Am I the Killer? - A Luca Mystery Crime Thriller: Book #1

Book 1: A Luca Mystery

by Dan Petrosini

Genres: Mystery; Police Procedurals; Noir; Crime & Mystery; Crime Fiction; Love Triangle; murder; brain injury; tbi

Synopsis

Peter hated him...

...and the murder was brutal.

Could he really be the killer?

Peter served his country in Afghanistan. The brain injury was severe. To survive in the hospital, he kept his focus on the one thing that mattered, Mary. What he found back home, broke him.

Mary was with Billy, the bully who terrorized his childhood.

When the police arrested him for Billy's murder, they had just one problem...

...Peter claimed he couldn't remember what he did that night.

Detective Luca's career can't afford another mistake. This case could be a problem, though, as the obvious suspect doesn't remember a thing. Is Peter trying to pull a fast one?

Who else could have done it?

There's more at play than meets the eye. Politics and personal demons plague him. Luca's career and maybe his life are on the line.

You'll love this riveting book one in the Luca Mystery police procedural series, because of the unexpected plot twists.

Get it now.

Release date: August 7, 2015

Print pages: 235

Sample

Preface

I’d been charged with murder. The cops say I beat someone I knew to death. I absolutely didn’t like the guy. Fact is, I hated him. We had a history, and none of it was good. But did I really kill him? Sure, I fantasized about him being dead and had dreams, many of them vivid, of me knocking off the bastard. I mean, after all the crap he did to me, who could fault me for feeling that way? On the other hand, I’m really a good guy and just can’t believe I could beat someone to death, no matter what they did. It’s just not who I am.

So, did I do it? It’s a simple question you’d think I’d know the answer to. The problem is, I’ve got memory issues from a head injury I got serving in Afghanistan. It’s really frustrating. For me, trying to remember something is tough. Sometimes there’s just nothing there.

I don’t know why, but my life’s been a struggle, even though I’ve always tried to do the right thing. People say doing the right thing makes life easier. But with me, I’m still waiting for the payoff.

Growing up, I was a good kid, never complaining, even when my brother, Vinny, mistreated me. Then, I stood by Mom, taking care of her when she got sick after my father and brother took off. Shit, I even enlisted in the Marines, where I got dicked around by the government, and where’d all this get me? Right frigging here, accused of murder.

Most people think I can’t remember the events that led to the murder charge, but others, including the prosecutors, believe I won’t say what happened to save my tail. That I’m faking it.

I do what needs to be done. But . . . you know what? Jeez, I forgot what the point was.

Anyway, maybe you can sort things out. I sure can’t, or is it I won’t?

My name’s Peter. It’s one of the only things I’m definitely sure of these days. So, here’s my story—parts of which, I’m sure are true:

 

 

Day of Arrest

Fumbling, I reached to shut off the blaring alarm clock. I succeeded, cutting the noise down to a constant ringing in my ears and popped out of bed. Ugh, moving too fast brought on a wave of disorientation that made me slow down. I sat on the edge of the bed, and before rising swallowed a mouthful of queasiness.

Rubbing my ears, I lurched into the bathroom to take a leak. It was one of the few things I didn’t need a reminder of. As the toilet funneled, I snatched a sticky note off the mirror and stared at myself for who knows how long.

Raking my blondish hair over my protruding ears, I fingered the end of a series of scars that ran to the center of my head. Struck by how tired I looked, I pulled my shoulders back, opened my brown eyes wider, and ran a hand over my stubble. Yeah, some coffee and a shave oughta help. I checked the date on the note and popped open the pill organizer.

Gulping down two handfuls of meds, I headed for the stairs. Then I realized—I had no pants on. Tugging on a pair of jeans, I went down to the kitchen.

As the coffee brewed, I sucked down a glass of a concoction the doctor had ordered to combat the tinnitus. It tasted like shit, but it dimmed the ringing.

