Deathbed fk-8 Page 5

  Two things seemed evident: He was ready and she was not likely to be sorry.

  Lay on, George Snell.

  * * *

  Late evening—a quarter past ten—her time of day.

  Sister Eileen had finished her paperwork. No one had disturbed her since night prayers at eight o’clock. Slowly, gradually, gratefully, her body chemistry was tapering off.

  It’s funny, she thought, how, over the years, she had become so attuned to hospital routine that she and St. Vincent’s had become as one. Something like a couple who have been married a great number of years. The hospital’s ebb and flow was matched by her own emotional highs and lows.

  As the patients and, in a sense, the hospital also, began to drift into quiescence, so did she.

  As was her custom, Eileen would take one final tour of the various floors before bedtime. The pattern conformed to all the routines she had built up over the years. This was her time of silent prayer and reflection as she figuratively tucked the hospital in.

  The night-lights gave an eerie glow to the otherwise darkened hallways. As she walked down the corridors she could hear the old building. Each evening it seemed that St. Vincent’s was settling further into the ground. It wasn’t true, of course; it simply was the sort of sound an old, well-constructed building makes.

  The sound of deep, restful breathing emanated from most of the darkened rooms. Sleep, induced or natural, but a peaceful sound. A few patients still had their TV sets on. It was against the rules at this hour. But Sister would do nothing unless the noises were loud enough to disturb other patients.

  There was something different about this evening. Eileen could not put her finger on it. But something was different. Was it a foreboding? She couldn’t tell. Just that tonight was different. Shivering, she pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders.

  From time to time, she passed by a window to the outside world. A solid coating of snow covered everything but the sidewalks around the hospital. The long-standing snow contributed its unreal glow to the dimly lit surroundings.

  And the sirens. Always the sirens. Emergency vehicles delivering frightened, ill, or injured people to St. Vincent’s or one of the neighboring hospitals. Or a police car delivering someone in handcuffs to police headquarters.

  “Hello, Sister.”

  “Oh!” It was so unexpected. She had thought she was alone. But she’d been so deep in reverie, she had been unaware that the charge nurse had caught up and joined her.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

  “You didn’t frighten me.” Eileen would not admit that anything in her hospital could frighten her. “I just didn’t hear you.”

  “It’s these shoes. Plus I get in the habit of creeping around at night. How’s everything?”

  Such a big question. “Okay, I guess. Just making some rounds before bedtime.”

  The nurse was well acquainted with this routine, as was the rest of the staff. The joke had it that wristwatches could be confidently set depending on where Sister Eileen was in her nocturnal rounds.

  “By the way, Sister, you haven’t seen Helen around, have you?”

  “Helen?”

  “Helen Brown, one of my aides. You know her.”

  “Of course. No, I haven’t seen Helen. As a matter of fact, now that you mention it, I haven’t seen anyone but you so far. And I should have passed one of the guards by now.”

  “The guards!” The nurse threw up her hands. “What next? I think the hospital should hire some agency to protect the guards.”

  “Could Helen be in one of the patients’ rooms?”

  “I suppose that’s where she must be. But she’s been gone longer than usual. I just wondered. I guess there’s nothing to worry about.”

  “I don’t think so either. But I’ll keep an eye out.”

  “Oops! There goes the phone.” The nurse hurried back toward her station where the phone was buzzing softly.

  The guards! Eileen could make all the resolutions she wished and nothing would happen. This service, while it left very much to be desired, was the best St. Vincent’s could afford. Perhaps it was fortunate that police headquarters was on the next block.

  Nevertheless, she would speak to John Haroldson, the COO, tomorrow. Perhaps he could get some favorable response from the service.

  Dear God, how much longer could she keep this institution going? Sometimes she dreamed that she was literally Scotch-taping and tying string around St. Vincent’s to keep it together.

  And always the nagging question, Is it worth it? Seemingly, it was the question on everyone else’s mind. She couldn’t afford to let her mind dwell on it. At least not overtly. Her attitude had to be steadfast, uncompromising. She was convinced that the moment she faltered, St. Vincent’s would come tumbling down. In this, she was not much mistaken.

