Resuscitation by D. M. Annechino Page B

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.