The sun glinted through the window, and I crept closer to look into what had become my sanctuary. With the rose bushes in full bloom, the tomato and pepper plants heavy with fruit, and the annuals spraying a rainbow of colors, a calmness descended on me. It was all me, I did it myself, and it felt good—a respite from my madness.

As the coffee finished its cycle, I wondered if I’d watered the garden yesterday—or even the day before that. I tried retracing yesterday’s steps. The coffee signaled its readiness, and I poured a mug.

I began reading through the notes my brother, Vinny, left. Oh yeah, got to do those brain exercises. Did I do them yesterday? They say it helps, but I don’t know about that. I put the mug to my lips. It was empty. I poured another mugful.

The faint sounds of car doors slamming came just before the doorbell rang and pounding on the door started. I rushed to suck a sip but spilled most of it on my shirt. Pissed, I scurried to the door.

Eyeing a couple of police cars through the window turned me into concrete. What should I do? Should I call Vinny? I turned to the kitchen, then back to the door as the metallic taste in my mouth swelled. A policeman tapping on the window forced me to the door.

Opening it revealed a small army of cops. A ruddy-faced officer stepped forward, “Peter Hill?”

I nodded as he checked my face against a photo.

“You’re under arrest for the murder of William Wyatt."

“What? What?” I leaned into the doorframe.

The officer pulled out a pair of cuffs.

“Macquire, read him his rights.”

A cop stepped forward and flipped open a fold of paper. “You have the right to remain silent…" As he droned on, I zoned out.

“Hey! Do you understand?"

I mumbled a yes, fixated on how much he sounded like the cops on TV.

Red-face grabbed my wrist and slapped a cuff on. Then he swung me around and cuffed my arms behind my back.

My mind drifted to the scene at the PX in Kabul. A fight had broken out, and the MPs rushed in, cuffing one of the drunken instigators. What was that guy’s name? Chris? Kent?

I tried to remember the name as they marched me down the walk. The house across the street had its sprinklers on, and suddenly I was overwhelmed with doubt—had I watered my plants anytime this week?

 

 

Chapter 1

Bagram, Afghanistan, two years before Peter’s arrest.

Opening the door, the warm air seemed sweeter. I inhaled deeply, attempting to quell my nervousness. Stepping out of the hangar, I walked around for a last look at hell.

It was weird being outside without a helmet, vest, and equipment. Even though dawn had just broke, perspiration began to sprout from my pores. I liked it hot, but man, this place was a frigging oven.

A stark stretch of dirt and sand ran for ten miles of nothingness until smacking into a wall of mountains. My eyes skimmed the brown peaks. I focused on a niche that formed a plateau, bringing back a brutal, screaming firefight. I shook the memory of the carnage from my head, cursing the loss of two buddies. My shirt was sticking to my back. I headed back in, saluting a major who was smoking.

“Heading home, soldier?”

“Yes, sir.”

I wanted to say it was about fucking time, but after having my tour forcibly extended once, I wasn’t taking any chances. We all knew the Marines could pull that shit. It had the power. The government bureaucrats do what they want, when they want, don’t they?

Stepping back inside, I was feeling lucky to make it out in one piece, but also unsettled at the thought of leaving my platoon behind. Tony Burato was the only buddy making it out with me.

Tony’s eyes flashed open as I approached. He fist bumped me as I sat, then went back to sleep. I ran my hand over my head. The blond hair was starting to grow out. Thank God, I thought.

Crew cuts, uniforms, routine—it was all part of the effort to force us into a unit, a "we" rather than a "me" mentality. I remember thinking it was bullshit, but midway through my first tour we really were looking out for each other. We’d become one, no two ways about it. We were closer than blood brothers.

When pint-sized Jimmy got blown to bits by an IED, I’d known him for two months, max. But losing him hurt like hell. I didn’t give a crap what people thought when I cried like for days. The head doctors claimed the reaction was my fear of it being me next, and maybe that was part of it. But shit, he was just a little kid from Nebraska. Poor Jimmy: his grieving family—the void—the loss. I started to descend but forced myself out of the chair to shake the blues and take a piss.

