Resuscitation Page 7

  “Yes, I do.” Doctor Templeton adjusted the stethoscope hanging around his neck. “I simply tell them in no uncertain terms that by not signing the consent form, they just signed their death certificate. It’s harsh, and might even violate my Hippocratic Oath, but if it saves even one life, I’m willing to push the envelope.”

  Sami thought about that for a moment, rather stunned at Doctor Templeton’s candor. “And if my mother refuses, what is her prognosis?”

  “It’s not good, Ms. Rizzo.” The doctor shook his head. “I give her six months.”

  “Well then, you have my permission to hit my mother with a two-by-four if necessary. Whatever works.”

  “So you don’t mind if I rough her up a bit?”

  “I’m more concerned about her roughing you up.”

  “I love a challenge.” Doctor Templeton looked at his watch. “I’ll be back in less than thirty minutes with a signed consent form.”

  “That sounds like a promise.”

  “It is.”

  As she watched him walk away, she found herself surprised by his casual, easy-going demeanor. Her experiences with doctors in the past, particularly while her father lay in a hospital bed dying of cancer, had been unsavory to say the least. Most of the doctors she’d encountered had been arrogant and cold. Dr. Templeton was anything but self-centered. She hoped that he remained this cooperative and pleasant.

  “Detective Diaz,” Katherine Levy, Saks manager, said. “This is Robin Westcott, one of our sales associates.”

  “It was kind of you to come in early,” Al said.

  “I just hope I can be of assistance to you.”

  Katherine’s cell phone rang. “I have to take this call. I’ll be right outside my office if you need me.”

  “No problem,” Al said. He reached in his pocket and removed a photo of the designer dress and showed it to Robin. “Do you recall selling that dress?”

  Robin pinched her chin between thumb and index finger. “I distinctly remember the dress—and the guy who bought it.”

  “What did he look like?” Al asked.

  “He wore a Chargers baseball cap but took it off a couple of times and ran his fingers through his hair. He had a full head of pitch-black hair.”

  “Any distinguishing features?”

  “His eyes were sky-blue. Just beautiful. And to be honest, Detective, he was a real looker. I’m talking Hugh Jackman, George Clooney good-looking. He was tall—over six feet. And he had an average build.”

  “How old would you say he was?”

  “I’d say fortyish.”

  “Could you pick him out of a lineup?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “Do you think you could sit down with a sketch artist and help us with a composite drawing?”

  Robin’s face tightened. “If I saw him again I’m pretty sure I’d recognize him, but his face just isn’t clear in my mind. I’m afraid if I tried to help you with a drawing, I’d be wasting your time.”

  “Tell me about your conversation with him.”

  “The one thing that stuck out in my mind is that he was really nervous. Looked like he just drank a pot of high-test coffee. Strange thing was, he hadn’t a clue what size to buy. That seemed odd to me. I mean how do you not know the dress size of someone you’d buy a three-thousand-dollar dress for? I didn’t want to jeopardize the sale, so I guessed the size based on his description of her.”

  “How did he land on that particular dress?”

  “Well, the first thing he said when I approached him on the sales floor was, ‘I’m looking for a stunning cocktail dress. And money is no object.’ When a commissioned salesperson hears a customer say that, which isn’t very often, what they really hear is, ‘cha-ching.’ Not that we would ever take advantage of a customer, but hey, a gal’s gotta make a living, and when a guy opens up his wallet…what can I say?”

  “Anything else you can tell me about the way he looked or acted?”

  She shook her head. “Nothing unusual rings a bell.”

  “Did he have any scars, a tattoo, a limp—anything at all that might distinguish him?”

  She contemplated his question for a moment, then shook her head. “Nothing that strikes me.”

  Al reached in his pocket and handed Robin a business card. “If anything pops into your head, anything at all, please call me right away.”

  Al left Saks and headed downtown.

