Resuscitation (16 page)

“Death is too merciful.”

“In all the time we’ve spent together, I can never remember you expressing yourself with such anger and raw hatred.”

“My animosity toward this bastard grows every day.”

“You do realize that you’re letting him control your life, right?”

“What the hell are you talking about? He doesn’t control anything. Not even
his
life.”

“Oh, really? Have you ever considered that all these uncertainties in your life circle right back to your ordeal with Simon? Did it ever occur to you that you don’t yet have closure on this situation and that you’re never going to have closure until you confront Simon face-to-face and tell him how you feel?”

“Face-to-face? How do you propose I do that? He sits in a jail cell in Northern California, a few days away from an appointment with his Creator.”

“People visit inmates every day. Even death row inmates.”

“Not true, Doctor. It takes an act of Congress to get approval to visit a death row inmate—even for a detective.”

“Even for the
arresting
detective that put him behind bars? Find a believable reason why you need to talk to him.”

“Are you suggesting I lie?”

“Of course not. But I am suggesting you get creative.”

“Okay, let’s pretend I
could
get approval to visit him. I should just hop on a plane, fly up north, and meet Simon for coffee?”

“No, Sami. You should fly up north and free yourself from this crushing grip he has on your life.”

When Julian arrived at the hospital, he headed directly for the lab. Once inside, he found his staff huddled around the coffee machine like a bunch of Monday morning football fans analyzing Sunday’s Chargers game. Why wasn’t anyone working and conducting their assigned research experiments? Nothing made Julian angrier than walking in on his staff and finding them wasting away precious time. Particularly because he had told each member of his team how critical the timeline was for them to produce the research results GAFF requested.

Julian stomped toward the group finding it difficult to suppress his anger. “Did I not get an invitation to the coffee klatch?”

“Sorry, Boss,” Judy Forester said. “Have you read the newspaper or watched the news?”

He hated to be called “Boss.” But in such a confined environment, he tolerated it because he believed that creating a casual atmosphere reduced stress and increased productivity. “What’s going on?”

Forester pointed to the headlines. “That woman who was murdered and dumped at Mission Bay Park? Well, there’s a second victim. It seems that whoever killed them performed surgical experiments that are similar to some of the procedures in our A-Fib research. In fact, the first victim died of an A-Fib–induced stroke. But they haven’t yet determined cause of death for the second victim. Isn’t that bizarre?”

“Remarkable.” He swallowed hard. “Any suspects?”

“No,” Burns said.

“Only God knows what he did to the guy,” Forester added.

In that one defining moment, Julian realized the critical flaw in his plan. Why hadn’t this consequential oversight occurred to him? If the research was ultimately successful and he received recognition for perfecting new procedures to treat A-Fib, wouldn’t the police eventually make the connection and want to question him or his staff? Wouldn’t an alert cop want to interrogate the foremost authority on A-Fib? Wouldn’t they conclude that the actions of the killer were too similar to the research to be a coincidence? His thoughts were a flurry of panic and disbelief. He wondered how many other mistakes he’d made along the way, how many clues he’d left for the police. Maybe because he wasn’t a hardened killer, he didn’t know how to be cunning and devious. The only thing he knew for sure at this particular moment was that he had to create a diversion, something to take the spotlight off of his research. But how?

“I’d like to see you in my office, Judy,” Julian said. “The rest of you, please get to work.”

Julian sat at his desk and Judy Forester sat opposite him.

“Sorry about that, Boss. I guess I should have kicked some butt and got everyone back to work.”

“Two things,” Julian said. “First, don’t
ever,
under any circumstances, call me ‘Boss’ again.”

“I apologize, Doctor.”

“Second.” Julian looked at his watch. “It’s seven forty-five. I want all your personal belongings packed in a box and I want you out of here no later than eight-thirty.”

The color drained from Forester’s face. “Are you serious?”

“Does it sound like I’m kidding?”

“But why? Just because the staff took a few minutes to talk about the article in the paper?”