Washing up, I stared in the mirror. I’d lost fifteen pounds but was rock-solid and in better shape than when I played high school football. Probably faster as well, I grinned. My brown, almond-shaped eyes had lost the sparkle that Mom used to say they had. I looked tired, but smiled at the thought of sleeping in a real bed, in my room, alone. Well, maybe not alone—I just couldn’t wait to see Mary. I hadn’t seen her in over a year. Last time home she’d been away with her girlfriends. Anyway, soon we’d be reunited.

Missing her more than I thought possible, I’d spent countless nights tucked in my sleeping bag thinking. Was I really missing her? Or was being out in a cold Afghan night the reason she was appealing? A month of mental tug-of-war led to the conclusion that the ache for her. Mary was the one for me, and about two months ago, I decided I was gonna propose to her if I got out alive.

I smiled. Yeah, things were going to change for the better. We’d get married and fix up the house a bit. I’d finally clear out my mom’s things and move into the master bedroom with my bride.

Another thing I vowed to do was to make sure I’d see my brother, Vinny, as often as possible. I mean, he was the only family I had left. He was coming up to see me two weeks after I got back to Jersey. I’d wanted him to come sooner, but he—a loudspeaker barked preboarding instructions, and I hustled out of the bathroom thinking, shit, I would even be nice to Billy when I got back.

The fifty or so passengers were gathering their belongings as I trotted over to Tony.

“Get up, man.”

“What’s the hurry?”

“It won’t feel real till I’m in the damn air. Nah, check that, till I’m on the ground in the States.”

Tony stood. “Don’t worry, bro, you’re going home this time.”

I slung my duffel bag over my shoulder and grabbed my knapsack. “I’m getting a move on.”

Waiting at the head of a forming line, I tried to will the green C-17, to open its door for a waiting stairway. The door cracked open, and I ran out, welcomed by the deafening thunder of my ride home.

Adjusting my duffel bag, I caught a glimpse of a shining, black mass before it slammed into me, catapulting me skyward and into darkness.

***

The pressure in my head was building as I slipped in and out of consciousness. Pain blurred my vision and muffled voices.

Attempting a scream, I blacked out and came to when something was shoved down my throat. A high-pitched whine, reminding me of my father’s drill, sounded.

Flipping between blackness and an enormous pressure in my skull, I felt like I was being carried. Struggling to see, shadows moving in and out of a white light were all I could make out.

What were they saying? Where the hell was I? Was I underwater? Yeah, that was it. The pressure and muffled voices made sense now. I tried to get to the surface, but was stuck to the bottom.

A voice of an angel whispered, “Peter, Peter.”

Oh no, shit, I’m drowning! I’m gonna die, Mom! Mom, help me. The angel floated over. Her face was beautiful. She looked just like Mom. I reached out to her.

“It’s going to be okay. Please, just go back to sleep.” A drilling sound resonated, drowning out my angel. I descended to the bottom of a dark lake.

***

Dr. Mancino, the triage head at Bagram Airfield, hustled in and changed his sweat-soaked scrub suit.

On his way to the sink, he barked, “Get a diuretic line going! We’ve got to control the swelling. Make sure you keep an eye on his blood pressure.”

Mancino wanted to prevent the swelling brain from furthering the damage. He pulled his face shield down. Hunched over Peter’s shaven skull, Mancino drew a series of black circles.

“All right, let’s get going.” He took a drill from a nurse, kicked it into high gear, and put it to Peter’s head. Skin flicked away, and blood began flowing.

“Sponge, clean the wound.”

The drill sound deepened as it bore into the skull. Bone, skin, and blood sprayed as he leaned in. “Sponge it, dammit! I need to see where the hell we are.”

He applied the drill, and as it broke through, a rush of cerebral fluid shot up, offering relief to the pressure on Peter’s brain.

