“That’s right, ain’t it?”
Happily for George Snell, he had not been compelled to testify in the case of Bruce Whitaker. So the knowledge that his “heroics” were no more than a series of accidents did not go beyond the police and Father Koesler.
“But wait a minute!” Snell sat upright. “You know I ain’t no hero. You were with me both times I was suppose to’ve saved somebody. You know! ”
“Yeah, I know, big fella. But I ain’t likely to tell. Far as I can see, if this place closes, we’ll just move along. They always need aides—that’s me. And they always need heroes—that’s you. By and large, we oughta be able to spend a good part of our lives in the sack.”
“Worse luck for you.” Snell lay back in the narrow bed. Instinctively, he wrapped one long arm around Helen Brown, absently caressing her bottom.
“What do you mean, worse luck for me? You’re a lot of fun, big fella. Oh, yes, a lot of fun. You have given me some of the very best lays I have ever had in my whole life. And that includes tonight. And this is an unsolicited testimonial.”
“Yeah.” Snell grinned, then quickly grew serious. “But there’s more. At least there should be.”
“More! You’re kidd—oh, yeah, that’s right. Both times you became a ‘hero’ you were about to do something ‘more.’ But you never got around to it. Now what in hell you could do more beats me.”
“Well, it looks like you’re gonna have to take it on faith. But there was somethin’ more. It was one of a kind. And now,” he choked back what sounded like a sob, “it’s gone. Gone. Gone.”
“When did it leave? Oh, what the hell we talkin’ about, anyway?”
“It left after I saw somethin’ on TV I’ll never forget the rest of my life. And we’re talkin’ about a . . . oh . . . somethin’ like a maneuver.”
“That maneuver again! Look, man, I still don’t know exactly what you’re talkin’ about. But I know you certainly know how to satisfy a person. I truly don’t think I could stand any more from you than what you already done. Besides, big fella, two can play at that.” Helen Brown shifted so that she was roughly one-quarter of the way on top of Snell.
“What? What you gettin’at?”
“Just this, big fella, You’re not the only one who’s got some fancy maneuvers.”
“Wait a minute!” Helen Brown was doing things that made George Snell grin broadly. “Wait a minute! I’m kind of tired.”
“That’s okay, big fella. You know what the helpful cow said to the tired farmer.”
“No! Hoo! Ha!”
“She said, ‘You just hang on; I’ll jump up and down.’”
“Oh, God!” Snell shouted in spite of the danger. “To hell with the Snell Maneuver!”
* * *
“How does it feel to be home?” Inspector Koznicki sipped his Frangelico, the after-dinner liqueur supplied from the extremely limited stores of St. Anselm’s rectory.
“Great. It always feels good to get home. But the time spent at St. Vincent’s was good. I learned a lot,” Father Koesler said.
Koznicki licked his lips. The liqueur had a pleasant nutty taste. “That is important to you, is it not, Father? That you are always learning.”
Koesler smiled. “Don’t mention something like that to the few professors of mine who are still living. As a matter of fact, don’t mention it to any of my peers. Both groups would laugh you to scorn.
“But, yes, as one born out of due time I have become intrigued with learning as much as I can about nearly everything. And in that context, St. Vincent’s Hospital—soon to be of happy memory—was a genuine learning experience.”
“You are referring to the health-care facility itself or to that most unfortunate episode?”
“Both. Interesting people. Interesting experience. With a very sad ending, no matter how you look at it.”
“We have not seen much of each other since the death of Sister Rosamunda and then the trial.”
“I guess we’ve just been busy. I had so much to catch up on here in the parish. It’s always a bit of a surprise to be confronted with all that accumulates over just a few weeks. Not the mail; I stayed pretty much up on that. No, it’s the decisions that everyone was kind enough to leave to me. Then, of course, you’ve been occupied. You’re always busy.”
“Life goes on.”
“And so does death, and murder. And that’s why you’re so busy.”
Koznicki smiled and sipped at the liqueur.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you, Inspector: Whatever happened to Bruce Whitaker? He seems to have just dropped out of sight.”
“Oh, yes, Mr. Whitaker. He has moved to California . . . the Los Angeles area. He is married now, you know . . . that nurse’s aide who also was one of your suspects.”
“Ethel Laidlaw. That’s great. But don’t remind me of ‘my’ suspects. That was when I thought there was a plot afoot to murder Sister Eileen. As it turned out, harming Eileen was almost an afterthought.’’
“Sometimes one gets a feeling.”
“That’s what it was, Inspector, a feeling. There was indeed a good bit of animosity in the atmosphere. There really was a lot of ill feeling toward Eileen coming from Dr. Kim, John Haroldson, Sister Rosamunda, and Ethel. Except that it wasn’t a murderous anger ... at least in retrospect it seems not to have been homicidal. That is until the whole scheme fell apart. Then poor John, I feel, just took leave of his senses.
“I guess we’ll never really know, since all that conflict is resolved now.”
“But you got on the right track.”
“Only when Lieutenant Harris pointed out that in the OR no one could have been trying to kill Eileen since no one could have known she would be a surgical patient, let alone that the nitrogen tank would be needed for her. It was more like a paramecium finding its way. Or a mouse successfully negotiating a maze. When I realized we weren’t looking specifically for someone intent on murder, I simply moved one notch over and tried to imagine someone whose moral approach to things might match the MO exhibited by Bruce Whitaker and his friends.
“That’s when I remembered my conversation with John Haroldson. Of everyone I knew in the hospital, he was the only one whose natural law approach to morality, specifically the indirect voluntary, came very close to what Whitaker was actually doing.
“I must say, though, Inspector, there is nothing intrinsically wrong with the principle of the indirect voluntary or double effect. It is a very legitimate theological school of thought. But, like everything else, if it gets twisted by a sick mind—as happened with John Haroldson—it can become pathological. And so it did.
“But, back to Bruce Whitaker. From the news broadcasts and papers, I was never clear on what happened to him. Is it true that no charges were brought against him . . . even after all he did at St. Vincent’s?”
“I do not blame you for being less than enlightened by the news accounts. After that initial incoherent story in the News, it was almost impossible to get anything clearly until, of course, Mr. Haroldson became perpetrator of record. And that, by the way, is largely what saved Mr. Whitaker from a serious problem.”
Koznicki paused to take another small sip of Frangelico. It was his plan to make this small snifter of liqueur last until the coffee Koesler had made would be cold and, thus, for more than one reason, undrinkable. Koesler’s coffee was legendary.
“You see, Father, the prime difficulty in this case always is this business of Mr. Whitaker’s mistaking curtain hooks for intrauterine devices. Everyone knows it must be a crime of some sort. It is just difficult, after that, to remain serious about the whole affair.
“I remember very well when presenting this case, the prosecuting attorney said, with a straight face, ‘We are talking about first-degree, premeditated mutilation of curtain hooks, right?’