Resuscitation

by D. M. Annechino

  “That’s not necessary, Officer. You go home and get some sleep. I’ll contact Doctor Templeton directly and find out what’s going on. Thanks for calling.”

  She parked her car in the lot next to the fertility center and flipped open her cell phone. She didn’t think she’d find Doctor Templeton in his office this early in the morning, but remembered that he had called her from his cell phone a few days ago. She pushed a few buttons and went into the “Received Calls” menu. Sure enough, she found his cell phone number.

  After three rings, she expected to hear a voice mail prompt. Instead, she heard the doctor’s voice.

  “This is Doctor Templeton.” His voice sounded labored.

  “Hi, Doctor, sorry to bother you so early in the morning, but—”

  “No need to apologize, Detective Rizzo. I’ve been awake since the wee hours. Just started my morning cardio workout, so I might sound a bit out of breath. What can I do for you?”

  “I understand that McKenzie O’Neill regained consciousness for a brief period, but some doctor ordered a sedative to put her out. Was that you, Doctor?”

  “No, that would likely be Doctor Hastings, a fellow cardiologist. He was scheduled to complete some pre-op tests on the patient early this morning. We haven’t spoken yet.”

  “Why would he sedate her? We left explicit instructions to contact us if she even twitched. We may have missed an important opportunity to speak with her that might lead us to her assailant.”

  “Well, Detective, it’s hard for me to comment without first speaking to Doctor Hastings. However, to me, it sounds like he made the right call. This young woman is clinging to life by the skin of her teeth. Any excitement at all could place her in a life-threatening situation. Under normal circumstances—if there even is such a thing in medicine—we would have already operated on this young woman. Unfortunately, without some guidance from Doctor Fisher, a cardiothoracic surgeon up in San Francisco, the risk to operate would be greater than the risk of a short postponement. Doctor Fisher is flying in later this morning. He and I, along with two other heart surgeons, will evaluate Ms. O’Neill’s condition and determine exactly how we will proceed. We’ve scheduled surgery for first thing in the morning, and if we’re successful, she should regain consciousness within twenty-four hours. When she does, you can speak to her for as long as you like without it endangering her life.”

  How could she, a layperson, dispute his professional opinion? “Thanks for the explanation, Doctor. Any idea at this point how long you expect her to be in surgery?”

  “It’s hard to say. The surgical procedures we’re dealing with will likely take ten to twelve hours. Ultimately, Ms. O’Neill will need a heart transplant, which, believe it or not, might be less risky than what we’re facing. Unfortunately, thus far, we do not have a donor, so our goal is to keep her alive until we find one. Without the surgery she faces tomorrow, I doubt she’d live another seventy-two hours.”

  “I can’t thank you enough, Doctor. Hope you have a great workout.”

  “These old bones ain’t what they used to be. Have a nice day, Detective Rizzo.”

  Almost like clockwork, Sami disconnected Doctor Templeton, and Al pulled up next to her. He got out of his car and waited for her to grab her purse, check her face in the vanity mirror, and step out of the car.

  “Mornin’, Sami.”

  Sami barely acknowledged him with a quick wave.

  The center would not open for another ten minutes, so Sami hoped their conversation would remain professional and not personal.

  “Have you spoken to this Doctor Hastings?” Al asked.

  “The only one I’ve met on the surgical team is Doctor Templeton, but I’ll contact Hastings when we’re finished.”

  “I hope it amounts to something,” Al said.

  “Officer Dolinski couldn’t make out what she mumbled. But maybe Doctor Hastings did. I would think that if she’d said anything significant, uttered a name, or something even remotely tangible, Doctor Hastings would have contacted us.”

  “One would hope so.” When they walked into the center, the receptionist immediately acknowledged them with a smile, which was a dramatic change from the tepid greeting they’d received the day before.

  “Good morning, Detectives. Can I get either of you a cup of coffee or some water?” Her tone was saccharine sweet.

  Sami shook her head. “No thanks.”

  “I’d love a cup with cream and two teaspoons of sugar,” Al said.