  When he walked into the precinct, Al all but ignored his fellow detectives, and headed straight for the break room. After his conversation with Robin Westcott, he needed a pick-me-up before he could find the strength to interview another witness. At this time of day, it seemed unlikely, but he hoped that he’d find a freshly brewed pot of coffee. When he entered the break room, he spotted the red light on the base of the coffee maker glowing like a laser pen. As he approached the coffee maker with high hopes, he could see the almost empty pot. He flipped up the lid on the cardboard donut box and found the remains of a cinnamon twist that pretty much looked like it had been attacked by a hungry rat. Slightly annoyed, he headed for the interrogation room.

  Genevieve Foster’s best friend, Katie Mitchell, curly red hair resting on her shoulders, freckles highlighting her cheeks, and prominent lips painted with pink lipstick, sat nervously on the metal chair, twisting a tissue as if it were wringing wet. Her hazel eyes looked like they were covered with a clear glaze.

  Al extended his hand. “Ms. Mitchell, I’m Detective Diaz.” Her hands felt cold and clammy. “Thanks so much for coming. Can I get you some water or a soda?”

  “No thank you.”

  Al pulled out the chair, turned it 180 degrees, and straddled the seat. Normally, two detectives would conduct an interview, but evidently, Ramirez had better things to do than track down a serial killer. He set a digital tape recorder on the desk and pushed the “Record” button.

  “Do we have to record this conversation?” Katie Mitchell asked.

  “Is there something you’re going to say that you don’t want recorded?”

  The question seemed to stun her. “Well, um, I just don’t want to get myself in trouble.”

  “Did you do something that might get you in trouble?”

  “No. No. Of course not.”

  “Then there’s nothing to be concerned about.”

  She fingered her curly hair. “Can we get this over with, please?”

  “That ball is in your court, Ms. Mitchell.”

  “I’m sorry if I seem a little…a little nervous. I still can’t get past what happened to Genevieve.”

  “I totally understand. And believe me, I will try to make this as painless as possible.” He pulled a notepad and pen out of his shirt pocket and flipped open the notepad. “What was your relationship with Ms. Foster?”

  “She was my best friend in the whole world. We went to the same elementary school and high school together and lived only a few blocks away from each other.”

  “How often did you see her?”

  “Not much during the workweek, although we texted each other regularly. Neither of us had boyfriends—at least not recently—so on the weekends we’d do some bar-hopping.”

  “Did you go to the same bars every weekend?”

  “Not usually. But Tony’s was our favorite.”

  “Tony’s Bar and Grill in the Gaslamp District?”

  She nodded.

  “Why was it your favorite?”

  “Can I be really, really honest?”

  “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  “You’re going to think I’m some superficial dingbat, but Tony’s has the hottest guys.”

  “And by ‘hot’ I assume you mean attractive, right?”

  “Totally to die for.” Katie Mitchell covered her mouth and gasped, looking like she’d just seen a ghost. “Oh, my God. I didn’t mean that. I was just—”

  “No need to apologize, Ms. Mitchell. It was merely a slip of the tongue.”

  Al gave her a moment to regain h
er composure. “Are you okay?”

  “As okay as I’m going to be.”

  “Were you with Ms. Foster the night she disappeared?”

  “Yes. I picked her up at her parents’ home and we went to Tony’s for drinks.”

  “Tell me everything you remember about the evening.”

  “Well, Gen and I were sitting at the bar, sipping a couple of martinis, and talking about things that girls talk about. A few barstools away, this gorgeous guy—and I mean drop-dead gorgeous—keeps smiling at Gen and making eye contact. They were definitely checking each other out. Before I even realized what was happening, Gen leaves me and walks over to the guy. I was a little pissed, but it wasn’t unusual for us to go our separate ways if one of us…”

  “Met a hot guy?”

  “Exactly. So anyway, they talk for a bit and without even saying a word to me, I see Gen and this guy heading for the exit. A couple of minutes later I get a text message from her.”

  “And what did it say?”

  “‘I think I’m in love. Call me tomorrow.’”

  “And that was the last time you heard from her?”

