Resuscitation

by D. M. Annechino

  One day, Eva changed all of that when he went to her apartment and found her lying in bed with both wrists tied to the brass headboard, securely held by satin strips of fabric. To this day, he had no idea how she had bound herself without assistance. He never asked. She never told.

  “Fuck me,” she had said. “Fuck me hard.”

  Her invitation, so simple yet so direct, sent his desire to levels he’d never thought possible. Even now, those words were like a magical symphony playing in his head. He could never remember feeling so aroused. It was as if he overdosed on some exotic aphrodisiac. Excited beyond anything he had ever experienced, Julian ravaged her and savored every exquisite minute of it. And Eva, moaning like a wounded cat, must have loved it as well. So pleasurable was the experience, the mere thought that he could take her any way he wanted, that he had complete control over her, that he could be totally selfish and pleasure only himself if he chose, evoked a fear that he might never truly enjoy traditional sex again.

  But there was more to the story. The whole time he penetrated her, with each thrust, he spoke these words in his mind: “This-is-for-you-Rebecca. This-is-for-you-Marianne.” It was like a silent triumph, as if he were getting even.

  Forcing his thoughts to the present, Julian somehow found the strength to overcome temptation. He pressed the scalpel against Genevieve’s breastbone and made the incision. Then, he reached for the circular saw as he had so many times in his career while performing legitimate surgery. Halfway through her sternum, he had to set down the saw. Overwhelmed with nausea, he tried to make it to the bathroom but threw up all over the floor. He hadn’t expected such a reaction. It was as if he were a surgical intern witnessing his first open heart procedure. How many chests had he cut open? More than he could remember. How many hearts had he held in his hand? But this was different. Concerned that she could bleed to death, he found the strength to rush back to the bed.

  This is more difficult than I thought.

  He finished cutting through her sternum, carefully placed the rib spreaders into her chest, and cranked her ribcage open. Julian then cut her femoral vein high on her thigh, and inserted a catheter into the vessel. Then, he gently inched it forward to her heart. When he positioned it properly, he injected a mixture of epinephrine and potassium chloride into the IV and introduced a high-frequency electrical impulse through the catheter. After several minutes, her heart went into a sporadic arrhythmia, and shortly afterwards, she converted to full atrial fibrillation.

  Now the tricky part. Locating the exact area of the heart producing the faulty electrical impulse induced by the drugs and catheter would not be easy. Under normal circumstances, two, sometimes three surgeons would perform corrective surgery related to A-Fib. But Julian had to make do with only two hands. Not having to be overly concerned with the long-term consequences of the procedures, Julian could afford to boldly experiment without medical limitations. His primary objective was to keep her alive as long as possible. He removed the catheter and in its place inserted a different catheter to perform a radio frequency ablation. He checked to be sure the automated external defibrillator was close at hand.

  “Forgive me, Genevieve, but the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few.”

  This was now his credo.

  When the phone rang at 3:45 a.m., Sami, roused from a deep sleep, blindly reached for the receiver, almost knocking the clock radio off the nightstand.

  “Hello,” she whispered, her voice raspy.

  “Sami? This is Captain Davidson. Sorry to call in the wee hours, but I have to speak to Al.”

  She hadn’t spoken to Captain Davidson for several months, but this was not the time for chitchat. Al, snoring like a hibernating grizzly bear, was obviously sound asleep. She gently grasped his shoulder and shook him.

  Al moaned but didn’t say a word. He did, however, continue to snore.

  She shook him again, harder this time. “Wake up, Al.”

  “What the hell’s going on?”

  She handed Al the phone, then rolled on her side. “It’s the captain.”

  It took him a few moments to get oriented. He combed his fingers through his hair, feeling certain that the captain wasn’t calling to invite him to an early-morning breakfast.

  “What’s up at this ungodly hour?” Al said.

  “Get dressed and shuffle your ass to Mission Bay Park,” the captain ordered.

  “It’s a little early for a picnic.”