  “Oh!”

  In her startled outcry, she scared both herself and the elderly gentleman who had just exited his room at her left.

  She recovered quickly. “I’m sorry I startled you. Are you all right?”

  “Whatinhell!” the old man muttered. “Goddam women! Gotta scream all the time! Scare a guy shitless, you let ’em. All the time gotta scream. Goddam women! “

  “I said I was sorry. May I help you with something?”

  “Goin’ to the bathroom. Can do that without you. Did it for years. Just don’t scream no more. Or I won’t have to go to the bathroom no more. Goddam women! Gotta scream all the time!” Muttering, he proceeded down the hall.

  Eileen couldn’t suppress a smile. In the good old days, she would have been wearing a traditional religious habit. The old man had not recognized her as a nun. Undoubtedly, he would have been mortified if she had identified herself.

  But it was odd. Twice tonight she had been frightened. That never happened.

  She offered herself the simple excuse that both the nurse and the elderly patient had come out of nowhere suddenly, unexpectedly. It was the element of surprise that had frightened her. Nothing to worry about.

  Though she was able to rationalize the episodes of fright, Eileen could not shake the feeling that something was different here tonight.

  She shrugged the apprehension away. You could not function in a hospital in this part of town if you allowed yourself to be the victim of panic. It was either be brave and face this reality with confidence in God, or strike one’s tent and move on.

  It was odd that she had encountered only the charge nurse and the bathroom-bound patient. True, she had not yet seen the missing aide, Helen Brown. That was not untoward; Helen might very well be occupied in another wing. But the absence of a security guard bothered her. She certainly should have passed one by now.

  “Uh—!” Eileen had not screamed since she was a teenager. She tried to scream now. But no sound escaped through the large muscular hand that covered her mouth. His other arm slid under her chin, pressing hard into her neck.

  She felt her body being lifted. She squirmed and struggled, but could not break free. Had she ever imagined such a thing might happen, she would have thought she’d be brave. But she was terrified.

  It was ungainly, but she kicked and flailed. The more she struggled, the tighter grew the grip on her neck. An opaque pall dimmed her vision, intensifying her panic. Her heart pounded. A mounting sense of dizziness enveloped her.

  Fearing she would never awake, she fought the lowering darkness. Yet she welcomed it as an escape from the pain and terror.

  She gagged and lost consciousness as her assailant dragged her into room 3009.

  * * *

  Things have to be very serious before the sacred routine of a hospital is demolished. This, then, could be described as a very serious situation.

  The CEO had been all but murdered. By a deranged, chemically dependent escapee from the detox unit. Sister Eileen had been saved, at the last moment, by George Snell, one of the hospital’s security officers.

  The corridor lights had been turned up through
out 3-D. Many of the patients had awakened; several were wandering about the rooms and hallways. As many of the staff as could be assembled were present. Chief Martin, head of security, was presiding.

  Once the resident on duty determined that Sister Eileen, beyond a few bruises and some diminishing fear, was all right, she had been placed in a bed and mildly sedated.

  “Now, you wanna run that by me again? From the top?” Martin was pardonably skeptical at the tale of Snell’s singular skill, bravery, and efficiency.

  “Well”—Snell basked in the figurative spotlight—“I turned the corner down there”—pointing toward the corridor’s dead end—“and Ī seen this guy grab Sister and start to drag her into this room.”

  “Uh-huh. Then?”

  “Then I got down here fast as I could. When I got in the room, he was chokin’ her. So I hit him. And he fell. And when he did, he let go of her. Then he hit his head on the bed and he was out cold. Then I called you. And you know what happened from then.”

  “Uh-huh. Where did you hit the guy?”

  “In the mouth . . . the face, I guess.”

  Chief Martin studied the unconscious patient who was being attended by the resident. “Hey, doc, there any marks on that guy’s face? Like he’s been hit or somethin’?”