  All teary-eyed, Katie Mitchell nodded.

  “Other than saying that the man Ms. Foster left with was ‘drop-dead gorgeous,’ can you tell me what he looked like. Any striking characteristics?”

  “Like most bars, the lights are pretty dim. That’s so average-looking girls like me rank a couple of notches higher than we are. Dim lights can do wonders for those of us not blessed with high cheekbones and a cute little turned-up nose. I do remember that he was a tall guy—over six-foot—and his hair was jet-black.”

  “What was he wearing?”

  “I remember his navy-blue Chargers cap.”

  “If you sat down with a sketch artist, could you give us enough detail of his face for us to do a composite drawing?”

  “I doubt it, Detective. I only remember what I told you.”

  “Do you think you could pick him out of a lineup?”

  “Not sure. But I’d love to give it a whirl.”

  “Anything else you can tell me?”

  “Only that I want you to find this asshole and cut his dick off.”

  “Nothing would please me more.”

  Late for dinner with Sami and company, Al left a voice mail for her so she wouldn’t get worried. He walked into a crowded Starbucks, craned his neck, and spotted Maggie sitting at a table for two, waving her arm.

  “We meet again,” Maggie said. “Get yourself a drink. On me.” She handed Al a ten-dollar bill. He ordered a double espresso and sat opposite Maggie, dropping her change in the middle of the table.

  “The autopsy results are going to knock your socks off,” Maggie said.

  When Maggie had called Al and suggested they meet for coffee to discuss the results of the autopsy, at first his radar kicked into high gear. He recognized a come-on when he heard one. But Maggie convinced him that getting away from the “coal mines” would be good for both of them. He had to admit that he was running on reserve power and ready to shut down. So relaxing and drinking a stiff espresso wasn’t the worst idea.

  After their prior meeting, and Maggie’s subtle yet obvious attempt to flirt, he wasn’t totally comfortable with this rendezvous. He’d be lying if he didn’t admit that he found her attractive. And he’d also be lying if he denied the fact that his love life with Sami wasn’t exactly the fabric from which steamy romance novels were written. Although his intentions were honorable, he felt vulnerable right now.

  “Go ahead and knock them off.”

  “First of all, the blood tests proved very interesting. The lab found traces of sevoflurane, and higher doses of epinephrine and potassium chloride in her blood, but not enough to kill her.”

  “Epinephrine is what they use for anaphylactic shock, no?”

  “Among other uses,” Maggie said, “it’s the drug used in an EPI pen.”

  “For people who go into shock from a severe allergic reaction, bee sting—”

  “Exactly.”

  “And the potassium chloride?”

  “It’s the third drug used for lethal injection. And the correct dosage, based on subject’s weight, can permanently stop a heart.”

  “And what about the sevoflurane?”

  “It’s a general anesthesia administered in gas form to keep the patient unconscious.”

  “What do you make of it, Maggie?”

  “It’s very peculiar. When I examined her heart, it looked like it had been kicked around like a soccer ball. For a twenty-something girl, her heart was pretty much worn out. And she suffered from a moderate case of ventricular hypertrophy, which causes the walls of the heart to thicken. Hypertrophic cardiomyopathy is caused by untreated hypertension, but to be honest, it’s generally an age-related disease. I seriously doubt that this young woman had a blood pressure problem.”

  “Anything else unusual in her blood?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes. We found high levels of a drug called amiodarone.”

  “Ami-what?” Al asked.

  “Amiodarone. It’s a drug used in the treatment of two conditions: atrial fibrillation, commonly known as A-Fib. And ventricular fibrillation, referred to as—”

  “Let me guess. V-Fib?”

  “Very good, Detective. You just might have a future in forensics.”

  “No thanks.” Al tried to process all this information but felt like his brain was close to a complete meltdown. “So why the hell would the killer inject so many drugs into her?”

  “I haven’t the foggiest, Detective. But what I do know is that each of these drugs has a direct connection to heart rhythm and function. And the effect of these drugs varies dramatically. It seems to me that our guy was using the victim for some kind of perverse experiments or maybe even playing torture games.”

