William Kienzle - Deathbed

“Okay,” the Third Man said, “if, as you claim, you finally did something right, what happened? What threw your goddam timing off?”

“Watch your language!” the Fourth Man cautioned. “There’s no need to take the Lord’s name in vain!”

The Third Man shrugged. “What threw your timing off?”

“That priest! Koesler!”

“What! How?”

“Somehow he found out what was going on. I don’t know how. But he told one of the nurses that the patient was allergic to penicillin. The only thing I can figure is that the woman herself must have told him. It’s the only way he could have known. Just lucky!”

“Was he ‘just lucky’ when he saw through our plot to even the score with those seminary professors a few years ago? Was it just luck that put us in here?” the Third Man challenged.

“You’re right,” the First Man said. “You’re absolutely right. Koesler is a clear and present danger to us. He’s going to ruin our plan again.”

“Unless we do something about it!” The Third Man’s meaning was evident.

“Now, wait a minute!” Whitaker said.

“Yes, wait a minute!” the Fourth Man agreed.

“Why not?” the Third Man pressed. “We are just trying to do God’s holy will and Koesler keeps getting in our way."

“He’s a priest!” Whitaker protested.

“So? What was it, you know, Peter O’Toole said—Will no one rid me of this troublesome priest?”

“Yes,” Whitaker said, “and they went out and killed Thomas à Becket. And he became a saint.”

“That was different. Henry was wrong. And we are doing God’s work. I only brought that up to show that it’s possible to at least think about killing a priest.”

“The whole thing makes me shudder,” Whitaker complained. “We are doing God’s will. We’re not trying to kill anybody.”

“We may have to.”

“I don’t want to think about it.”

“Let’s just put that notion on the back burner,” the Fourth Man said. “What we must consider is where, if anywhere, we are going from here.”

“I’ve got another idea,” Whitaker volunteered.

“No!” the First Man said.

“Not again,” the Third Man said.

“Let’s hear him out,” the Fourth Man said.

“I’ve been keeping my eyes and ears open and I’ve got a plan. A very good plan. What would you say if I told you I could shut down the operating room?”

“I’d say you couldn’t do it,” said the Third Man.

“I’d say so what?” the First Man said.

“So what,” Whitaker replied, “is just this: The operating room is the hub of the hospital. It’s where the hospital makes most of its money. If the operating room closes down, there is no possible way the hospital can avoid tons of publicity. It’s like a baseball team trying to play without any pitchers. I guarantee you, once the operating room closes, there will be reporters, radio, and TV crews all over the place. From that point on, it will be easy to get them interested in ‘other things’ that are going on in that supposedly Catholic institution.”

“So,” the Third Man evidently was not convinced, “how can you do that?”

“Leave it to me.”

“Ha!” the Third Man commented.

“We have no one else,” the Fourth Man said. “We must leave it to you. We put our trust in you. “

“Thanks. I won’t fail you. And ... I have this feeling. I mean there are a couple of portents that seem to indicate that things have turned around for us . . . that things are looking up.”

“What are they, Bruce?” The Fourth Man said. “God knows, we certainly could use a favorable sign or two.”

“Well, for one thing, there was that control-group experiment at the hospital.”

“You mean when you got the patient to be given penicillin when she was allergic to it?”

“Yes. I overheard some of the hospital personnel talking about it, several times, as a matter of fact. They kept talking about how not only did she have the wrong protocol number that would include her in the experiment, but she also did not have any sticker on her chart that indicated she was allergic to the medicine.

“So I remember very clearly removing the number they gave her when she was admitted and substituting the number that would put her in the experiment. But I don’t remember pulling off the sticker that said she shouldn’t be given penicillin.”

“How could you—”

“That’s just it—I must have. There was no other way it could have worked. I take that as a sign—a sign that things are turning around for us. It was a miracle, I guess, how that sticker disappeared from the lady’s chart. It must have been a miracle. I didn’t take the sticker off—and yet, I did. What else could anyone call it?”

“Dumb luck,” the Third Man said.

“Maybe he’s right,” the Fourth Man said. “Anyway, Bruce, you said there were a couple of portents that augured well for us. What else beside the disappearance of the telltale sticker?”

“Well, this very meeting right now. We’ve been talking for a long time and nothing’s gone wrong. Not one of us has had an accident or done anything to attract the guard’s attention or anything like that. Now I ask you: Doesn’t that bode well?”

“Maybe. But I still think we’ve got to keep our options open on Father Koesler. He may have to be eliminated.”

“I don’t even want to think about that,” said Whitaker.

“Don’t think about it,” the Fourth Man reassured. “As I said before, we’ll put that on the back burner. We may have to consider it, but, for the moment, let’s just put all our chips on Bruce’s plan. We’re behind you, Bruce.”

“Wait a minute!” The Third Man looked searchingly at the First Man. “Did you take anything from the Big Top again?”

“No . . . .” The First Man hesitated.

“How about the chow cart?”

“No, absolutely not.”

“Then what’s that bulge under your shirt?”

“Nothing.”

“Something. Obviously something.”

“Well, maybe I took a little something out of the Big Top.”

“You’re going to do it to us again, aren’t you, dummy!”

“I’m not doing anything to you guys. It’s just that I get hungry. It’s just for me and don’t worry about it. I can take care of myself. No one is going to catch me at this. I am going to get away with this, just watch.”

And it’s likely he would have gotten away with it if he hadn’t, as he walked past the guard, folded his arms so tightly across his chest that one end of the loaf protruded from the open collar of his shirt. No guard could miss that. And this one didn’t.

* * *

“Let me understand this,” Sister Eileen addressed her somewhat apprehensive secretary, “a patient entered St. Vincent’s with a mild case of pneumonia. Her prognosis was good. There were no known complications.”

Dolly nodded.

“Somehow she was put in a test group that was to be given penicillin, even though she had stated that she was allergic to the drug.”

Dolly nodded.

“The admissions clerk’s records show she was given the correct protocol number that would have excluded her from the test group. Yet, that is not the number that was found on her chart. The number on her chart automatically placed her in the study and insured that she would receive the penicillin.”

Dolly nodded.

“We have on record that someone remembers seeing the allergy-warning sticker on her chart. Yet the sticker seems to have just disappeared somewhere along the way.”

Dolly nodded.

“She was given penicillin and we almost killed her. Is all that a fairly accurate history of this patient?”

“Yes, Sister.”

Eileen leaned forward, resting her elbows on the desk. She massaged her temples with her fingertips. “Why wasn’t I told about this immediately?”