Resuscitation (15 page)

Who am I kidding? I can’t do this
.

Now facing the reality of kneeling before a priest and pouring out his heart, Julian realized it was foolish and self-destructive. Just because the priest had made a vow of secrecy, how could Julian be certain he wouldn’t contact the police? How many altar boys had been victimized by priests who had taken the vow of chastity? Confession was not the answer. This was a problem he had to resolve all alone. More determined than ever to complete his research regardless of the emotional shockwaves, Julian left the church like a man fleeing a burning building.

Monday morning came quicker than Sami had thought. Her therapist had made a special concession for her and scheduled an early-morning appointment, so she could get to the hospital an hour before her mom’s surgery. Sami hadn’t wanted this appointment with Doctor Janowitz. In fact, she tried everything to postpone this session. But Doctor J, as Sami affectionately referred to her, convinced her that it would be beneficial for them to talk before her mother’s surgery.

Before getting ready for a day that would be a true test of her sanity, Sami looked in on Angelina, and then Emily. Both were sleeping soundly. Emily was such a blessing. Sami turned on the TV and listened to the local news channel. From the bathroom she couldn’t see the screen but could hear the audio clearly. Just as she was about to brush her teeth, she heard a familiar voice. She ran into the living room and turned up the volume. Police Chief Larson stood on the front steps of City Hall addressing the media. At this early hour, whatever he was about to say must be significant.

“At approximately four a.m. this morning,”
Chief Larson said,
“some early-morning joggers discovered the body of a young man at the Mount Hope Cemetery in La Mesa. We have not yet identified the body, but we’re working around the clock to determine who it is.”

The reporters fired a barrage of questions at the police chief. Most of the questions he could not or would not answer. Then a reporter asked,
“Is there any connection between this murder and the murder of Genevieve Foster?”

“There are similarities, but I’m unable to give you any details at this time.”

Sami grabbed the remote and turned off the television, her hand shaking uncontrollably. A million thoughts flashed through her mind—all of them revolving around the possibility of another serial killer stalking the streets of San Diego. Maybe another Simon. At this particular point in time, Sami had to focus her attention on her mother’s surgery. But forcing these disturbing thoughts out of her mind could prove to be a challenge for which she was not prepared.

Sami pulled into the parking lot on La Jolla Village Drive, and as she’d done dozens of times before, she sat in the car for a few minutes mentally psyching herself up for a mind-draining conversation with Doctor Janowitz. Of course, it was difficult for Sami to call their get-togethers a conversation. They were more like Sami pouring out her heart and Doctor Janowitz asking the same question:
“And how do you feel about that, Sami?”
So many times she wanted to say,
“I don’t know
how
the fuck I feel, Doctor, that’s why I’m lying on this cold leather sofa.”

The fiftyish PhD had been divorced twice, was as thin as a pencil, and had perfect teeth. Her office walls were covered with accreditations and wall plaques from umpteen universities, and had she chosen law as a career, she would have been a ferocious litigator. The veteran therapist had heard it all over the last twenty-five years—every argument, every excuse, every pretext. And Sami felt certain that no one ever got the best of her.

Instead of riding the elevator to suite 605, Sami walked up the six flights of stairs, struggling all the way, proof positive that her body was trying to tell her something. The frequency of her power walks had dwindled to once or twice a week. And the pace had slowed from heart pounding to little more than a Sunday afternoon stroll. Like anyone falling short of a healthy exercise routine, she kept her little bag of excuses close by.
“It’s too hot.” “It’s too cold.” “My back is ready to go out.” “I have to study for a test.” “Still got that blister on my foot.”
She could bullshit her classmates with the best of them. And Al? No contest. Even her mother, who redefined the word
suspicious
, bought her excuses now and then. But she couldn’t lie to herself. She just wasn’t motivated right now. So what if she carried a few extra pounds? Would anyone really care?

Of course they would, stupid
.
You care. Who are you trying to kid? And Al most certainly cares
.
Maybe that’s why he had refused sex. Not a good time for this psycho-babble
.