“I pay you to be the team leader and to make sure I get eight solid hours out of every staff member. You, more than anyone, know how critical our timeline is, yet you let the staff lollygag around. I’ve warned you before that you’re too easy on them. And you gave me your word you’d make some changes. I need a leader who can make this lab run like a well-tuned machine. Obviously, that’s not you.”

“Please, Doctor, you know that Nate and I just bought a house. Geez, we haven’t even made the first mortgage payment yet. If you let me go, I’m screwed. Please, please give me another chance. I’ve been with you since the research began. I helped you select the team. I promise—”

“I really don’t want to hear your sob story, Judy. You made your bed. Now sleep in it.” Julian looked at his watch again. “If you’re not out of the building in thirty minutes, I’m calling security.”

Until he could find a suitable replacement for Judy Forester, Julian left David Burns temporarily in charge. Time was of the essence, and finding a competent candidate with the proper research background to head one of the most sophisticated studies in the world would not be easy. But with unemployment approaching double digits, it was an employer’s market and he felt comfortable he’d have someone on board soon. Julian believed that heading a research team for such a high-profile project was a man’s job. Julian knew this going in. His opinion was based on personal experience, not sexism. The only reason he had hired Forester in the first place was because the human resources manager, Cathy Ferguson, an overweight, overbearing feminist, had flexed her executive muscles and insisted that he
consider
a woman. Julian, of course, understood that her suggestion was a mandate. Politics or not, he wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.

Julian left the lab and walked over to the Chest Pain Center. He never quite understood why they didn’t name this area Cardiac Care. After all, not all heart-related problems produced pain.

He’d gotten a call earlier about an A-Fib patient he’d been treating for five years. He had undergone three catheter ablations, and two different Maze procedures, yet chronic attacks of A-Fib still plagued the seventy-five-year-old man. Scheduled to perform bypass surgery a little later this morning, Julian wanted to check in on Mr. Reznik to evaluate his condition.

He walked into the Chest Pain Center and waved to the nurses. Noticing Mr. Reznik lying in a bed, Julian walked into room 4 and grabbed the patient’s chart. He glanced at the heart monitor and saw the erratic image confirming that the patient suffered from a severe A-Fib episode. His heart rate approached two hundred beats a minute.

“Good morning, Mr. Reznik.”

“What the hell is good about it?”

“Come on, now. You know we’re going to take good care of you.”

“Been lying here for over two hours and the drugs still haven’t converted my heart to normal. How long before you have to use those dang-blasted electric paddles? They scare the crap right out of me.”

“The drugs should do the trick. No need to worry about that at this time.”

“I’m getting really tired of spending more time in the hospital than at home.” The elderly man scratched his bald head. “Am I going to make it this time, or should we call a rabbi?”

“I think you’ve got quite a few years left, Mr. Reznik.”

“Sure doesn’t feel that way.”

“How long have you been in A-Fib?”

“It all started early this morning—about five-thirty. I drank a glass of prune juice and as soon as I took the last swallow, I felt this flutter, and my heart started pounding out of my chest. I’ll tell you, Doctor, it feels like a hummingbird is trapped in my left lung.”

“Do you drink prune juice every morning?”

“If I didn’t, my stool would be like concrete.”

“Was the prune juice ice-cold?”

He thought for a minute. “Shit. I usually let it sit on the counter for a while before I drink it.”

“You remember what I told you about drinking ice-cold liquids, right?” Julian had warned Mr. Reznik years ago that no one diagnosed with A-Fib should drink ice-cold liquids because in some patients it can trigger an attack.

“I guess I forgot.”

“Write yourself a note that says ‘No Cold Liquids’ and tape it to the front of the refrigerator.”

“I did this to myself?”

“Just try to be more mindful in the future.”

“I guess I can’t drink a cold beer now and then, right, Doctor?”

“Drink red wine. It’s better for you.” Julian flipped through Mr. Reznik’s chart. “Are you still taking your medications every day?”

“I ran out of the amiodarone but still have a few of the Coumadin left.”

“When did you run out of the amiodarone?”

“About a week ago.”

“Why didn’t you renew the prescription?”