  “No . . . no,” the resident said, “I don’t see any. Just this big bump on the back of his head where he hit the bed frame.”

  “So,” Martin turned back to Snell, “if you hit him, how come he got no marks on his face?”

  Pause. “Maybe I pushed him ... it all happened so fast.”

  “Uh-huh.” Martin continued to ponder the scene. None of Snell’s story jibed with Snell’s previous proclivity to uninvolvement. But Martin was unable to come up with any alternative to Snell’s story.

  There was one present who could come up with a different story. However, for many reasons, not the least of which was a personal interest in not having the facts revealed, Helen Brown wasn’t talking. But, barely able to stifle a smile, Ms. Brown recalled those events very clearly.

  After his award-winning performance in disrobing both himself and her, Snell had propelled them onto the mattress with such enthusiasm that the bed slid several inches closer to the window.

  Minutes passed as seconds. Snell seemed insatiable. No sooner was one episode concluded than another began. Ms. Brown had no way of telling how long that had gone on when she heard an unexpected and inexplicable sound in the corridor.

  “George,” she stage-whispered, “somebody’s out there!”

  “Shh! This is no time for small talk. “

  “Come on, George!” Struggling to get out from under. “George! Somebody’s out there!”

  Snicker.

  “George, somebody’s fighting out in the hall!”

  “And I’m fightin’ in here. I’m fightin’ to keep goin’ for you, baby.”

  “George, don’t you think you ought to investigate?”

  “I am, baby. And I like what I find!”

  “George! George! They’re coming in here! George, they’re fighting! George, it’s a man, and he’s choking somebody! George!”

  “Now, baby, get ready: Here comes the Snell Maneuver!”

  Snell appeared to be going through a procedure not unlike a cowboy mounting a horse. Halfway through that maneuver, Helen Brown pushed him. She shoved with all her strength. It was enough.

  Caught unaware, he toppled out of bed and, with momentum building, rolled across the floor. In rolling, he made contact. In effect, Snell took the man’s legs right out from under him, much the same as a roll block in football.

  The man dropped Sister Eileen’s body and, tumbling over Snell, fell, hitting his head against the metal bed frame.

  George Snell got to his feet and surveyed the scene. A detox patient, in pajamas and robe, unconscious. The CEO, unconscious. A nurse’s aide, conscious and naked, in bed.

  This was the part from which Helen Brown never completely recovered. Snell wanted to get back in bed and continue with what he promised was the storied Snell Maneuver.

  It was all Ms. Brown could do to dissuade him from his maneuver and persuade him to: get dressed and allow her to do the same, fabricate a believable explanation for what had happened—without ever coming close to the truth—and, finally, call his superior.

  Sister Eileen would regain consciousness and apparently be none the worse for her ordeal. She would have a new, if guarded, regard for the hospital’s security.

  And George Snell would become almost a folk hero to St. Vincent’s staff.

  For another reason entirely, he would be enshrined in Helen Brown’s memory and imagination.

  * * *

  Father Koesler’s dreams were busy. In several of them, Sister Eileen was under attack, sometimes by the Nestorians of unhappy memory, sometimes by the modernists, sometimes by the Holy Inquisition. Koesler had a difficult night defending her.

  It was one of those times when he was glad to see the dawn. Even if it was one of those dark, frigid, snow-caked mornings typical of a Michigan January.

  4

  The Eugene I. Van Antwerp Correctional Facility was a recent addition to Detroit’s penal system. At one time, the city had owned only one jail—the Detroit House of Correction, more familiarly known as DeHoCo. But, at the insistence of the state legislature, the city had been forced to expand its penal faculties.

  The expansion did not necessarily involve change. The buildings, of course, were new, modern, and clean. The consensus, however, was that it would be difficult to improve on the philosophy that governed DeHoCo. So, the new facility housed a tried-and-true approach to penology in a new setting.

