Resuscitation

by D. M. Annechino

  As a courtesy, she knocked on the door before walking inside; Osbourn tailed behind. Sami and Osbourn sat in front of Captain Davidson’s desk. Larson paced the floor.

  “I hope you have something for us,” Larson said. “I haven’t bugged you but the mayor is driving me batty and I need to throw her a bone.”

  “We’ve come up with a couple of leads,” Sami said.

  “You mean suspects?” Larson said, his voice a few decibels higher.

  She told Larson and Davidson about Tiny, that he was coming to the precinct this morning to work with a sketch artist, that he felt he could pick the alleged serial killer out of a lineup. She also told them about the symbol Tiny saw on the perp’s medical ID.

  “Does this witness seem reliable?” Davidson asked.

  “He looks like he could play the lead role in a motorcycle movie,” Sami said.

  “What time is he coming?” Larson asked.

  “Nine o’clock.”

  “Is our sketch guy onboard?” Davidson asked.

  She understood that both the captain and chief were under tremendous pressure, but did they think she was still a rookie? “It’s handled, Captain.”

  “So what’s this about a medical symbol?” Larson said.

  “Tiny is a bouncer at the bar where our perp met Connor Stevens. When our guy flashed his driver’s license, Tiny noticed a photo ID with a caduceus symbol on it.”

  “A what?” Davidson said.

  Sami had already anticipated this question and had the forethought to find a photo on Google and print a copy. She pulled a folded piece of paper out of her purse and handed it to Davidson. The captain studied it for a few moments and passed it to Larson.

  “I’ve seen this symbol a gazillion times,” Larson said.

  Osbourn finally spoke. “The problem, of course, is that our man could be anything from a doctor to an orderly, or anything in between.”

  Sami didn’t want to undermine Osbourn’s attempt to participate, but based on the results of the autopsies and what Doctor Fox had told her, she had to correct him.

  “Well, I doubt very much that our guy is an orderly. Based on the surgical procedures he performed on their hearts, more than likely we’re dealing with a doctor gone awry. Perhaps even a cardiologist. But we can’t rule out anyone working in health care.”

  “How do we narrow the field?” Davidson asked.

  Sami had some answers but hesitated a moment to see if Osbourn would continue.

  “Not all medical IDs have an imprint of the caduceus symbol,” Osbourn said. “The process of elimination is going to be labor intensive. We are going to need every available body—detectives and support people as well—to find out who uses this symbol on their IDs and who doesn’t. We’re talking hospitals, clinics, outpatient surgical centers, anyone working for a health-care organization.”

  The young detective was starting to catch on, Sami thought. “And don’t forget about private practices,” she added. “We need to contact the AMA, the California Board of Nursing, and any other organization that maintains a database of health-care professionals.”

  “Well,” Larson said, “seems like you and Detective Osbourn have made some headway. I had hoped for more, but if our eye witness helps the sketch artist come up with an accurate composite, we might be cookin’ with oil.”

  “Can we make arrangements to have the composite sketch posted in all public places—trolley stations, bus stops, museums, post offices, beaches, parks—anywhere locals congregate?” Osbourn said.

  “Sure thing,” Larson said.

  “And how about posting it on all the major billboards in the county?” Sami suggested.

  “Those are all doable,” Larson said. “I’m sure the mayor can make a few phone calls and help us cut through the red tape.”

  “It’s not a secret that our budget is in the crapper,” Sami said, “but is there any chance we can twist the thumbscrews and push the City Council to bump up the ten-thousand-dollar reward the Fosters are offering for the arrest and conviction of the perp?”

  “Great idea,” Davidson said. “That’s how they nabbed the Parkside Strangler in LA. Cash is king.”

  “Hey, it never hurts to ask,” Larson said. “Good job, Detectives. Let’s plan on another powwow tomorrow morning at eight sharp. And Sami, if you run into any roadblocks or resistance from your colleagues, call me on my cell twenty-four-seven.”