“Grab a sample of the fluid. Run labs on it.”

Dr. Mancino bored openings in other spots, allowing fluids an escape route. The surgeon inserted drains before checking Peter’s abdomen and right leg.

“X-ray the ab and leg. I want to be sure nothing’s going on in the midsection. Then, get a splint on the leg. We’ll worry about it later.” The doctor shook his head. “We have to get him to Landstuhl. Stabilize him, and get him on the next flight out.”

As Dr. Mancino stepped outside, he was met by Tony.

“Doc, how’s my buddy doing?”

Dr. Mancino brushed by the soldier.

“Petey, um, Peter Hill. We’re in the same platoon. How’s he doing?”

“He’s suffered a traumatic brain injury. He’s out on the next flight to Ramstein. He’s gonna need surgery to repair the skull fracture and a thorough going-over.”

“Going-over?”

“An extensive assessment of the brain injury. We’re limited here, but Landstuhl has it all. They’ll decide the best course of action.”

Six hours after his skull was pierced, in a drug-induced coma, Peter was rolled onto a dull-gray C-5 for the flight to Germany. His buddy Tony, who refused to board his original flight, took one of the seats lining the wall.

***

Seven hours later, the plane touched down at Ramstein Air Base. Dawn’s light streamed into the cavity as a procession of gurneys were hurried down the ramp onto a special bus. Lights ablaze, the bus lurched forward for the ten-minute drive to the hospital.

Duffel bag slung over his shoulder, Tony stepped off the aircraft into a German morning. Inside the terminal, he headed to a bank of phones and called his mother. Then he tracked down Pete’s brother, Vinny, locating him in Dallas.

“Vinny? Vinny Hill?”

“Yeah, you got him. Who’s this?”

“Tony, Tony Burato. I’m a friend of your brother's. We served together. But he’s been in an accident and is in the hospital.”

“What happened?”

“He got hit by a car, hit his head. They flew him to Germany, to a hospital in Landstuhl. It’s the best the Marines got.”

“But nobody called.”

“That’s a good sign, you know. If it was bad, they’d have reached out already.”

He got no response and continued.

“Anyway, I wanted to get a hold of you, since you’re the only family he has.”

“Thanks, but what now?”

“The Marines will probably fly you over. It’s free for family, you know, and you can be with Petey.”

“Who knows what’s going on with Peter?”

“Call Fort Dix. They got a special system, and they’ll patch you through for the latest on Petey’s condition.”

“Okay.”

“Hey, you got his girl Mary’s telephone number? I think she should know what’s going on.”

“Mary? Uh, I’ll handle it. Don’t worry about her. I’ve got it.”

“Good. Wasn’t looking forward to that call. Anyway, look, I gotta run. I’ll check in on him again before I leave.”

 

 

Chapter 2

Peter Hill was critical but not as bad as the six others in the latest batch of soldiers wheeled into the bustling triage area. Brightly lit, it was anchored by a circular station where a doctor, in green scrubs, scanned reports, directing teams to each of the incoming.

Peter’s gurney was intercepted. He was taken for an MRI and wheeled into an operating room.

***

Revitalized after grabbing two hours of shut-eye on a cot, Tony grabbed a ride to Landstuhl hospital.

“Good afternoon, ma’am. Here to see Pete Hill.”

A civilian tapped on a keyboard.

“Private Hill is in the recovery area.” She cocked her head toward a nurse, “Susan will take you in, but no more than ten minutes, okay?”

They stepped into a cold, brightly lit room lined with beds hooked up to equipment emitting streams of beeps. Nurses scurried across its gleaming floor, administering dosages and checking readings, numb to an overpowering, antiseptic smell.

“How’s Petey doing?”

“Good, he’s been out an hour. He’s still under.”

“How long for the anesthesia to wear off?”

“Normally, two, three hours, but with a TBI, things get complicated.”