  “Cut the cute shit and hightail it over to the parking lot east of the Tourist Information Center. Know where it is?”

  Now Al was wide awake. “What’s going on?”

  “Homicide is going on.”

  The next thing Al heard was a dial tone. Trying hard not to disturb Sami, he got dressed as quickly as he could in the dark. But halfway through the process, she turned on the nightstand light.

  “What is it?”

  “Sketchy information.” Even if he knew all the gory details, he’d never share them with her. Over the last two years he’d become a master at telling Sami everything about his homicide investigations without telling her anything. It was like boot camp for a politician.

  “Is there a body?” Sami asked.

  “Not sure. I gotta get going. Try to go back to sleep.”

  “Fat chance of that.” She kicked off the covers, stood up, and stretched for the ceiling. Her daily stretching exercises really helped with her lower back problems. She stood in front of Al as he hurriedly buttoned his shirt. “Last night was amazing.”

  “Would you expect anything less from a hot-blooded Latino like me?”

  She smiled. “If I’m not here when you get home, call me on my cell. I’m taking Angelina to my mother’s later this morning.”

  “Weren’t you there just yesterday?”

  “I’m worried about her. She can barely catch her breath just walking down the street. And her memory? I’m surprised she even recognizes me when I walk in the door.”

  Al strapped on his shoulder holster and eased into his leather jacket. “Has she seen her doctor?”

  “He’s got her on some new medication, but I’m not sure it’s helping much. I worry about her living alone. If something happened in the middle of the—”

  “Maybe she should stay with us for a while.”

  Al’s suggestion caught her completely off guard. “And you’d be okay with that?”

  “As long as we put a lock on our bedroom door, I’m fine.”

  She cradled his face with both hands and kissed him softly. “You’re a real gem.”

  Just before he headed out the door, she grabbed his shoulder. “No need to protect me from the bogeyman anymore, Al. I’m a big girl, so don’t feel like you have to filter everything you tell me. I can handle it.”

  “Nothing to tell. Yet.”

  “Well, when there is, don’t be afraid to share.”

  Now at his family home, thoughts of Genevieve flooded Julian’s mind. Some exciting. Others haunting. She had been his first, a maiden voyage to a world unknown. No matter how he had tried to predict his reaction, or visualize what to expect, nothing could have prepared him for the overwhelming surge of mixed emotions he was now feeling. On one hand, he felt like a pioneer, a man who might soon make medical history. On the other, he felt like a monster, a hypocrite, a murderer of innocent people.

  He faced the ultimate paradox. As a skilled cardiothoracic surgeon, he had saved many lives and lost only a few. But he could not let himself think of Genevieve as an ordinary patient. Although unwillingly, she was now a fundamental first step in his research. The data he had collected before all desperate attempts to resuscitate her failed, made it painfully obvious that the answers he sought could only come from live subjects. He had to indisputably prove to the Global A-Fib Foundation that the success rate to eradicate atrial fibrillation by modifying both catheter ablation and the Maze III procedures could be as high as 95 percent. He had feared from the onset of this project that controlled te
st studies and working with cadavers would never yield the data he needed to complete his research. Genevieve now confirmed his theory.

  In a dreamlike state, Julian walked in the kitchen, shaky and uneasy. He stood behind his wife, who was standing at the counter cutting an apple. He kissed Nicole on the neck, more obligatory than purposeful. She turned and looked at him.

  “Lord,” Nicole said, “you’re as white as a ghost. Are you feeling ill?”

  “Just a touch of the flu.”

  “And you’re kissing me? Stay the hell away from the girls. The last thing I need is a couple of sickly kids.”

  “Sorry,” he said. Lately, it seemed that “sorry” was the most overused word in his vocabulary. At least with Nicole.

  “I have to ask you something,” Nicole said. “This is a touchy subject, I know, but how would you feel about turning over the A-Fib project to one of your colleagues?”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “I really want you to consider it.”

  “Do you have any idea how humiliated I’d be in front of the entire medical community?”

