“I think,” Koznicki said at length, “that in view of what Father has expressed, and as a matter of precaution—”
He was interrupted by a series of hysterical shrieks coming from nearby.
Led by Koznicki and Harris, Koesler and the officers rushed from the room in search of the source of the sound. The screams were coming not from the adjoining office but from the one adjoining that.
It was Sister Eileen’s office. It was her secretary, Dolly, who was screaming.
Koznicki, unexpectedly agile for his size, was first to enter Sister’s office. He saw Dolly standing near the large executive desk. At sight of him, she ceased screaming, but stood badly trembling.
Koznicki followed her riveted gaze to the knees and feet of a prostrate figure half hidden by the desk. It was a nun; he could see the white habit extending to sensible black shoes.
As one of the officers steadied Dolly, Koznicki crossed behind the desk and knelt beside the still figure of Sister Rosamunda. Father Koesler eased his way through the now crowded office and knelt on the other side of Sister’s body.
Koznicki felt for an artery in Sister’s neck. There was no pulse. He shook his head. A small bottle lay on the floor a few inches from Sister’s outstretched hand. It was empty, or nearly so. Only a few drops remained.
Koznicki read the labeclass="underline" “Elixir Terpin Hydrate.” He sniffed at the bottle. “Nothing I can identify. But poison, I assume.” He looked intently at Dolly and by sheer force of his will drew her gaze. “These questions are important, so please compose yourself.” He waited a moment until he could tell that she was in greater control of herself. “All right. Now, where is Sister Eileen?”
“In there.” Dolly pointed to the rear door that led to Eileen’s living-and-bedroom suite.
Koznicki jerked his head toward the door. Instantly, Lieutenant Harris entered the inner suite after a perfunctory knock on the door.
“Why is Sister Eileen back in her suite so soon after major surgery?” Koznicki asked.
“She was doing so well,” Dolly explained in a low tone. Though she seemed composed, the tremolo in her voice betrayed her continuing anxiety. “Of course she was taken to ICU after her operation. But she recovered remarkably well. And she asked . . . well, she demanded to be returned to her own room instead of one of the regular hospital rooms. And she is CEO, you know . . . .”
“Of course.”
Harris reentered the office. “She’s okay. Just sleeping.”
“She’s been heavily medicated,” Dolly added.
“Did you know Sister Rosamunda was in here?” Koznicki asked.
“No, I didn’t. I knew Sister Eileen was here, of course. But I didn’t know Sister Rosamunda was. She must have come in before I came on duty.”
“Dolly . . .” Father Koesler looked up from his kneeling position; although she was quite obviously dead, he had given the nun conditional absolution. “. . . has John Haroldson been in here since you came on duty?”
“Why, yes . . . just a short while ago. But . . . you don’t think that he—oh, my God! You can’t think that he—”
“Show us to his office, Father. Quickly.” Koznicki was off his knees and pushing Father Koesler out the door.
* * *
All told, there were only six officers and one priest. But because they were all large men, the number seemed larger.
Almost as one they stormed through John Haroldson’s outer office. His secretary was not there. With no preliminaries they burst into his inner office.
Haroldson looked up from his desk. He had been writing. His expression was grave; his visage seemed drained as if he were about to faint.
“Mr. Haroldson . . .” Koznicki began.
Haroldson held up a restraining hand. Everyone stopped in his tracks. For several moments Haroldson continued to write. Then he laid his pen to one side.
He picked up several sheets of paper and offered them to the Inspector. “I believe this is what you want.”
Koznicki did not move to accept the papers. “Before I accept or read what you have written, I will ask Lieutenant Harris to apprise you of your rights.” He nodded to Harris.
Lieutenant Harris took a card from his wallet and began reading the Miranda Warning. Harris of course knew the warning by rote. But reading it was accepted police procedure. Thus, if a defense attorney were to ask an arresting officer how he could be certain he had given the required warning, the officer could honestly respond, “I read it to him.”
The scene resembled a tableau. No one moved as Harris delivered the text. Haroldson continued to extend his papers toward Koznicki, who made no move to accept them. Until the warning was completed.
Then Koznicki asked, “Do you understand what has been read to you, Mr. Haroldson?”
Haroldson nodded and shook the papers insistently.
Koznicki took them, put on his reading glasses and began to peruse the neat, precise script.
Sister! Can you hear me? Can you hear me even though you are dead?
“Mr. Haroldson, Koznicki looked up from the paper, “is this part of something like your diary?”
“Continue reading,” Haroldson replied. “All that you want will be there.”
I am the one who killed you. But you must know that. By now, you must know all the answers.
It was a mistake. It was a mistake ever to have set myself on this course. But that is of little consolation to you. It is too late for consolation. And I must confess I am sorry. But what good does that do you? It is too late for sorrow.
You are dead and this unbearable pain in my head goes on.
It was all so useless.
With all my heart I wish I could change the course of these events. I wish I could change what has already happened. But of course no one can do that. No one can bring you back to life.
If I were to tell this story to someone—and I may very well be forced to do so—where would I start?
I suppose I would start where so many hospital stones begin. In the emergency room . . .
Haroldson’s account went on to tell of how he had been in the background of the emergency room mostly to monitor the new substitute chaplain’s work. While there, Haroldson had noticed this odd character, a volunteer also trying to keep in the background.
Later, in his regular perambulations through the hospital, Haroldson became more aware of this uncoordinated dolt who managed to botch nearly everything he attempted.
Haroldson was about to dismiss the man he had identified as Bruce Whitaker. Even as a volunteer he was costing the hospital far more than he was worth.
And then came the incident of the mutilated curtain hooks. There was no reason for it. The most intriguing feature of the fiasco was that the hooks had been stored in the IUD drawer. He also noted that at a nearby cafeteria table, Whitaker seemed in a state of panicky confusion when the housekeeper presented the curtain hooks.
It had been simple for Haroldson to check out Whitaker. His name was on file as a volunteer. With Haroldson’s civic contacts, he easily learned of Whitaker’s background, his trial and conviction, and present parole. Haroldson recalled well the crime spree waged by Whitaker and his three arch-conservative friends. Armed with that background information, it was not all that difficult to surmise what Whitaker might be up to now.
Haroldson, at that point, made Whitaker a prime subject for surveillance. Gradually, Haroldson ascertained Whitaker’s scheme: to create a media event that would bring to light St. Vincent’s casual approach to authentic Catholic medical-moral ethics.