  She thought the meeting was over, but when Osbourn and she stood and headed for the door, Chief Larson grabbed her arm.

  “You can leave, Richard,” Larson said. “But we need to speak with Sami privately.”

  She’d figured that this meeting wasn’t going to be that easy. Rarely could she walk out of this office without leaving a piece of her hide.

  Larson closed the door and gave Captain Davidson a look. Sami realized it was an ambush.

  “Can we speak off the record?” Davidson asked. “Technically, we shouldn’t be having this conversation with you, but—”

  “If you two are comfortable, I’m comfortable.”

  “Have you heard from Al?” the captain asked.

  “I speak to him every day. Sometimes twice.”

  “How’s his sister?” Larson asked.

  “She’s holding her own. Still in a coma, but she’s improved slightly.”

  “We hate to sound like ball breakers, but any idea when Al’s coming back?” Davidson asked.

  If she blurted the first thing that came to her mind, she might be unemployed. “It all depends on his sister.”

  “We don’t want to be insensitive,” Davidson said. “But we have a department to run here and Al is an integral part of the equation. We can’t just give him an open-ended ticket to stay in Rio indefinitely.”

  “Under the Family Medical Leave Act,” Larson added, “you can take up to six weeks to care for a spouse, parent, or child. But there’s no provision for a sibling under this law. We want to support Al. Honestly, Sami. But there is no flexibility here. Our hands are tied. He needs to get back to work immediately.”

  “So if there was a way for him to qualify for the Family Medical Leave Act, both of you are onboard?”

  “Absolutely,” Larson said. “You have my word.”

  She didn’t want to sound like a know-it-all, but if her superiors wanted to quote the law to her, they’d better damn well do their homework. “Neither of you have heard of Assembly Bill 849, which was passed in April of 2009? It’s an amendment to the California Family Rights Act.” She sensed that her tone was leaning toward sarcastic, so she had to be careful to tone it down. “This bill expands family leave to siblings, grandparents, grandchildren, and even a parent-in-law.”

  Larson and Davidson stared at each other, looking like she was speaking Russian. “I don’t remember seeing that notice from HR,” Larson said.

  “Al has already filed the application with Judy in Human Resources and all she needs is your signature and approval, Chief Larson, and he’s good to go for up to six weeks.”

  The color drained from Larson’s face.

  “Any chance you can sign it today?” Sami asked.

  Clearly defeated, Larson coughed into his hand and folded his arms across his chest. “Well, um, I’ll get over to HR later this morning.”

  “Thanks, Chief. Al appreciates your support. And so do I.” She had to enlist every ounce of restraint to suppress her grin. “Will there be anything else?”

  With help from Captain Davidson and Detective Osbourn, Sami organized a brainstorm meeting with four of her fellow detectives, six support people, and two administrative personnel. The group assembled in the conference room and congregated around the beat-up table that had been part of this room since the precinct was first opened. Osbourn and she stood in front of the group next to a whiteboard.

  Never much of an artist, Sami drew an image of the caduceus symbol on the whiteboard as best she could. “This is the symbol we’re looking for.”

  She wasn’t
surprised when her least favorite detective was first to speak.

  D’Angelo stood with that smug look that made her want to smack him.

  “So,” D’Angelo said, “we’re supposed to contact every doctor, lawyer, and Indian chief in San Diego just to find out if they have that weird symbol on their ID badge?”

  “You can skip the lawyers and Indian chiefs,” Osbourn said. He passed around a list of all the organizations they needed to contact, along with a photograph of the symbol.

  “Each of you has been assigned specific health-care organizations to contact,” Sami said. “We must verify whether or not this symbol appears on the ID cards of all their employees, associates, or members. If not, we don’t need to go any further. But if they do use this symbol on their IDs, then we need a list of everyone involved in the organization that uses an ID card.”

  “Suppose they refuse to disclose any information because of confidentiality issues?” Debra Jones, Lab Tech, asked.