“TBI?”

“Traumatic brain injury.” She pointed. “He’s the last one on the right.”

Tony stopped at the foot of the bed, spreading his legs for support. Peter’s face was swollen. A tube was down his throat. His head was wrapped in gauze and a forest of poles held bags with lines to both arms. Pete’s right leg was elevated by a sling hanging from a winch. A urine catheter dangled from his leg.

A nurse breezed in and logging onto a laptop, mumbled, “Goddamn IEDs.”

“It wasn’t a roadside bomb. Believe it or not, he was hit by a car.”

“I thought it was strange there were no shrapnel wounds.”

“It happened at the airport right when we were going to board a flight home.”

“What bad luck.”

“It gets worse. He was hit by a state department car.”

“What? Hit by one of our own.” She frowned. “Look, I’ll be back. You can get closer. He won’t bite you.”

Tony inched up. He stared at his buddy, and when a tear slipped out, he focused on the respirator’s baffle.

When the nurse came back, he asked how he could get a prognosis on Pete. She jotted down a number. Tony took a long look at Pete, gently patted his good leg, and left.

Dr. Brown’s evasiveness made Tony angry. However, when Dr. Brown mentioned Pete would be kept unconscious for two days and transferred to Walter Reed Hospital in a week for rehab, Tony brightened.

“That’s better,” Tony said. “Pete’s brother, Vinny, will be here soon, and I’ll see Peter in Reed Hospital.”

***

Vinny was a year older and three inches taller than Pete. He’d left New Jersey when their mother got sick and bounced around, ending up in Texas. He rarely came back to Jersey. An upper-level manager for FedEx in Dallas, Vinny pulled strings to avoid leaning on the military’s offer. Hitching a ride on a FedEx freighter to Frankfurt, he picked up a company car and drove to Landstuhl Hospital.

Pleasantly surprised at the civilian feel, Vinny was confused when he was shown into a room housing eight bedridden soldiers. A scan of the room left a lump in his throat. He zeroed in on Pete’s bed. Sandwiched between a legless soldier and one with an arm missing, his unconscious brother looked intact.

The nurse hovering over Pete met Vinny’s eyes.

“Must be family coming, Peter. Maybe a brother? He looks like you.”

Vinny wiped away a tear. He stood at Pete’s bedside, silently cursing the war. The nurse dragged a chair over. The scraping sound seemed to stir Pete, and his head lolled a bit. Vinny shot a glance at the nurse.

“It’s nothing. He’s out.”

Vinny sat, arms crossed.

“It’s okay to touch him. Contact helps them recover. He knows you’re here.”

Vinny shifted closer, reaching through the side rail to touch his brother’s hand.

“He’s cold as ice. Get him a blanket, for Chrissakes!”

“It’s fine. He’s just below normal, which is right where we like him to be with a TBI.”

“Look, before this happened, I’d never heard of a TBI, and I still don’t know what the hell it is.”

“A traumatic brain injury.”

“I know that, but what does it mean for my brother? What the hell’s happening with him?”

“I know this is difficult, but we believe Peter can hear you. Yelling may cause stress, it won’t help his condition.”

Vinny stood, leaning toward the nurse. “I need to understand what’s going on. Is he gonna be all right?”

“I’ll ask the doctor to speak with you.”

Peter was getting a sponge bath and Vinny sat in a small area by the nurse’s station. Rain pelted the windows. A reed-thin doctor, in green scrubs and clogs made a beeline for Vinny.

“Mr. Hill? I’m Doctor Molanari.”

The physician didn’t offer his hand, sitting on the coffee table.

“The surgery yesterday went well. I repaired the fracture, removed the skull fragments, and installed a ventricular drain to relieve the cranial pressure. Even patched up the nasty tear in his meniscus.”

“Is he going to be all right?”

“It’s too early to tell. The head trauma he suffered is a complicated thing to gauge. We need three to five days to let the fluids drain. Then, we’ll take some scans that’ll give us a picture of the damage to the brain.”

