here.”

“I hate to say this,” the Third Man said, “but I guess we owe you one.”

Keeping an eye on the guard, who had wandered slightly further away, and assisted by Whitaker, the First Man pried the baloney out of his fist. Whitaker then plunged the gook into his pocket without being discovered.

“Now, then, what is it you have in mind?” the Fourth Man asked.

“Okay.” He was eager to explain his plan. “Get close.”

The four huddled. Noting this, the guard returned to his vantage near their table.

After several minutes, the Third Man fairly shouted, “You’re going to do what ? That’s insane!”

His outburst activated the guard, who strode to their table. “Okay, okay, okay, that’s it. I told you no commotion, no commotion! Now break it up! Break it up! Let’s go! This visit’s over! Move it! Move it! Move it!”

They had no alternative. The three, still muttering, were herded to their cells while Bruce Whitaker and his contraband baloney returned to the streets, confident of his plan despite the incredulity of his colleagues.

* * *

Father Koesler studied his patient chart. It was run off each day and contained such information as the patient’s name, room number, nature of illness, religion, and doctor’s name. Other information was added as needed.

He noted that several patients had requested the Sacrament of Reconciliation. Odd. From his limited experience, as well as the briefing he’d received from the now-vacationing Father Thompson, he knew confession was rarely requested in this hospital. This was due partly to the fact that Catholics did not go to confession nearly as frequently as they once had, and partly to the fact that there just were not very many Catholic patients in St. Vincent’s.

One of the confession requests had been penned in by a nurse’s aide. The patient was on one of Sister Rosamunda’s floors. Another oddity. Sister of course was not empowered to hear confessions. So when one of her patients asked for the sacrament, Sister routinely would communicate the request to the priest-chaplain. In this case, she had not.

He decided to look in on this patient first.

Alva Crawford was in Room 2214, Bed A, which meant she was near the window. Near the door was one Millie Power. Both patients were in their beds. Koesler’s luck was holding; more often than not when he went to call on a patient, the bed was empty and the patient was anywhere from the bathroom to therapy to the operating room to wandering the halls.