Resuscitation (7 page)

“I’m only trying to point out that all we have to go on right now is a handful of circumstantial evidence.”

“What do you need from us, Detective?” the judge asked. “What can we do to ensure that you apprehend this monster?”

This was the opening he had been hoping for. “Judge Foster, you have many years of experience on the bench, and you’ve tried countless cases where forensic evidence helped us lock up hundreds of criminals. Even when there is a weapon and fingerprints, or even eye witnesses, there is still the possibility of error. But forensic evidence leaves no room for subjectivity because it’s scientific, and juries believe science.”

Now that Al had offered his most compelling argument, he remained silent and his eyes ping-ponged between the judge and Katherine Foster.

“So what are you saying, Detective?” the judge asked. “Is there a question or request hidden somewhere in your narrative?”

“If there is any hope of finding the monster who killed your daughter, then we must perform a thorough autopsy.”

The judge stood up and wagged his finger at Al. “You need not lecture me on the merits of autopsies. But it’s much different when it’s a stranger. I want to preserve what little dignity my daughter has left. She’s not a laboratory animal or a cadaver, Detective. She’s our
daughter
!”

“I respect your position, Judge. And please understand that it is not my place to browbeat you or try to convince you to approve something you’re uncomfortable with. But I must tell you that a preliminary exam of your daughter strongly suggests that the perpetrator may have left a roadmap to his doorstep. He was careless, and the only way to benefit from his mistakes is through an autopsy. I can see how grief-stricken your wife and you are, Judge. My heart goes out to you. All I’m trying to do is to see justice served and to ensure that no other parents have to share your pain. I want to see this lunatic behind bars for the rest of his miserable life.”

Judge Foster glanced at his wife, his lips tight and his eyes glassy. Katherine nodded her head ever so slightly. “Okay, Detective,” the judge said. “This totally goes against our will, but you have my permission to perform an autopsy. But be warned. If it doesn’t further the investigation and lead you to her murderer, prepare yourself for professional suicide.”

Lingering longer than he had anticipated, Julian could still envision every detail of his experiments on Genevieve. Although the data he’d obtained moved him closer to his ultimate goal, he still felt haunted by the deep moral issues. He had gone through a period of self-recrimination, weighing carefully the delicate balance between righteousness and arrogance, clinging to the quote that now represented his conscience: “The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few.”

After her death, however, these comforting words had lost their potency for Julian, so he found himself digging deeper into his psyche for further moral justification of his actions. Every fallen soldier back to the Revolutionary War died for the needs of the many. Had they not, America might still be under British rule. Every soldier in Iraq and Afghanistan risked their lives for the sake of all Americans. And during the Vietnam War, most of the 50,000 fallen troops were drafted into the armed forces and had no choice but to die for the many. Wasn’t it the same with Genevieve? Was she not “drafted” for the needs of the many?

He’d struggled with the notion of completely disposing of her body. That would have been his safest option, dramatically hampering the efforts of the police. No body. No evidence. It would start out as a missing person’s report. But after an extensive investigation, the authorities would file the case under Unsolved Homicides. By leaving her body at Mission Bay Park, Julian had placed himself at great risk. But he was not a barbaric murderer; he was a medical professional. How could he live with himself if he’d chopped Genevieve up in little pieces and dropped her remains in the ocean? It lacked dignity and proper respect. After all, in a sense she was a martyr.

When the idea to dress Genevieve in designer clothes first struck Julian, he immediately dismissed it as insane. But he was so burdened with guilt, the more he thought about it the more it appealed to him. He could have wrapped her in a burlap bag and it wouldn’t have made any difference. She’d still be dead, her chest nearly cut in half, her heart sliced open. As pointless and illogical as it was, in a twisted kind of way, it was his way of honoring her, and it simply made Julian feel better.

He wished he had found a more fitting location to leave her body. Surely, he could come up with a more suitable place than a park. For subject number two, he would rethink his options and search for a more appropriate setting.

Julian sat on his sofa, rested his head, and drifted back to his childhood.

His parents, affluent and successful, provided everything his obsessed curiosity desired throughout his childhood and teenage years. Everything but love. He always felt a void in his life, an emptiness he could never fill. No one in his family—not mother, father, or siblings—would openly show affection. Why didn’t his parents understand that they had a responsibility to provide more than just food, clothing, and shelter?

On his birthday and special occasions like Christmas, they would shower him with expensive gifts, spoil him rotten, but the greatest affection he could expect was a peck on the cheek or a firm pat on the shoulder. Didn’t they realize that he would gladly trade all of his belongings just to hear his mother say “I love you”?

Although he was a straight-A student, neither of his parents so much as acknowledged his performance in school. They quickly scanned his report card, scribbled their signature, and tossed it on the kitchen counter. He had been an exemplary Boy Scout, earning nearly every award from a square-knot patch to a medal of merit. He was first in his class throughout elementary school and won a national award for “Science Project of the Year.” Why wasn’t he able to get their attention and earn their respect? What did he have to do before his parents would acknowledge his accomplishments?

Consequently, he turned to other areas of his life to find what he thought was true affection and recognition. So vulnerable and naïve was twelve-year-old Julian that his two older cousins, Marianne and Rebecca, barely past puberty, took full advantage of his hunger for love. They introduced him to a secret little game they called “Ticklish.”

After school, nearly every day, long before their parents got home from work, his two cousins would lead him to a small shed in the backyard of his home. There, in the shadowy wood structure filled with garden tools and trash cans, he watched the girls pull down their panties. Taking turns, each cousin guided Julian’s hand under their Nazareth Academy pleated skirts and gave him specific instructions how to “tickle” them.