As usual, when Sami walked into Doctor J’s office, she found the doctor sitting at her desk, reading glasses resting on the tip of her nose, engrossed in paperwork. Today, the impeccably dressed therapist wore a forest-green business suit, a white silk blouse, and a pearl necklace. Sami had been coming to Doctor J for almost a year and could never remember seeing the same outfit twice. She could only imagine the size of her closets.

Considering Doctor J’s stature and reputation with high-profile patients, many of whom were wealthy, her office wasn’t at all impressive. It was functional and adequate, but modestly furnished and frugally decorated. If dollars and cents measured a therapist’s success, however, at a rate of three hundred fifty dollars for a fifty-minute session, one could say that Doctor J was indeed successful. Sami, of course, didn’t pay these exorbitant rates. How could a college student with a dwindling savings account and negligible income dole out this kind of money? After she’d resigned, the San Diego Police Department offered to pay a generous portion of her therapy expenses. Sami never confirmed it, but felt certain that this generous perk came directly from Mayor Sullivan.

“Good morning, Doctor J,” Sami said. “Lovely suit.” Familiar with the routine, Sami fell heavily onto the worn leather sofa.

“Give me just a minute, Sami.” Doctor J shuffled some papers and made some notes. After a few minutes, she glanced at the clock, wrote something on the yellow pad, and dropped her reading glasses on her desk. “Now you’ve got my undivided attention. What’s the latest in your life?”

“If just one more crisis rears its ugly head, I think my brain’s going to shut down.”

“Well, I’m aware of your mom’s surgery this morning and Al’s situation with his sister in Rio, but talk to me. What’s going on?”

“The nightmares have returned.”

“Simon?”

Sami nodded. “I was okay for a while, but as soon as Al left for Rio…”

“Same as in the past?”

“Worse. More vivid.”

“Tell me about them.”

“As I’ve mentioned, in the past I could never see Simon’s face clearly, and when he nailed me to the cross, I didn’t feel any pain in my dream. Well, now I see his face clearly and swear I can feel those spikes going into my wrists.”

Doctor J made notes. “Are you still taking Valium every night?”

“I miss a night every now and then, but—”

“You have to take this medication
every
night, Sami.” Doctor J stood, walked over to the chair adjacent to Sami, and sat down. “You’ve made it clear how much you hate to medicate yourself, but the benefits outweigh the side effects.” Doctor J paused for a moment. “Does Simon say anything to you in these nightmares?”

“Not a word. But he has this hideous grin on his face. The sinister look of a madman.”

“Tell me about the pain. Does it wake you?”

“Bolts me upright as if a rush of electricity was surging through my body. I’m cold and clammy. My hands shake uncontrollably, and my heart is pounding. Feels like I’m going to have a coronary.”

“Classic anxiety attack. We’ve discussed them before.” Doctor J lightly tapped her index finger against her temple as if she were deep in thought. “When you suffer from an attack like this do you immediately start the breathing exercises we discussed?”

“I do.”

“And do they help calm you down?”

“Most of the time.”

“When you go to sleep at night, what’s usually on your mind?”

“Everything. The minute my head hits the pillow, my brain is bombarded with thoughts—all coming at me like a machine gun.”

“What dominates your thoughts?”

“That all depends on what issue is on top of the heap on that particular evening.”

“What have you thought about most recently?”

“My mom’s surgery. Al’s sister. What I’m going to do with the rest of my life. If I made the right decision resigning from the police department. Al’s unusual behavior. Should I go on?”

“Talk to me about Al. What’s changed?”

“Nothing I can put my finger on. It’s just that he doesn’t seem invested in our relationship like he used to be. We’re disconnected.”

“Has he done anything to make you feel this way?”

“Well, among other things, he refused sex the other day. Considering his past appetite and the fact that we rarely make love anymore, I’d say that’s significant.”

“You mentioned the last time we met that Al was leading the investigation in the Foster homicide, correct?”

Sami nodded. “Until he left for Rio, he was.”