  The facility was christened after a one-term (1948–49) mayor of Detroit. Mr. Van Antwerp, a Catholic, was the father of eleven, among them two priests and two nuns. Mrs. Van Antwerp candidly explained that she had planned an even dozen until she learned that every twelfth child born into the world was Chinese. Mr. Van Antwerp’s fertility, both in quantity and quality, might have won a Catholic Family of the Year Award. Unfortunately, Mr. Van Antwerp passed away on the very same day Marilyn Monroe died. Consequently, Mr. Van Antwerp’s obituary was buried in Detroit’s metropolitan newspapers.

  Those who remembered and valued Mr. Van Antwerp’s many contributions to the city in a long life of civic service, were gratified when an important edifice was named in his honor. No Detroit buildings bore the name of Miss Monroe.

  Just as the Detroit House of Correction was more familiarly known as DeHoCo, so the Eugene I. Van Antwerp Correctional Facility was becoming more popularly known as Van’s Can.

  Three of the inmates of Van’s Can had begun their terms several years before, at Jackson, then moved up to DeHoCo, and were now serving their final years at Van’s Can. The three had been found guilty of conspiracy to commit manslaughter.

  As with many murderers, these three convicts were among the least dangerous inmates in the prison. The reasons for, and objects of, their erstwhile homicidal attempts were outside the prison walls. Inside the prison they were obedient, even docile.

  In fact, if one could ignore the reality that they had attempted to kill—and, at least in one instance, almost did kill—they were rather resolutely law-abiding citizens. Their one area of bitterness sprang from the treatment they had received while studying for the priesthood in a Catholic seminary many years before. They had gotten into trouble as a result of their attempt to, in their view, balance the scales of justice.

  In the beginning of their incarceration, they had been four, not three. But one, having been judged less culpable than the others, had received a lesser sentence. What with serving “good time” (five days per month credited against the sentence) and a parole, he had been released from Van’s Can some six months ago.

  With these six months behind him, he was now permitted to visit his still-incarcerated companions. And this is what he was doing now. Carrying a small white index card setting forth his identity, the id
entities of the three prisoners he wanted to visit, and their prison numbers and terms, he approached the guard. Somehow, he had never been able to bring himself to call the guards “screws” as the other prisoners did.

  The uniformed but unarmed guard studied the request for visitation. “Okay, but you gotta wait. They’re over in the Big Top at lunch.”

  The lobby was virtually deserted. Whitaker seated himself on a long, hard bench, near the far wall. He sat quietly and studied the prison reception area as only one who had once been incarcerated there could. It brought back memories, few pleasant.

  He sat, staring at the blank, whitewashed wall. He could hear the faint but unmistakable prison sounds. Barred doors being slammed. The shuffling of feet moving but going always only a brief distance. Several TV sets tuned into different channels, loud in the various blocks, muffled at this distance.

  How could he ever have thought that Van’s Can was “not so bad”? It was the comparison, of course. Jacktown had been so severe, forbidding, threatening. So old, with the lingering odors of urine, feces, perspiration. Filled with desperate men.

  Jacktown had made DeHoCo seem almost like a resort. In the beginning of their stay at DeHoCo, all four had initially been confined in the dog ward because their crime had been murder, or at least conspiracy to murder.

  The dog ward had been a mistake, an almost fatal mistake. Only the most violent killers were confined in that ward. Strangely, it was the most peaceful ward in the block—only because its inmates respected the viciousness of their colleagues. None would raise a hand to another—because of the certainty of savage, hair-trigger retribution.

  Almost immediately, it became all too obvious that “the four” were completely out of place in the dog ward.

  They were removed at once and placed in medium security with Outside Placement. In this category, they were able to work on the farm and attend the various trade school classes.

  From that time, prison officials became aware of the special character of these men. Despite their crime, none of them had a distinctly aggressive, violent nature. They had been angry at treatment they had received from their Church years before. They were angry now at what they considered the dangerous liberal trend of their Church. But beyond that, they were rather peaceful, respectful, obedient, reverent men. Almost like Boy Scouts. Their most disconcerting behavior was a bizarre tendency to be consistently clumsy. And while that could be extremely annoying, it was not a crime.