“Right there,” Rebecca would say, sounding almost out of breath.

“A little to the left,” Marianne would order. “Yes, yes, right there! Harder! Faster!”

At times he thought his whole hand would go numb.

Although it aroused him—after all, he was well on his way to puberty—he didn’t really like this game of Ticklish, and could never quite figure out why they moaned instead of laughed. For the first couple of weeks he thought he was hurting them. But they had convinced him that this is how you show your love. This is what cousins do. Afterwards, they would always offer to touch him “down there,” but even at such a young age he felt too embarrassed.

“We let you touch us,” Rebecca would point out. “Why can’t we touch you?”

“We’ll make you feel real good,” Marianne would add.

They cautioned him that if he ever told anyone about their secret game, they would no longer be his cousins.

When Julian had told his best friend about the secret game of Ticklish, George, two years Julian’s senior, nearly soiled himself laughing so hard.

“Are you messing with me?” George had asked. “They’re letting you touch their
pussies
? Did you screw them?”

Julian stood silent.

He finally understood that the game of Ticklish was no game at all, and he swore that one day he’d get even. After two years of this abuse, he pretty much kept to himself and spent hours in his room reading books about the human anatomy, life after death, and biographies about famous physicians, never understanding that the “game” was far from over.

The memories plagued Julian but he had to dismiss them. At any moment, Julian’s wife and two children would return from a Friday evening shopping spree, and once again he would be forced to suppress his internal struggles and play the role of loving husband and father. His life was a mixture of responsibilities and details, his weeks burdened with endless meetings, intense research, national teleconferences, and emergency surgeries. But in the scheme of things, he now felt as though he was living a double life. On one hand, he was a gifted cardiologist and revered research leader. But on the other hand, he was something beyond definition.

The media, no doubt, would label his work the deeds of a madman. The police would hunt him down as a deranged serial killer. But in truth, he was a pioneer, a man willing to risk it all—his family, career, and life itself—for the recognition he deserved. Success eclipsed everything.

In the morning, the gods would bless him with a free weekend to continue with his research. His wife would drive to Los Angeles with the children and not return until Sunday evening, giving him enough time to search for his next subject.

After his meeting with the Fosters, Al’s head was spinning out of control. He wasn’t sure if he had roughed up the judge, but felt certain if he had, Chief Larson would take a big bite out of his ass. At this point, Al didn’t really care. He had a job to get done, and if it required that he abandoned political correctness, too bad. In fact, now that he thought about it, he actually hated PC. It seemed to Al that society had become so super sensitive about everything from religion to ethnicity, you had to walk on eggshells every time you opened your mouth for fear you would offend someone.

Years ago, if you lived on the streets you were a bum. Plain and simple. Then, some do-gooder decided that bums should be called homeless people. Most recently, the politically correct term was “financially disadvantaged.” He shook his head and laughed out loud. If he had learned anything at all since joining homicide, it was that a detective without balls might as well work at Walmart as a greeter. So if he had to bend a few noses out of place to get results, he was willing to take some heat for his blatant disregard of PC.

Al headed for the evidence room, popularly called the “Cage,” appropriately named because that’s exactly what it was. Along the way, he passed several colleagues who looked as if they wanted to stop and talk about everything from
American Idol
to fishing. Wanting to avoid any mingling, he acknowledged them with a simple nod and kept walking, careful not to make eye contact, which was generally an invitation to chitchat. This wouldn’t be the first time they accused him of being a self-centered asshole.

Al thought he had escaped, then saw Ramirez approaching. He wanted to ignore him, but even though he’d contributed almost nothing to the investigation, he was still Al’s partner, even if in title only. Since becoming a lieutenant, Ramirez didn’t like to get his hands dirty.

“How’d it go with Judge Foster?” Ramirez asked.

“If you were there, you’d know.” Normally, Al wasn’t this curt, but Ramirez’s lack of work ethic really pissed him off.

“I was busy with other things.”

Al didn’t want to go there, but couldn’t help himself. “Like what? Getting a fucking pedicure, or getting a little afternoon shag from the hottie in Permits?”

“You’re stepping way over a line here, Al.”

“Fuck you. And fuck your line.”

Al didn’t wait for him to respond. He did a one-eighty and spotted the Cage a few steps away.

“Hi, Charlie,” Al said as he leaned on the counter. Portly and nearly bald, Charlie Brown, as one might imagine, had been harassed most of his life for having the same name as the dubious character in the comic section of every newspaper in the country. Charlie even looked like his namesake and shared the same small tuft of hair just above his forehead. Al wondered if his parents had even the slightest inkling how they’d cursed their only son. Charlie had more insecurities than a turkey two days before Thanksgiving. Whenever he spoke to Charlie, a selection of one-liners hung in the back of Al’s throat. The possibilities to mock him were endless. But to piss off Charlie, the guy in charge of every piece of evidence ever associated with a crime, would be a hugely consequential mistake.

“How they hangin’, Detective?”

“I need a little help, Charlie. I’m investigating the Foster homicide and need to sign out a small price tag that we found at the scene. It’s about this big.” Al referenced the approximate size with his fingers. “It’s from Saks Fifth Avenue.”

“Is this the gal we found at Mission Bay Park dressed like a prom queen?”

“I wouldn’t say ‘prom queen.’ More like someone on the cover of
Vogue
.”