“Brain damage? He’s going to be a vegetable?”

“I doubt he’ll be in a vegetative state. We see way too many TBIs here, and frankly, Peter’s is not as bad as many."

“Doc, cut the bullshit. Give it to me straight.”

The doctor stood abruptly. “Like I said, it’s too early to tell the extent of damage. That said, the brain is a complex organ that we don’t fully understand. I believe he’ll have to undergo extensive rehab but will likely recover most functionality.”

The doctor turned on his heels, leaving Vinny to struggle with what functionality meant. Finding it difficult to think and breathe, he headed for a dose of fresh air.

***

Eyes riveted on the floor, Vinny trudged back into Peter’s room. He stared at his brother’s comatose body, lamenting that he didn’t really know his brother. Vinny shifted in his chair as tears trickled down his cheek, vowing to help Peter if he made it out. The guilt of leaving Peter to deal with their sick mother weighed on him. He cursed his father, who’d been in the reserves for years, for going AWOL in Grenada. Vinny still couldn’t believe he left their mother and shacked up with some girl, dying shortly afterward.

Vinny cursed the people who put his brother in uniform and closed his eyes.

“How we doing today?” A nurse, blonde hair piled high, came in.

Vinny scrambled to his feet, putting him inches away and wishing he’d shaved.

“Vinny. I’m Pete’s brother.”

“Thought so, you have the same eyes. I’m Angela. Nice to meet you.”

She reached for an IV bag, hiking her skirt and Vinny’s interest.

“You or Petey need anything, just let me know.”

He looked at her with glassy eyes.

“I know it’s tough, but let’s give it time. He’ll get better, you’ll see.”

“I don’t know; nothing’s changing.”

“Well, he’s breathing on his own now. He’ll make more progress.”

“When will these tubes come out of his head? I mean, it gives me the creeps.”

“Most of ’em will come out when the draining is done.” She pointed to the tubes. “You see, it’s a reddish gray now. A good sign will be if it turns clear. Keep an eye on it, okay?”

“Sure, Ang, sure.”

“See you later.”

Vinny watched her shapely body sway away before turning his attention to the color of the fluid draining through the tubes.

***

On the third day, Vinny pushed the door to Peter’s room open, got a whiff of flowers, and kept his head down.

“How you doing today, Petey? It’s me, Vinny.” He checked the tubes, staring at one coming from the crown of Peter’s head. The color seemed a shade lighter. He compared the color to the others, but couldn’t tell if it was clearer.

Angie breezed in.

“Ang, check the fluid. I could be out of my mind, but it’s looking a little clearer.”

She came to Vinny’s side of the bed.

“Yeah!” Angela high-fived Vinny. “Good eyes. If he stays on schedule, it’ll be clear in a day, day and a half.”

“When’s he gonna wake up?”

She paused. “It’s been three days. He could start coming out of it anytime.”

Vinny jumped up. “Really?”

She held up a hand. “Just don’t expect much at first. No matter what, remember, it’s gonna take time. I’ll check back.”

***

Vinny pushed through the door, relieved there were no visitors in his brother’s shared room. An amputee with an eye patch caught Vinny’s eye, and he smiled. Quickening his pace, he was sure he saw Peter’s eyes flutter open and shut.

Vinny put his hand on Peter’s cheek. He lifted his brother’s hand a few inches and dropped it, repeated it a bit higher and sat down, questioning what he thought he’d seen. He sat for a minute before bolting up to check the fluid stream. It had cleared significantly. He sat, took his hand, and began praying the Hail Mary. When the second verse came up, he heard the amputee chiming in. Vinny burst into tears, burying his face in his hands.

Regaining his composure, Vinny turned toward the amputee and gave him a thumbs-up. When he turned back to the bed, Peter’s eyes were open.

Vinny got in his brother’s face. “Peter, Peter, it’s me, Vinny. You’re gonna be all right, man.”