  “They can either cooperate over the telephone, or we can show up at their doorsteps with search warrants and tear their offices apart. Whatever they prefer.”

  Sergeant McBride stood. “Not for nothing, but how the hell will you get a judge to sign a bunch of search warrants?”

  “Judge Foster’s daughter was the first victim. Needless to say, he’ll do anything within the law to support our efforts to apprehend our guy.”

  “Okay,” D’Angelo said. “We have a list of a gazillion health-care employees with badges that have that symbol on it. How does that help us nail this guy?”

  She wanted so badly to call him a pinhead. “Whoever produced the ID cards also has a database of photographs. We have an eye witness who just this morning worked with a sketch artist to come up with a composite drawing of our perp. Once these photos are sent electronically, we’ll compare them to the composite drawings.”

  “Sounds like a hefty undertaking to me,” D’Angelo said.

  “Between all departments, we have lots of help,” Sami said.

  “Still,” D’Angelo said. “It could take forever.”

  “Not if we work around the clock. And that’s exactly what we’re fucking going to do.” She fixed her eyes on D’Angelo. “Any more stupid questions or asinine comments should be directed to Police Chief Larson.”

  Just as he’d done repeatedly for the last two weeks, Al sat beside his comatose sister holding her hand, stroking her cheek, and softly talking to her. Eating very little and rarely three meals a day, he knew that he’d lost weight because he had to tighten his belt an extra notch to hold up his slacks. He had packed only a small suitcase, so every couple of days he had to use the motel Laundromat to wash and dry his clothes.

  “Hello, Sunflower,” Al whispered in Aleta’s ear. “It was a beautiful day today. Warmer than normal for this time of year. The temperature hit eighty degrees. As soon as you’re better, we’ll grab a couple of cups of coffee and go for a long walk on Copacabana Beach. Would you like that, Sunflower?”

  Exhausted and operating on reserve power, he sat back in the chair and closed his eyes. Almost immediately, the recurring nightmare that haunted him from the first day he landed in Rio de Janeiro played in his mind.

  His sister lies in bed, unconscious. Plastic tubes snake out her mouth and nose. Her left arm is stuck with an IV. More than fifteen relatives, alive and dead, stand around the bed. Al sees his mother and father, cousins, aunts, and uncles. Their faces are chalk-white, walking corpses. As if they are given a cue from a movie director, each of them in harmony points to the electric cord plugged into the wall socket that powers the respirator keeping Aleta alive. In a chant-like manner, their declaration in unison, they say, “Pull the plug, Alberto!” Over and over they repeat this command. Each time they make this statement, their voices get a little louder. After only a minute or so, they point and scream, “Pull the plug, Alberto! Pull the plug!”

  Al presses his palms to his ears but he cannot suppress the chant. He walks over to the electric receptacle, shuffling his feet as if he’s wearing lead shoes, and grasps the power cord with his fingers. Hands shaking, he knows that the only way he can quiet the deafening declaration is to pull the plug. Louder and louder the chant continues. Just as he is about to yank the plug from the receptacle, ending his sister’s life, he awakes out of a sound sleep.

  Sweat covered his entire body and he could feel his heart thumping against his ribcage. Completely disoriented, as if awakening from a nightmare in a strange hotel room, he tried to gather his thoughts. He could not stop his hands from shaking. He tried to focus his eyes on Aleta, but the sweat blurred his vision. He swiped his sleeve across his eyes and looked around the room. No one was there. Just his sister and him. The chanting had stopped and his relatives had disappeared. Each time he had this dream, he awoke just before pulling the plug. He dreaded the day when it would not be a dream, when he might actually face a decision to end his sister’s life.

  Still out of breath and feeling unsettled, more than anything, Al needed some fresh air to clear his head. But not yet feeling that his legs would support his body, he thought it wise to remain seated for a few minutes.

  “Sunflower,” he whispered, “I’m here with you. Can you hear me?”

  Fixing his stare on her face, he noticed the corners of her eyes twitching ever so slightly. He looked more closely and could see her eyes dancing around under her eyelids. In all the hours he had spent by her side, never once had he seen any facial or eye movement.