  “So, whatever horrific experiments he conducted on the Foster girl ultimately stopped her heart and killed her? That would make cause of death cardiac arrest, right?”

  “Here’s where it gets spooky.” Maggie finished her latte. “Genevieve Foster died of a massive stroke. In technical terms, COD was a thrombotic stroke in the middle cerebral artery. This is the granddaddy of all strokes. At best, it leaves the patient in a complete vegetative state, but rarely do they live for more than a few days.”

  “And what the hell would cause such a stroke?”

  “A huge blood clot.”

  This was way too much for Al to absorb. He gulped the double espresso as if he were downing a shot of tequila, and the hot liquid burned a trail to his stomach. “So, I’m guessing whatever wild experiments he performed on this young girl ultimately formed a blood clot in her brain?”

  “Here’s my read,” Maggie said. “Epinephrine and potassium chloride dangerously affect heart rhythms and any pooling of blood in the heart can cause blood clots. I can’t tell you why he did what he did, but ultimately, the victim’s blood flow and heart rhythm were dramatically compromised—enough so that blood pooled in her left ventricle, formed clots, and they found their way to her brain.”

  “Based on your autopsy and all the issues we’ve discussed, do you believe our killer is medically trained or even a doctor?”

  “I can’t imagine anyone without medical training performing these kinds of complicated procedures.”

  He felt uncomfortable asking this question but had to. “Did she suffer?”

  “If she was properly anesthetized, which seems logical considering that her blood contained trace amounts of sevoflurane, not to mention the epinephrine and potassium chloride, I’d bet she was in the Twilight Zone.”

  “And your written report?”

  “It’s in your mailbox back at the precinct.”

  He felt an obligation to chat with Maggie, but his head pounded unmercifully and he wanted to at least salvage part of the evening with Sami. Before he had a chance to gather his thoughts, Maggie confirmed his suspicions.

  “So, Al, when you’re not hunting down th
e bad guys, what do you do for fun?”

  “I try not to have too much fun because it distracts me.”

  “Sounds utterly boring.”

  “It serves a purpose.”

  “Life’s too short not to have a little fun, don’t you think?”

  “I think fun is overrated.”

  Maggie unzipped and removed her leather jacket and draped it around the back of her chair. She sat upright, as if she was conscious of her posture. Her low-cut blouse gave Al an eyeful. “What does a gal have to do to get a rise out of you?”

  Rise? Al wasn’t sure if her double entendre was intentional or an innocent miscue. Time to play dumb. “I’m not sure I understand the question.”

  “Let me take out the blocks, Al.” She leaned forward, giving him full view of her generous cleavage. “I’d like to have dinner with you sometime soon and get to know you on a more personal level.”

  “You heard that I’m involved, right?”

  “Everyone knows about you and the former Detective Rizzo. Hope you two weren’t trying to keep it a secret.”

  “Our lives are an open book. In fact, just last week we were running naked through Balboa Park.”

  “So, you do have a sense of humor.”

  Time to set her straight. “Look, Maggie, I’m really flattered. Honestly, but—”

  “Is this the big letdown?”

  “If I weren’t in a committed relationship, I would love to have dinner with you and learn more about you on a personal level. But I’m a one-woman guy.”

  “I’m disappointed, but I respect that.”

  Al looked at his watch. “I really have to run. Thanks for getting the autopsy report done so quickly.”

  “Good luck. I hope you find this nutcase before he strikes again.”

  “That’s my plan.”

  “Sorry I missed dinner,” Al said. He hung his jacket on the coat tree by the front door, feeling guilty about meeting Maggie. But why should he? He had been a perfect gentleman. Then again, if she didn’t give up the chase and pursued him again, he wasn’t absolutely sure he would be so noble. “Are there any leftovers?”

  Sami took a long swig of her Corona and pointed toward the kitchen. “Didn’t have time to cook, but there’s some pizza in the fridge.”