William Kienzle - Deathbed

“Oh, no; no, please! I must be going very soon.”

“As you wish. You know, I intend to visit John at Jackson sometime soon. It’s such a pity: Here he will be locked up with real criminals probably for the rest of his life. And he could be enjoying a trouble-free retirement.”

“But that is the point, is it not, Father: that he felt he could not enjoy a trouble-free retirement. That is what led him into this much troubled retirement.

“Well, I must be going. It is getting late.”

Koesler retrieved Koznicki’s coat and hat from the closet. “Oh, I meant to ask you, Inspector: What was the poison John used?”

“Isopto Carpine. An eye medication, highly toxic.

“He got it from the hospital pharmacy. He tried to use his own key, but the locks had been changed by then. As chief operating officer, he was about the only one in the hospital who could countermand Sister Eileen’s order.

“Of course, with his having done so he was not thinking very clearly at this point—it would have been easy to trace the drug back to him. However, we did not need to do so as he was in a most confessing mood.”

The high that had been sustaining Koesler took a sudden dip. “I’m afraid I did not contribute much to help you. You were on the verge of the solution yourself.”

“Not at all, Father. You discovered the vital link between the crimes we knew of, largely defective though they were, and the crimes we were trying to solve.”

“But if I had been more perceptive and quicker, I might have been able to prevent Rosamunda’s death.”

“Possibly. But if you had, Sister now would have been forced into that retirement which she so dreaded. And even if you had discovered the link sooner, Mr. Haroldson would still be serving the twenty-four-year sentence for tampering with the nitrogen tank. And, at his age, the difference between twenty-four years, even with good time, and life may be negligible.

“Besides, I am quite convinced that you very probably saved Mr. Haroldson from suicide.”

“You think so?”

“I am quite certain. So, as they say, God writes . . .”

“. . .straight with crooked lines.”

“Exactly. Well, thank you, Father, for the lovely meal and, as usual, for good companionship.”

“Not at all, Inspector. You sure you wouldn’t like a little hot coffee before you go out into the cold?”

For a moment, Inspector Koznicki toyed with the idea of telling his friend the truth about the execrableness of his coffee. Almost, but not quite. It was late and he wanted to get home.

“I think not, Father. Thank you just the same.” And the Inspector departed.

Koesler closed the door and reflected. It was odd. As often as he dined at other people’s homes or in restaurants, everyone usually had more than one cup of coffee. Sometimes several cups. Yet he could not recall anyone’s ever having more than one cup of his coffee. Often, the first cup was never finished.

It was a mystery he simply could not solve.

* * *

“Do you still love me?”

“Of course I do; don’t be silly.”

“I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t.”

“How can you say a thing like that?”

“You know!”

“Ethel, I love you. With the exception of my mother and Holy Mother Church, you’re the only one I’ve ever loved. Now, it’s late. Why don’t we just go to sleep. I’ve got a busy day tomorrow.”

“That’s it, Bruce!”

“What’s it, Ethel?”

“Your busy days.”

“Ethel, do you remember just a few weeks ago? Your hospital was going out of business and you were about to be unemployed with absolutely no prospects for another job.”

“I remember.”

“And I was in a holding cell charged with a misdemeanor and a felony. And I couldn’t afford a lawyer. And I had failed miserably in my mission. The only reason the mission finally worked is because somebody much smarter was following me around doing things right. And I couldn’t even get in touch with my three friends in Van’s Can because they were being held incommunicado because of the riot there.

“And because we’ve started a new life and they would never understand, I will probably never see them again. And it was only because of a miracle and a sympathetic judge that the charges against me were dropped. And, finally, it was only through the grace of God and your faith in me that I got this job out here.”

“So what are you driving at, Bruce?”

“What I’m driving at, Ethel, is that you and I just ought to be real grateful for what we’ve got and not ask any questions . . . see?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Look. I could be in jail. You could be on the outside waiting for me, maybe for a lot of years. Or we could both be free and both be out of a job and lucky just to live in some godforsaken barn like the Back Porch Theatre attic. . . see?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. I gotta admit I like your title . . . associate director. And the corporation is certainly high class. Gosh, the Center for Id Expression runs lots of big ads in lots of expensive magazines. And the Maharidian Maker Shalal Hash Bash is a great boss. At least he’s been very generous so far.

“But Bruce, I can’t help being jealous . . . what wife could?”

“Ethel, I’d be the first to admit that I am not all that wise in the ways of the world. But I gotta think that most wives would be very happy if their husbands brought home $33,000 a year plus incentives. That’s not hay.”

“Maybe so, but most wives’ husbands aren’t sex therapists.”

“Somebody’s got to do it.”

“I suppose. But—it’s only natural—I still get jealous of all those women who have you all day long.”

“Ethel, what can I do? Before I met you I proved beyond the shadow of a doubt that I could do nothing. Not anything. And then, in one magic moment, on a cart in a chapel in a Catholic hospital I discovered a talent that—well, let’s face it, Ethel: the chapel, the Catholic hospital, the way we are destined to do God’s will—it’s a talent that’s got to be God-given.”

Ethel smiled in spite of her fears. “That was a magic moment, wasn’t it, Bruce?”

“Yeah, it was. I never did anything right before in my life. But that moment! There was something about that hospital. It was like the power was flowing out of someone else—God, I guess—and flowing into me. Right after I experienced my reaction and felt your response, I knew this was a God-given gift and it had to be used for the betterment of mankind.”

“Womankind.”

“Whatever. Anyway, it felt kind of funny making a demonstration tape and sending it to the Maharidian. But since I was doing it with you, it wasn’t so bad.”

“And it was on the strength of that tape that you were hired.”

“That’s true, Ethel. But in no time now I’ve worked my way up here at the Id Center to be the number-one surrogate. You should be proud.”

“I am. But I’m jealous too.”

“Don’t be. I’m doing it for the greater honor and glory of God—like the Jesuits say—AMDG. Besides—now don’t you go telling this to anyone; it might ruin me—”

“Okay.”

“I don’t get any pleasure from it.”

“You don’t get any—! How can that be?”

“I save all my pleasure for you.”

“You do?”

“Absolutely.”

“Oh, Bruce. That makes me so happy. I’m even happier now that the Maharidian has named it—you know, the thing—after you.”

“Uh-huh. The Whitaker Maneuver! Can we go to sleep now, Ethel?”

“Sure, Bruce.”

“Bruce?”

“What, Ethel?”

“Could we do it just once? It helps me go to sleep real good.”

“Ethel!”

“Please.”