  “It’s Alberto, Sunflower. If you can hear my voice, please open your eyes.”

  He grasped her hand and held it firmly. He closed his eyes and prayed the prayer he had repeated over a hundred times, a prayer to a God with whom he had no relationship. Yet a God who Al believed could hear his plea.

  He felt Aleta squeeze his hand.

  His eyes sprang open and he focused on her face. When he saw her staring at him, her eyes partially opened, he thought that this was surely a dream. He squeezed her hand and she immediately squeezed his.

  “Can you hear me, Sunflower?”

  She nodded her head and pointed to her throat. Her face looked contorted as if she were in pain. Al figured out what she was trying to say. She wanted the damned respirator removed. He didn’t want to leave her, but ran out the door to commandeer a nurse.

  Julian looked at the giant headlines on the front page of the San Diego Chronicle:

  HAVE YOU SEEN THIS MAN?

  Below the headline, Julian glanced at the composite drawing, and at first, he panicked. But the more he looked at the sketch the less alarmed he felt. He could see a slight likeness, but the drawing was nowhere near spot-on. In fact, he guessed that a few thousand people could be more matched to the sketch than he could. It was an unremarkable representation.

  Focusing carefully on his hair style in the sketch, it didn’t take Julian long to figure out that whoever fingered him was at Henry’s Hideaway the evening he had met Connor Stevens. That was the only time he had worn his hair in such a trendy, punked-out style.

  He tried to recall whom he had encountered or spoken to long enough for them to remember what he looked like. Other than the bouncer checking IDs at the front door and a two-minute conversation with the bartender, nothing struck him. It was obvious, however, that the police had figured out he had met Connor Stevens at that particular bar.

  He thought about his conversation with the bouncer, but could only recall that the big man had given him a hard time about his ID, even though he was twenty years beyond the legal drinking age. He studied the sketch again, more carefully this time, looking at the eyes, mouth, cheekbones, and lips.

  “Nothing to worry about,” he whispered. Still, maybe the police were getting too close.

  Time for him to shift gears, to change his MO.

  Time for him to join a yoga class.

  Peter J. Spencer III paced the floor of his small office like a caged animal. He kept looking at the front page of the newspaper, shak
ing his head, unable to believe his eyes. Now it all made sense. The “John Smith” Spencer had met in the little coffee shop, the man who wanted to know everything there was to know about Detective Rizzo, the man who seemed so mysterious and so hell-bent on remaining anonymous, was likely the serial killer the San Diego Chronicle had named “The Resuscitator.”

  Thinking about his options, all of which seemed incriminating, Spencer wasn’t sure how to proceed. If he contacted the police and told them exactly what had happened, he would be implicating himself as an accomplice—an accomplice to a serial killer. This wasn’t some low-end criminal knocking off little ma-and-pa convenient stores. This was first degree, premeditated murder. And no matter how compelling his defense, trying to prove that he had no knowledge of the killings, Spencer had little doubt that the district attorney would want his head served up on a platter.

  Another option was to contact Detective D’Angelo. But considering that the detective had given Spencer proprietary information about Detective Rizzo, D’Angelo would only be concerned about his own hide. And Spencer knew from past dealings with him that the seedy detective would not only play dirty, he’d do anything—including fingering Spencer—to save himself.

  Even if Spencer contacted the police anonymously, what could he tell them that might lead them down the right path? He had no idea how to find “John Smith,” nor did he know his real name, address, or where he worked. He wasn’t even sure what kind of car he drove. He could pay a visit to the Del Mar Fertility Clinic, but without some official credentials or a search warrant, they would never betray a client’s confidentiality.

  Spencer had never been a squeaky-clean PI. Far from it. He had spent most of his career living in a grey world where nothing was ever black and white. He had done a lot of things he regretted, things that made him ashamed. But never had he been indirectly involved with a murderer. At least to his knowledge.