  “Please have a seat. Ms. Cardoza will be with you in a minute.”

  They barely had time to sit down when Ms. Cardoza appeared from the back room.

  “Nice to see you again, Detectives. Please come into my office.”

  As Al passed the receptionist, she handed him the coffee and Sami noticed that the young woman winked at him.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  This was exactly the situation Sami dreaded. Was it an innocent wink, or was she outwardly flirting? Was he attracted to her? Did he wink back? If they reconciled, wouldn’t she be sentenced to a life of paranoia and suspicion? She now realized that she needed to speak with Doctor J again. Maybe she could clear Sami’s head and help her sort out her conflicting emotions.

  When they all sat down in Cardoza’s office, Sami tried to read the woman’s eyes, but they gave her no clue of what was coming next.

  Maria Cardoza set a manila folder on her desk and pushed it toward Sami. “We found a DNA match. However, this particular client is one who requested to remain anonymous, so he goes by a pseudonym.”

  “You allow that?” Sami asked.

  “It’s not the norm, but if a client insists on remaining anonymous, who are we to challenge that request?”

  “And what name does this guy go by?” Al asked.

  Cardoza opened the folder. “John Smith.”

  “How utterly original,” Sami said.

  “It would surprise you,” Cardoza said, “if I told you how many men use John Smith as their name.”

  “Do you have his photo?”

  “As part of his anonymity, he did not want a photo taken.”

  “So,” Sami said, “when a client comes in looking for a sperm donor, what would make them choose an anonymous donor when they have no information on him? For all they know, he could be Charles Manson’s brother and have the IQ of a housefly.”

  “Detective Rizzo, I didn’t say that we knew nothing about our anonymous donors. Only that they use a pseudonym and do not have a photo taken.”

  “Tell me about this guy,” Sami said.

  Cardoza slipped on her reading glasses and studied the file. “First off, he’s of English descent. He’s slightly over six feet tall. He’s forty-two years old and has dark hair and blue eyes.”

  “That describes about twenty million men, just in California alone,” Al said. “Can you give us any distinguishing features or something more specific?”

  “Well, all potential donors are required to take an IQ test and a Global 3 Personality Test. His IQ is 147 and his character pattern of behavior, thoughts, and feelings lean toward assertiveness, competitiveness, perfectionism, dedication, and altruism. What seems a bit out of the ordinary is the fact that rarely does a personality trait of altruism combine with these other traits.”

  Sami and Al’s eyes met.

  “I appreciate your efforts, Ms. Cardoza,” Sami said, “but this information doesn’t really help us. We’ve got nothing except a broad description.” Sami paused for a moment. “When is this donor scheduled to come in again?”

  “Most clients just pop in without an appointment. I guess it has something to do with their mood on any particular day. I’m sure you understand.”

  “Here’s my card,” Sami said. “Next time he wanders in, call me immediately. And find a way to detain him until we get here.”

  Sami and Al stood. Sami offered her hand. “Thank you for your help.”

  Just as Sami and Al reached the reception area, Maria Ca
rdoza called Sami’s name.

  “Something just occurred to me,” Cardoza said. “I’m not sure if this helps, but when I originally interviewed this guy, I couldn’t help but notice that he had a dimple on his left cheek—a very pronounced dimple.”

  “Only on his left cheek?” Sami asked.

  Cardoza nodded. “That’s correct.”

  Sami and Al stood in the parking lot, both leaning against their cars.

  “Any brilliant ideas?” Al asked.

  “Well, you were right, Al. Bad judgment on my part. We have to speak with Doctor Hastings ASAP. It would also be a good idea to speak to the nurse who injected McKenzie with the sedative.”

  “We could put out an APB for anyone with a left dimple on their cheek,” Al said.

  “Good luck with that.”

  “I’ll follow you to the hospital,” Al said. “If you lose me, call me on my cell and I’ll meet you in the main lobby.”

  “The way you drive, I doubt that Mario Andretti could lose you.”