“I just can’t afford them anymore. Since Helen died and her Social Security checks stopped…” Mr. Reznik bit his lower lip and his eyes filled with tears. “I miss her so much.”

Julian couldn’t imagine what it was like to be old, sickly, and alone. He waited for him to regain his composure. “Doesn’t Medicare pay part of your prescription costs?”

“Never signed up for Part D.”

“Why?”

“Can’t afford the premiums.”

Julian wanted to lecture Mr. Reznik and once again make him understand the importance of taking his medication. He even thought about trying to scare him into it, but he figured that the lonely man might not be opposed to joining Helen more quickly than nature intended. Maybe he purposely ignored Julian’s medical advice.

“Here’s what we’re going to do, Mr. Reznik. The pharmaceutical reps that call on me regularly give me a truckload of samples. You have follow-up appointments scheduled with me every three months, and if I remember correctly, you’re booked through the end of the year. When you come in for your checkups, I’ll be sure my assistant gives you a ninety-day supply of both medications. Just promise me that you’ll take them every day and that you’ll stay away from ice-cold liquids.”

Mr. Reznik wiped the tears off his face. “You’re a good man, Doctor. Wish my son was half as good.”

Sami stood outside her mother’s hospital room while the nurse prepped Josephine for open heart surgery. No matter how hard she tried, Sami could not stop thinking about her session with Doctor J. More than two years had passed since Sami had escaped from Simon’s Room of Redemption and helped put him behind bars. She thought she’d gotten past the fear and the nightmares and the haunting memories of what might have happened if Al hadn’t come to her rescue. But she now realized that her journey to closure was far from over. The mere thought of meeting Simon face-to-face jabbed at her nerves like a hot poker.

Although Sami tried to deny the bitter truth, in her heart she felt strongly that the near-death experience had changed her forever. A piece of her had died in that Room of Redemption. Simon hadn’t carried out his plan to crucify her, but he won the battle by killing part of her spirit. Doctor J had been right. No matter how hard she tried to deny it, Simon controlled her. Barring another appeal, Simon was scheduled to be executed by lethal injection in less than a week. At this particular point in time, her mind flooded with thoughts of her mother and Al and Aleta and Angelina and Emily. There was no room in her brain to think about Simon, yet somehow he hovered over her like a buzzard ready to dive. One more troubling thought and she would surely end up in a padded cell.

She glanced down the hall and spotted Doctor Templeton briskly walking toward her, limping slightly. She brushed her sweaty palms across the front of her jeans and tried to force a smile.

“Good morning, Ms. Rizzo,” Doctor Templeton said. “We should be able to begin surgery in about an hour.” He squeezed her arm. “How are you holding up?”

“Nervous as hell, Doctor.”

“Not to worry. Your mom is in good hands. I have the best surgical staff in Southern California. There are no guarantees, of course, but if the surgery is successful, she’s going to feel much better. I promise.”

“I don’t know how to thank you, Doctor. I still can’t believe you convinced my mother to have the surgery.”

“You can thank me after the surgery.”

He leaned against the wall and Sami noticed him grimace. “Not to stick my nose where it doesn’t belong,” she said, “but I noticed you limping.”

“Foolish me. I reached in my trunk to remove a case of spring water and tweaked my lower back.” He reached behind and gently massaged the muscles. “Don’t be alarmed. My back doesn’t affect my hands.”

For the first time since meeting Doctor Templeton, she saw him as a man rather than a doctor—a strikingly good-looking man.

Captain Derrance Davidson sat across from Police Chief Larson reasonably sure what was coming.

“I just got off the phone with Mayor Sullivan, and she’s not a happy camper this morning,” Chief Larson said. “In fact, she took a big bite out of my fat ass. We need to pull out all the stops on this one.” Larson stood up and walked to the window, turning his back on Davidson. “How the fuck could such a beautiful city produce two serial killers in less than three years?”

“We haven’t yet determined if the two homicides are connected, Sir.”

“What world are you living in, Captain?”

“I just think that before we get our undies all twisted in a knot, we should wait for the autopsy to be completed.”

Larson tossed a manila folder across his desk. “Read this.”