  “What’s more important, your precious ego or your family?”

  Julian wanted his motivation to be humanitarian; he wished that a desire to save the world drove him. But in truth, helping to eradicate A-Fib worldwide was merely a fringe benefit. No, as much as it prickled his conscience, this research project was totally about him: the fame, the recognition, seeing his photo on the cover of the American Journal of Medicine, and maybe even earning a prestigious nomination for the Nobel Prize in Medicine. Oh, how he hungered for the admiration and prestige.

  “You want me to flush two years of busting my ass down the toilet? Working twelve-hour days. Not taking any vacations—not even a three-day weekend in Big Bear. How would I feel about giving up? Are you shitting me? I’m almost there and you want me to abandon ship?”

  “So the rejection letter from the Global A-Fib Foundation hasn’t discouraged you?”

  “Of course it did. It knocked the feathers right out of me. But it also gave me hope and made me realize that I’m this close.” He held up his hand and gestured with his thumb and index finger.

  “Hey, Julian, it’s your career. Do whatever you think is right. To hell with me and to hell with the girls. But if you’re looking for support from me? I’ve got two words for you. And they ain’t Merry Christmas.”

  At 4:35 a.m., Al pulled into the parking lot near the Tourist Information Center at Mission Bay Park. The area buzzed with activity. Red beacons flashing, yellow tape everywhere, cameras lighting up the landscape, detectives milling about, and the forensic staff huddled around what Al assumed would be a dead body. He even spotted a news van sitting in the corner of the parking lot with its satellite dish reaching for the stars. How did they hear about this homicide so quickly? he wondered. The morning air still hung on to its late-spring bite. The reflection of the full moon danced on the bay.

  Al slid out of his car and headed for Captain Davidson, easy to single out among the dozen or so worker bees. Who else would be dressed in a suit with a cigarette in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other this early in the morning? Seeing the captain on the scene surprised Al. Davidson usually worked the privileged nine-to-five gig. So, seeing him milling about at a crime scene before sunrise suggested that this was no ordinary homicide. Then again, Al had never really seen anything ordinary about a murder.

  As always, Davidson sucked on his cigarette with the passion of a man drawing his last breath. “Sorry to interrupt your beauty rest, Detective Diaz.”

  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Al watched three forensic experts examining the remains. He caught a whiff of Davidson’s cigarette and urgently wanted a puff. “Have they identified the body?”

  The captain shook his head. “This is a creepy one. The victim is not only fully clothed, she looks like she’s going to the opera. I’ve never seen a victim so perfectly groomed.”

  “What do you make of it?”

  “I haven’t the slightest clue.”

  “Was she assaulted?”

  “Betsy’s working on that as we speak.”

  “Cause of death?”

  “Her sternum was split in half, and it looks as though her ribs were pulled apart with one of those rib spreaders surgeons use during open heart surgery.”

  Al felt chilled and zipped up his jacket. “Who found the body?”

  “A couple teenagers.” The captain pointed to a smoldering fire pit near the edge of the water. “A bunch of kids were doing an all-nighter. Bonfire. Beer. Pot. Two of the boys had to take a leak and found the body lying next to the restrooms.”

  Al understood that it was part of his job to examine the body. He’d seen dozens of corpses. Shot. Stabbed. Bludgeoned. Dismembered. But since Sami’s ordeal two years ago at the hands of Simon, he had begun to find it difficult to examine murder victims, which for a homicide detective was as absurd as a scuba diver being afraid of water.

  “I want you to take the lead on this,” the captain said.

  Al’s gut reaction was to say, “No fucking way!” But to argue would be futile. “And who am I partnering with?”

  “I was thinking Ramirez. But I want everyone working this investigation.”

  “Does my vote count?”

  “This is not a democracy.”

  “Can I at least plead my case?”

  The captain folded his arms across his chest. “I’m listening.”

  “Ramirez sucks. Ever since his promotion to lieutenant, his ass has been stuck to the chair in his cushy office. He’s not a frontline cop anymore.”