“When did his behavior change?”

“Within the last few weeks.”

“Maybe he’s been preoccupied with this case.”

“But his behavior changed before he was assigned to investigate the Foster homicide.”

“And what was he working on prior to this case?”

Sami thought for a minute. “He was investigating the Jenkins homicides, the teenager that butchered his whole family—mother, father, and four-year-old sister.”

“I’m sure that each homicide investigation comes with its share of riled emotions and stress. But I would guess that some affect you more than others, no?”

“Absolutely.”

“Maybe Al is merely absorbed with his job. It’s not uncommon for even the healthiest relationship to experience setbacks from career pressure.”

“Never thought of it that way. But if you live on planet Earth, when do you
not
have stress?”

“Everyone has their limit, Sami. Stress is cumulative. Ever heard the saying, ‘the straw that broke the camel’s back’?”

“I see your point.”

Dr. J fiddled with her pearls. “Any word on Aleta’s condition?”

“It’s not looking real good.”

“How long do you think Al is going to stay in Rio?”

“I wish I knew.”

“Under the current situation, there is no accurate way to measure the solvency of your relationship with Al. Both of you are way too distracted. When things settle down—and I promise they will—sit down with him face-to-face and tell him how you feel. A little candid communication goes a long way.”

Sami sat quietly and processed Doctor J’s advice. Today, for some reason, the doctor seemed much more expressive than in past sessions. Sami hadn’t heard the words she dreaded most: “Tell me how you feel about that.” Why was she so gregarious today?

“So,” Dr. J said, “you’re still wrestling with your resignation from the homicide division?”

“Every day.”

“What happened to your passion for becoming a social worker?”

“Reality happened. I think maybe I was living in a utopian world.”

“You’ve invested nearly two years in school. Are you ready to abort your plan and forfeit all your hard work?”

“That’s the compelling question, Doctor J.”

“What would you do if you dropped out of school?”

“Pray that the department would reinstate me.”

“
Really
? Is that even possible?”

“Not sure.”

Doctor J stood, leaned her backside against her desk, and folded her arms. “Until today, you’ve been firm on your conviction that you were simply not cut out to be a cop and that the reason you pursued a law enforcement career was because of a promise you made to your father, correct?”

“That’s right.”

“What has changed? How can you suddenly reverse your position? What happened?”

“People change their minds every day, don’t they?”

“Yes, but you survived a near-death experience, an event that altered your entire paradigm. Are you really prepared to deal with violence and murder every day of your life?”

“When you put it that way, I’m not so sure.” Tears began to well up in her eyes. “I’m not sure how I feel about anything anymore.”

“We all go through that, Sami. It’s not uncommon to feel like your life is a runaway train. It’s part of the human condition.” Doctor J sat next to Sami and draped her arm around her shoulders. “Maybe we should stop for today. You’ve got a big day ahead and I—”

“I’m okay, Doctor. Really. Just a temporary meltdown.”

“Are you sure you want to go on?”

Sami glanced at her watch. “We’ve got another twenty minutes before you throw me out of here and I want to get every penny’s worth.”

“I’m not going to walk on eggshells,” Doctor J said.

“Take your best shot, Doctor.”

Doctor J planted her elbows on the armrests and rested her chin on her folded hands. “When you told me what you think about when you go to bed, you mentioned everything, but didn’t say a word about Simon. Don’t you think about him?”

“If I do think about him, I’m not consciously aware of it.”

“But even though you don’t believe he’s on your mind when you go to sleep, you still have vivid nightmares about him?”

“I do.”

Doctor J made more notes on the yellow pad. She stared at something across the office. “Simon is scheduled to be put to death by lethal injection very soon, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me how you feel about that.”

Ah, there it was. Finally. The question Sami hated most. She almost felt relieved. “I don’t want to see the son-of-a-bitch put out of his misery. I want him to live in a cage like the animal he is for the next forty years. I want some big hulk of a man to make him his bitch. I want the fucker to suffer.”

“You don’t think he should be put to death?”