William Kienzle - Deathbed

“And Sister?”

“She came out of it fine. She’s in ICU, of course, but the prognosis is very good.”

“Thank God.

“Now, Mr. Reese: What happened to the tank of nitrogen to cause it to act as it did. An accident?”

“No way! The manufacturer is well aware of the danger of gas under a lot of pressure, and so are we. So all of us take a lot of precautions.”

“Enough precautions to avoid anything like this happening?”

“Absolutely.”

“Go on, Mr. Reese.”

“Well, I brought another tank in to demonstrate what happened. I showed the other officers.” Reese looked meaningfully at Koznicki to ascertain if the previous explanation would suffice. It would not, Koznicki’s steadfast demeanor made clear. Reese proceeded. “You see this little three-wheeled cart. It’s called an H-Tank carrier. ‘H’ refers to the size. It’s one of the largest tanks.

“What happened, to begin with, was that whoever did this loosened the cotter pins in the outside wheel. What that did was to guarantee that when somebody started to pull it, the wheel would come off the carrier and the whole assembly would tip over. Still nothing much would happen, ’cause the tank is strapped to the carrier, but most of all the valve assembly and the pressure regulators are firmly affixed to the tank.

“But what this guy did was he filed almost completely through the base of the cylinder valve. And that’s not something added to the basic tank, like the regulator; the cylinder valve is part of the tank itself.

“So, you see, the guy fixed the carrier so it would tip over. Then he fixed the valve so it would tear loose from the tank. At that point, about two-hundred pounds of nitrogen per square inch tried to get out of the tank all at once. Wasn’t nothin’ gonna hold it back. It became a kind of unguided missile. And the rest of it you see. The hole in the wall and a wrecked engine in the police car.”

“I see,” Koznicki said. “That was a very clear presentation, Mr. Reese, and understandable even to the nontechnician such as myself.”

“I’m getting practice.”

Koznicki overlooked the sarcasm. “I have just one or two questions. You say the nitrogen tank, once it was torn loose, became an ‘unguided’ missile. Do you mean, literally, there was no way of telling in which direction it would travel? It could just as easily have injured, perhaps very seriously, someone in this room as it could have gone harmlessly through the wall? Conceivably, might it have been intended for someone in this room? Perhaps the patient who was about to undergo surgery?”

“I see what you mean: Could it have gone crazy like a deflating balloon? Maybe. A lot depended on how it broke free of the valve. But if you’re counting percentages, odds are it would have acted just as it did. Since it was stationed against the outside wall, the nurse would have started to pull it toward the table so the drill could be hooked up. It would have tipped over on the way to the table. And it would have broken off the valve cap while it was pointed toward the outside wall. So, as long as the break was clean—and the guy filed it down close enough to practically insure that the break would be clean—it was pretty well programmed to go through that wall, just like it did.”

“I see. Very well. My final question, Mr. Reese, is: You keep referring to the one who was responsible for this as ‘the guy.’ Is there any reason you can think of that it had to be a man?”

Reese thought for a moment. “No, now that you bring it up. It didn’t require any special strength. Anybody—man or woman—could have loosened the wheel. And filing the valve didn’t need strength as much as just patience, stick-to-itiveness. Anybody could have filed it down. He—or she—would just have had to stay with it awhile.”

“Very good. Thank you, Mr. Reese.”

Koznicki wandered across the room to gaze at the hole that was being crudely patched. And to wonder at the mind that had converted a tank of nitrogen gas into a torpedo that might easily have killed someone, if not in that room, then on the street outside.

“. . . that’s it. A wild and woolly way to begin the day. We’ll be bringing you further developments in this story as they happen. From old St. Vincent’s Hospital in downtown Detroit, this is Gerald Harrington, Channel 4 News, reporting.”

The sungun faded and the TV team began to pack up. This was the first story of this day. It was not likely to be the last.

“Mr. Harrington! Mr. Harrington!”

Gerald Harrington thought he heard someone call his name. He wasn’t sure. The voice, while it seemed insistent, was barely audible over all the sounds in the still-crowded operating room.

“Mr. Harrington! Mr. Harrington!”

Harrington spotted him. A small, roundish man wearing perhaps the world’s worst toupee and standing behind the tape placed by the police to keep the crowd back. Harrington crossed to the man. “Hi, there. What can I do for you?”

“This isn’t the whole story,” Bruce Whitaker said.

“Not the whole story? What do you mean, Buddy?” Harrington was interested. Any competent newsperson would have been.

“There are things going on in this hospital. Illicit things.” Whitaker could not resist a conspiratorial tone.

“Illicit things?”

“Yes. In the clinic. You can see for yourself. I’ll show you. Birth control. Devices. Instructions. Tubal ligations. You can see for yourself. I’ll take you there.”

Harrington was pressed for time. He was by no means averse to following news leads, but he had to make judgments on which ones to pursue. This one gave every appearance of being both a wrong turn and a dead end. It was not just that the informant seemed to be a run-of-the-mill crazy; as far as Harrington was concerned, the man was speaking nonsense.

“Okay, Buddy. Maybe I’ll check those things out later. Meanwhile, keep a good thought.”

As Harrington prepared to leave, the sound man looked at him inquiringly. Harrington’s exaggerated expression told him that it was one more of the city’s many neurotics. The sound man nodded and the team departed.

Damn, thought Whitaker, this is my golden opportunity. I don’t know how that explosion happened, but it was a godsend. Maybe literally. The news media are here in force. And I haven’t been able to lead anybody to the real story. Maybe I’m coming on too strong. But how else can I do it? We never thought of this part when we were planning. You need a PR person for this sort of thing. What am I going to do?

“Hey, you!”

“Me?” Whitaker was taken by surprise.

“Yeah, you. I heard you talking to that TV guy before. I’m Pfeiffer, Detroit News. ” He showed no identification, but he had a note pad, which was enough authentication for Whitaker. “You got something on this story?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact.” How to handle this? Imagine: a real reporter who wanted to hear the real story! God was good!

“Name?”

“Bruce Whitaker.”

“Doctor? You a doctor here?”

“No. I’m a volunteer.”

“Then what’s with the stethoscope?”

“Oh, my . . . .” In the confusion he had forgotten the stethoscope. “Never mind that. I need it in my job.” Whitaker hoped the bluff would work.

Pfeiffer looked a bit skeptical, but forged on toward a possible new development in this bizarre incident. “Okay. What’ve you got?”

Not so pointblank now, Whitaker cautioned himself. “There’s a reason behind this explosion.”

“You mean you know who did it?” Pfeiffer was immediately excited.

“Well, not exactly. Almost.”

“Whaddya mean ‘almost’! How could you know ‘almost’ who did it! Have you got both oars in the water?”