  Odd, Sami thought. Their playful interactions almost seemed normal. Then a disturbing image of Al making love to the Brazilian tramp flashed through her mind and everything turned sour again.

  As Sami had predicted, Al pulled into the hospital parking lot right behind her. In fact, he parked his car right next to hers. Under normal conditions, Al would grab her hand or drape his arm around her shoulders whenever they walked side by side. Now they walked together separately.

  Neither of them spoke as they approached the main entrance. Al held the door for her, so at least one factor in their relationship hadn’t changed. Aside from his often vulgar mouth, he had always been a gentleman.

  She pushed the up button for the elevator and the silence between them continued. A good number of people were scattered about the hallway. Some appeared healthy, others were in wheelchairs or pushing walkers. It seemed like a mix of visitors and patients. One woman in particular caught Sami’s eye. Obviously in pain, the woman’s face was a picture of misery. Hunched over in the wheelchair, her backbone looked severely deformed.

  Is this what I have to look forward to in my golden years?

  They waited for the less-healthy people to board the elevator, then they barely squeezed in. Sami pushed the button for the sixth floor. Of course, everyone else behind them wanted to get off the elevator before the two of them, so it was like a game of musical chairs.

  Finally, the sixth floor.

  “Where we headed?” Al asked.

  “Before we find Doctor Hastings, let’s talk to the officer stationed at McKenzie’s room.”

  “Do you remember where her room is?” Al asked.

  Sami pointed. “Intensive care is down the hall and through the double doors on the right. I think it’s room six twenty-five.”

  Double-timing their pace, they sailed down the hallway, passing nurses and doctors and an assortment of other people. When they turned right, Al pushed the saloon doors open and held one for Sami. She stopped dead in her tracks when she saw an empty chair in front of McKenzie’s room.

  Where the hell is Officer Martinelli?

  Sami and Al gawked at each other.

  “Something ain’t right,” Al said. “Let’s check with the nurses’ station.”

  “Excuse me,” Sami said to the tall blonde nurse. “Have you moved McKenzie O’Neill to another room?”

  “Are you a relative?” the nurse asked.

  While Sami dug through her purse, Al whipped out his badge from his back pocket. “We’re homicide detectives, miss. Can you tell us where Ms. O’Neill is?”

  Sami had an eerie feeling that the answer to Al’s question would not be good news.

  While the blonde nurse banged on her computer, Sami noticed that the nurses’ station looked like the control room for NASA. Modern medicine had truly evolved.

  The blonde nurse stood and cocked her head to one side. “I’m afraid that Ms. O’Neill took a turn for the worse and was rushed into emergency surgery.”

  “Can you tell me who’s operating?” Sami asked.

  The nurse checked the computer again. “Doctor Hastings is leading the surgery, and Doctor Templeton will assist, but I’m not sure who else is on the surgical team. She deteriorated rather quickly, so they had to assemble a team stat.”

  Sami tried to remember the name of the nurse who gave McKenzie the sedative. Olivia was the only name that rang a bell. “Is there a nurse here by the name of Olivia?”

  “No Olivia here,” the blonde nurse said. “There is a Nurse Oliver.”

  “That’s it!” Sami almost yelled. “Can I speak to her, please?”

  “She just went on break, but she’s probably in the employee lounge just down the hall.”

  When Julian had gotten the call from Doctor Hastings, he could hardly contain himself. Maybe he wouldn’t even have to take action. Doctor Fisher still wasn’t due in for a couple of hours so Julian and his colleagues were on their own. If she didn’t die on the table, which now seemed quite possible, it would be much easier for him to sabotage the heart pump surgery without Doctor Fisher standing next to him. Furthermore, this particular procedure required three cardiothoracic surgeons, each busy with their own responsibilities, so his actions would go unnoticed.

  After a brief discussion, which had included feedback from Doctor Fisher by telephone, Julian and the other surgeons determined that the safest course of action was to install the heart pump before the valve replacement surgery. Julian hadn’t had a great deal of experience installing a left ventricular assist device, and he had no experience whatsoever with the unit they chose to install, the HealthMate II, the smallest, least cumbersome of all LVAD devices. Consequently, if he did make a fatal error, no one would ever suspect that it was anything more than an honest mistake.