  “Your concerns are noted.”

  Al hated to be dismissed like a child.

  The captain dropped his cigarette on the grass and crushed it with his size 13 shoe. “How’s Sami doing these days?”

  “She’s holding her own.”

  “Haven’t seen her in a long time. She used to stop by the precinct once in a while. Doesn’t she love us anymore?”

  “Don’t take it personally, Captain. We live together and I have to make an appointment just to have dinner with her.”

  The captain searched his pockets for another cigarette. “How are things working out for you two?”

  “We’re not without our little tiffs, but things are good so far.” This was only half true. Of late, he wasn’t really sure how he felt about their relationship. Strange as it sounded, he loved her but wasn’t sure if he wanted to be with her.

  “What you’ve got is the brass ring. Don’t fuck it up.”

  “I’m trying my best not to, Captain.”

  Al walked toward the body, feeling more uncomfortable than usual. The corpse, partially covered from neck to ankles with a white sheet, lay face up on the freshly cut grass. With flashlight in hand, he lowered himself to his knees next to the body and studied the murdered woman’s remains. Her blonde hair looked like she’d just left a beauty salon. Not a strand was out of place. For such a young woman—she appeared to be in her thirties—the dark circles and the puffy bags under her eyes seemed strange. He was so focused on her, he jumped when he felt someone squeeze his shoulder. Betsy, the crime scene investigator, stood over him and smiled. “A little jumpy there, hey, Diaz?”

  “I’m always on edge when I’m kneeling next to a corpse.” He stood with a slight moan. “These old bones ain’t what they used to be.”

  “Ah,” Betsy said. “But you still have that pretty face.”

  “That’s what a forty-year-old man really wants to hear.” Still craving the relaxing effects of nicotine since he’d quit smoking a couple years ago, he would gladly pay a hundred dollars for one—fifty just for one long drag. “What have you got so far?”

  “This is a strange one,” Betsy said. “The body was fully clothed when we arrived on the scene. And when I say ‘fully,’ I mean dressed to the nines—including very expensive high heels.”

  “How expensive?”

  “Well, she was wear
ing a Carolina Herrera cocktail dress—that probably doesn’t mean anything to you, but get this. The friggin’ sales tag is still on the dress. I found it attached to a button on the underside of the hemline. It was purchased at Saks Fifth Avenue, and guess how much?”

  “I haven’t a clue.”

  “Five bucks shy of three thousand dollars.”

  It took a minute for him to digest this. “What do you make of it?”

  “Unless her parents are loaded or she just won the Lotto, I can’t imagine that she bought it.”

  “So, you think that our guy cranked her fucking chest open, did unspeakable things to the poor thing, and then dressed her in a three-thousand-dollar dress?”

  “Seems that way. But that’s just part of the mystery. No price tag on the shoes but they’re Jimmy Choos, and I’ll bet they cost close to a thousand.”

  “I don’t get it. He kills her and then spends four Gs on clothes?”

  “It sure is puzzling,” Betsy said.

  “Sounds like he suffered from serious regrets after he killed her.”

  “Either that, or there’s some hidden message he’s trying to convey.”

  “Any prints on the price tag?”

  “It’s clean as a whistle.”

  “Anything else?”

  “I don’t think he raped her, but can’t verify it until we do a complete exam and analysis in the lab.” She shook her head. “Can’t imagine why he killed her the way he did. It’s a new one on me.”

  Al knelt again and slowly uncovered her chest. “Un-fuckin’-believable.” He remembered the last serial killer and how he had removed his victims’ hearts as trophies. “He stapled her chest?”

  “Neatly and with precision.”

  “Any other bruises or wounds?”

  “That’s the weird thing. The rest of her body—at least here on-sight—looks unharmed. But I can’t really answer that until we get her on a slab.”

  “Call me as soon as you have a full report.”

  “Will do, Detective.” A moment of awkward silence. “Tell Sami I said hi. And that I really miss her.”