William Kienzle - Deathbed

“Let me tell you what’s behind all this, then you’ll know what I mean.”

Pfeiffer closed his note pad and pocketed his pen. He would give this nut at most three more minutes to babble on. And that only because the reporter was feeling unusually generous today.

“Inspector?” A Third Precinct detective approached Koznicki.

“Yes?” Koznicki had been absently following the patching of the wall while recalling his conversation with Father Koesler. Unfortunately, this was his day off from the hospital. He had missed all the excitement. Koznicki would bring his friend up to date tomorrow.

“Inspector . . .” The detective drew very near so he would not have to speak loudly. “We got lucky.”

“Oh? How so?”

“We got a full ten prints off that nitrous oxide tank, and identical prints off one oxide tank in each of the other rooms. They’d all been bled. Undoubtedly by the guy whose prints were on the tanks and also on the valves.”

“Very good.”

“And we got an ID.”

“So soon?”

“Well, we had both hands. And we didn’t have to look far: He’s on parole from Van’s Can.”

“What does his rap-sheet show?”

“Attempted murder.”

“Hmmm. Name?”

“Whitaker. Bruce Whitaker.”

Koznicki reflected. “Rings no bells. Where do we find him?”

“See that guy over there in the white coat talking to Pfeiffer?”

Koznicki followed the direction of the detective’s inclined head, then nodded.

“That’s our guy.”

Koznicki shook his head in disbelief. “Take him.”

The detective nodded to his partner. They closed in.

“Bruce Whitaker?”

“Y . . . Y . . . Yes?”

“You are under arrest for malicious destruction of property, violation of parole, endangerment to life, and a few more things we’ll think of as time passes.” The detective took a card from his wallet as his partner handcuffed Whitaker. “You have the right to remain silent . . . .”

“You!” Pfeiffer was astonished. “You? You did this? My crazy did this? How lucky can I get? Now, you were saying . . .”

All for nothing! They will never believe him. All for nothing! What a waste! I have accomplished nothing. I should have done it myself from the beginning. It must be done. And I must do it! I must do it quickly now!

13

It was one of those days when Detroiters felt lucky to get where they were going. It had snowed off and on, with varying intensity, for the better part of two days, accumulating an additional five inches.

Because he had traveled Ford Road, the Ford and Lodge Expressways, all priority-plowed thoroughfares, Father Koesler had actually arrived early at St. Vincent’s. So it was with a sense of unhurried relaxation that he was able to enjoy coffee and a Danish with Inspector Koznicki in the cafeteria.

Since yesterday had been Koesler’s day off, he had missed all the excitement. He’d read the first sketchy details in last evening’s Detroit News in a story carrying Mark Pfeiffer’s by-line. TV news had had film on both the six and eleven o’clock news. He hadn’t yet had an opportunity to read this morning’s Free Press.

But all of these gaps in his news-information education were more than filled in by the presence of essentially an eyewitness to the event. By now, Koznicki had told Koesler, step-by-step, what had happened almost twenty-four hours ago not far from where they now sat.

“What a coincidence,” Koesler observed, “that you should be called in on this case.”

“That is indeed what it was—a coincidence. I just happened to be the officer on duty that night.”

“I haven’t as yet been able to get a very clear picture of what happened. The account in the News seemed sort of garbled. One of those stories that a reporter gets as a sort of exclusive, but while he’s got it first, he doesn’t know exactly where it’s going.”

“A very perceptive observation, Father. Mr. Pfeiffer happened to be actually interviewing our suspect as he was arrested. Another coincidence, and a very serendipitous one for Mr. Pfeiffer.”

“I should say. Then about all I got from the TV news was a glimpse at the pandemonium here, then a brief look at the suspect covering his face as he was taken in.”

“I gather you haven’t read today’s Free Press or the morning edition of the News ? They have rather more complete accounts of the matter.”

“Haven’t had a chance yet. What was the guy’s name? Whit-something . . . Whitman?”

“Whitaker. Bruce Whitaker.”

“Hmmm. Why does that name ring a bell?”

Koznicki smiled. “In time you would remember. But you must recall some four years ago, four very conservative Catholic men tried to take vengeance against their former seminary professors? And they were not too successful, although they came close? Well, it is typical of this man that, on the one hand he would not think to use an alias, and that, on the other, no one would remember him anyway.”

“Yes, yes, yes, I remember. Of course! The gang of four! Good grief, they could scarcely tie their shoes! That’s why he looked familiar.” He shook his head. “Bruce Whitaker did all that damage? It hardly seems possible. I mean, with his penchant for failure . . .”

Koznicki frowned. “Well, he does claim he did not do it.”

“But you have evidence?”

“Tanks containing nitrous oxide were emptied in each of the operating rooms. His fingerprints were found on each tank. His were the only prints of unauthorized personnel we found in that area.”

“That’s interesting. So he seems to have emptied the nitrous oxide tanks. I’m not familiar with that. What’s nitrous oxide used for?”

“It is one of the gases that is used as part of a mixture in anesthesia.”

“And if there isn’t any nitrous oxide?”

“The patient does not go to sleep—at least not as rapidly or deeply as the anesthetist would expect.”

“Hmmm. So, emptying the tanks . . . that wouldn’t seem to accomplish much. Sounds like it’s right in the ball park for those guys. What was he trying to do anyway?”

Koznicki shook his head. “He claims he was trying to call attention to the hospital to reveal its immoral deeds. But, at that point, he becomes quite incoherent.”

“Strange.” The rationale made no sense to Koesler. But then he did not consider any of the hospital’s policies immoral. “At any rate, he certainly got everyone’s attention.” He looked at Koznicki questioningly. “But then, you said he claims he didn’t do it.”

Again Koznicki frowned. “He is an odd person and this is an odd case.”

“Oh?”

“He freely confesses that he bled the nitrous oxide tanks—which affected virtually nothing. But he denies tampering with an extremely dangerous tank that might have injured or even killed someone—anyone, in this case—and which did become a media event.”

“Excuse me, Inspector, but that doesn’t sound very odd to me. It seems kind of understandable that someone would admit doing something harmless yet deny responsibility for a serious crime . . . no?”

“As far as that goes, Father. But Mr. Whitaker goes on to confess and deny things he has not been charged with. Some things which are—well, incredible.”

“Such as?”

“Do not feel inappropriate should you laugh at this Father; everyone else has. He claims that he mutilated a shipment of curtain hooks, mistaking them to be—can you imagine—intrauterine devices!” Koznicki barely suppressed a snort.

Koesler started to laugh, then suddenly stopped. “Wait a minute! That explains it. I was here in this cafeteria when a woman brought in a box of curtain hooks that had been damaged. The presumption was that it was the manufacturer’s fault. But if I remember correctly, the lady said she had stored them in the compartment reserved for IUDs.”