  The team of doctors, nurses, and surgical technicians stood at various stations in the operating room, each of them with a defined role. Doctor Hastings, who had more experience with the HealthMate II than the other surgeons, stood over McKenzie’s spread-open ribcage.

  “Before we begin,” Doctor Hastings said. “This is how it’s going down. As usual, Doctor Mickelson will monitor the patient and adjust the anesthesia as necessary. He will also administer Heparin to prevent clotting. We need to make three incisions: one at the base of the left ventricle, one in the aorta, and one in the right side of the abdominal wall. Before we install the LVAD, we will reroute the blood to the heart-lung machine and it will pump and oxygenate the patient’s blood. We then must form a pocket for the LVAD in the abdominal wall as well. After that, we’ll insert a tube to channel blood from the ventricle to the LVAD. Another tube will be connected from the pump to the aorta. When the pump is adequately supporting the patient’s heart, and her vital signs are stable, we can move forward with the mitral and aortic valve replacement. Any questions?”

  No one uttered a sound.

  “Let’s proceed.”

  Sami and Al found their way to the employee lounge, so crowded that Sami wondered who was running the hospital.

  “Is there a Nurse Oliver in here?” Sami yelled over the buzz of the crowd.

  A nurse standing at the counter, buttering a bagel, turned her head and waved the hand holding the knife. “That would be me.”

  Sami and Al flashed their badges simultaneously, as if it were a coordinated plan.

  “I’m Detective Rizzo and this is Detective Diaz. Can we talk privately?”

  “Sure thing. Just let me check out with the charge nurse.”

  When Nurse Oliver returned, she led the detectives to a small room used for patient consultation.

  “This is about the O’Neill girl, isn’t it?” Nurse Oliver asked.

  “What would make you ask that?” Sami said.

  “First off, everybody in the free world has heard what happened to this poor girl, the news media revealed her name. Second, a police officer is posted at her door twenty-four hours a day.”

  “The police officer posted
at Ms. O’Neill’s door told us that you were in her room when she regained consciousness,” Sami said. “Is that right?”

  She nodded vigorously. “I wouldn’t exactly call it consciousness. She mumbled a few words and seemed a little agitated, so the doctor asked me to give her an injection of diazepam, which is generic Valium.”

  “Could you make out what she mumbled?” Al asked.

  “Not really.”

  “We understand that Doctor Hastings was the one who examined Ms. O’Neill and asked you to give her the sedative, correct?”

  She shook her head. “It wasn’t Doctor Hastings.”

  “Are you sure?” Sami asked.

  “Absolutely positive. I know Doctor Hastings.”

  “Then who was it?” Al asked.

  “To be honest, I’m not sure what the doctor’s name is.”

  Sami looked at the nurse in disbelief. “You work here and you don’t know the doctors’ names? Please understand that it’s absolutely crucial we speak to the doctor who examined her. He might have understood what she mumbled and that could be a significant piece of evidence.”

  “I’m sorry, Detective. I’ve been a nurse for almost twenty-five years, but I’ve only worked at Saint Michael’s for about a month. And I was just transferred to the ICU a week ago. Do you have any idea how many doctors buzz in and out of this place day in and day out? I suspect it’s going to take me several months before I know everyone by name.”

  “How can we find out who examined Ms. O’Neill?” Sami asked.

  “Whoever it was must have signed her chart.”

  “And how do we get our hands on that?” Sami asked.

  “I’m still feeling my way through procedures. Give me a minute and I’ll ask one of the other nurses.”

  Sami and Al waited in silence, and once again, everything seemed out of sync between them.

  With guidance from Doctor Hastings, Julian made the first incision at the base of McKenzie’s left ventricle. Once cut, he proceeded to carefully insert a small plastic tube in the incision and secured it with a special clamp.