William Kienzle - Deathbed

“What do the books say?”

“That the first time is liable to be too rapid and the secret is in slowing everything down, which can be better done the second time. Particularly if the second time immediately follows upon the first time. I think I’m quoting exactly. It also says that when we are able to go slowly, we might become more imaginative. At least we are supposed to open ourselves to our imaginations.”

“Are you quite sure this is God’s will?”

“Oh, yes, quite certain.”

“Then”—Brace’s smile was beatific—”God’s will be done!”

“There they go again,” said George Snell, who had come close to turning back to Wuthering Heights just as Bruce and Ethel once more launched themselves onto the Seas of Providence. “I don’t know about those two. I don’t think they’ve got much of a future in this sort of thing.” He shook his head. “Skinflicks have come a long way from the days when nobody was sure just how far you could go and what you could get away with. Nowadays, the flicks have got porno pros, young people with great bods. I don’t know if those two could have made it even in the old days. They definitely have not taken care of their bodies. Shame. Nobody ought to neglect their bodies like that.”

He looked at the screen a bit more sharply. “Wait, that’s not bad! Wonder what happened to that technique the first time around? Maybe that was a teaser. Musta been. They’re beginning to look like pros. And looka that! How many times in a flick like this does the broad look like she’s really enjoyin’ it?

“And look at the guy! I don’t believe it—he’s going to . . . God, even I—wait a minute! Wait a minute! Wait a minute! He’s going to . . . he couldn’t be . . . he’s not . . . he is! Holy glory ... it’s the . . . he’s gonna . . . he’s gonna . . . IT’S THE SNELL MANEUVER!”

George Snell was standing, the chair tipped over behind him. He felt as if his copyright had been violated. He felt as if he’d been violated.

“Oh, Bruce,” Ethel sighed.

“Ethel,” Bruce whispered.

It was just at that moment the explosion occurred.

“What in hell was that!” Snell cried.

Bruce and Ethel were dumped from the gurney.

It was only later, much later, that Snell reflected that the two people he had thought were part of a movie also experienced the explosion at the same instant he did.

And it was only later, much later, that it occurred to him that he recognized both those people who he had thought were actors.

12

Chaos. In what had been an orderly, neat, sterile operating room.

The police technicians had been at their job for hours. Some, particularly the photographers, had completed their work. All the technicians, as well as the investigating detectives, had treated—and were continuing to treat—the crime area with the reverence reserved for the only witness that was guaranteed truthful: the evidence at the scene.

Photographs had been taken from almost every angle. Surfaces had been dusted for prints. Detectives were questioning anyone and everyone who was or might in any way be involved in this case.

A hospital maintenance crew was putting a temporary patch over a huge hole in the outside wall. Since their work was not yet completed, the room was not that much warmer than the 29 degrees Fahrenheit that downtown Detroit was experiencing.

Uniformed police from the Third (downtown) Precinct were barring entry to inquisitive gawkers while permitting access to legitimate hospital personnel. Thus, among those present in OR One were John Haroldson, Dr. Lee Kim, Sister Rosamunda, and Dr. Fred Scott. Among the gawkers persistent enough to remain at the very edge of OR One were Ethel Laidlaw and Bruce Whitaker.

Channels 2 and 7, the CBS and ABC affiliates respectively, had completed their filming and departed. But not before Bruce Whitaker had tried his best to interest them in other aspects of the hospital. All, as it turned out, to no avail.

Gerald Harrington, the smooth, imposing black reporter for Channel 4, the NBC affiliate, was almost ready for his stand-up report. He needed to gather only a bit more information. His crew was setting up camera and sungun.

By far the most imposing figure in the room was Inspector Walter Koznicki. Imposing, not in any vehement or aggressive manner. If anything, he would more accurately be described as reticent and almost shy. But his bulk was considerable and his demeanor commanding.

Koznicki had been on the scene almost from the very beginning. As it happened, he had been serving his tour of duty in what the police call Code 2400, which consisted of a driver and an inspector ready to take charge immediately in any emergency. And what had occurred at St. Vincent’s clearly qualified as both a police emergency and a media event.

At this moment, Koznicki was addressing a biomedical engineering technician, one Frank Reese. Reese had been over the details many times, but this was the first time with the Inspector.

“I am well aware that you have answered these questions before, Mr. Reese,” Koznicki said, “but I am sure you will be kind enough to go over the matter one more time with me. And I have asked Dr. Scott to fill in the details so that we will have a complete picture of what took place.”

This benevolent invitation coming as it did from Koznicki was equivalent to a command performance.

“Dr. Scott, you will begin?”

“Well, it was late last night, maybe ten-thirty or eleven o’clock, when Sister Eileen was taken to emergency. She was comatose. She had been complaining of headaches and she had been the victim of an assault earlier—though she gave every evidence of having come through that with no ill effects. But sometimes . . .

“In any case, I ordered a CAT scan, which revealed a subdural hematoma—in layman’s language, the blood was squishing her brain.

“I scheduled her for surgery stat. But we had the devil’s own time trying to locate the neurosurgeon on call. By the time we located another one and he got down here and we got ready, it was nearly four in the morning.

“Sister was prepped and placed on the table. Oh, yeah, then something odd happened. Bill started the anesthetic, but the gauge indicated he wasn’t getting any nitrous oxide in the mix. So he checked the tank and it was empty. As a matter of fact, the valve was open. Someone—I can’t think why—had bled the tank.”

“Let me interrupt, Doctor,” said Koznicki. “If that had been the only thing to go wrong with the procedure, what would have been the effect?”

“Not very much, really. If the patient had been awake, she just wouldn’t have gone to sleep as expected. No matter what, the anesthetist would have found the problem, just as he did in this case. Then, all he had to do was get a full tank of nitrous oxide and hook it in.”

“I see. Strange. Please continue, Doctor.”

“As soon as Bill replaced the oxide, we got started. Sister had already been prepped, of course, so all that was left as a preliminary was to drill into her skull. For that, we needed the nitrogen. That was in the large tank standing near the wall. The circulating nurse went to get it and then, well, all hell broke loose.”

“Could you be more specific, Doctor?”

“Oh, sure. Well, she’d just begun wheeling it to the table when it seemed to tip over and fall off the dolly. The tank seemed to rip loose. Then it just took off—it simply took off, like a jet plane. There was this enormous whoosh and the tank shot across the floor and exploded right through the wall there. I guess it ended up where you found it, lodged in the motor of a police car that was parked just outside the hospital.

“And that’s about it. We were all so shocked, I think the whole team just stood there looking at the hole in the wall. I don’t know how long we did that. It probably seemed longer than it was. But when we finally came to, well, there was work to be done. We got Sister into another OR and did the job. I must admit we were pretty shook. But we got the job done.” He paused. “Funny thing, though: the nitrous oxide tank in there was empty too; Bill had to hook up another one.”