Vinny stared into Peter’s unfocused eyes. Then his brother’s head lolled and his eyes closed.

“Come on, man. Wake up, buddy.”

After repeated pleas went unanswered, Vinny pried open his brother’s left then right eye. Emptiness stared back, and Vinny slumped into his chair.

***

“Wake up and make yourself useful.”

“Uh, must’ve dozed off.”

Angela handed him a cup and lollipop-like swab. “His lips are getting dried out. Swab ’em every now and then, but don’t get any in his mouth. He could aspirate.”

“His eyes were open for a second.”

“Good. You see how clear this fluid is?”

He leapt up. “Wow, it really cleared up!”

“That’s because the bleeding’s done, and it’s stable. I’ll inform the doctor. He’ll run scans tomorrow.”

As she turned to leave, Vinny said, “Wait, look, his eyes are open! Peter, how you doing, man?”

“Hello, Peter. You’re gonna be fine.” Angela patted his forearm.

Peter’s eyes shut.

***

Peter had been up periodically before being taken for the scans. When Angela rolled him back in, he was out cold.

“How soon will we get the results?”

“Immediately, it’s digital. Maggie told me the doctor and the head neuro guy were going over them now and will have an assessment for you.”

Vinny frowned.

“Stay positive. I’ve got a good feeling about it.”

“I—I just, you know; oh, forget it.”

“Forget nothing. What’s going on?”

“You mean besides my brother laying here like a vegetable in Germany?”

“I mean with you.”

“I don’t know what to do. I live down in Texas, and if he’s going to need, I don’t know, like a ton of care . . .” He shook his head. “We ain’t got nobody. Parents dead. No brothers, sisters, nobody to help out.”

“Whoa, take it one step at a time. First, let’s get a handle on his condition and then take it from there. Okay?”

“Guess so, no other choice.”

Angela smiled. “Oh, by the way, that girl Mary Rourke called again. Said you never called her back.”

“Okay, I’ll call her. And just so you know, she’s a friend of Pete’s, not mine.”

“Here comes Dr. Molanari.”

He turned and saw the doctor beckoning. Vinny flashed crossed fingers to Angela and followed the doctor out. Vinny and the doctor huddled in the busy corridor.

“Look, we were able to capture some really high-quality scans today. The resolution was outstanding. Now, we’ve got some good news and some not so good.”

 

 

Chapter 3

The doctor leaned into the wall as nurses streamed by.

“Peter’s taken a bit of a beating. It’s early in the game, but it could’ve been worse. That said, you should be prepared for the possibility of long-term or permanent impairment in his cognitive ability and memory.”

“What d’ya mean? Is he going to be slow or something?”

The doctor slipped a foot out of his clog.

“We really don’t know at this stage. Let’s concentrate on the positives. He’s lost most of his motor skills from the shock to the cranium, but it appears temporary and recoverable.”

“Okay.”

“Look, in a day or so, he’ll be awake, most times, and though communication will be challenging, it’s best to get him into intensive rehab as fast as possible. Without a setback, we’re looking at flying him to Walter Reed in five, six days, max.”

“Walter Reed in America?”

“Yes, DC.”

***

Peter’s brown eyes moved from a spaced-out look that couldn’t follow your finger, to one evidencing focus. On the third day, he was able to follow movements, and a day later, to follow instructions: blinking once for yes, twice for no. Vinny was pleased but frustrated with the glacial pace. He estimated it would take two or three years before his brother would have any independence. At that pace, how was he ever going to get back to Texas and his life?

The day Peter was going to be moved, he kept mouthing the name Mary, sending a chill down Vinny’s back. Peter’s face strained from the effort, and Vinny told his brother to save his strength for the flight to the States. Reacting to the news he was headed to America, Peter’s head moved, and his eyes lit up. Peter continued to struggle to speak Mary’s name. Vinny squeezed his hand and tried to calm him down. Pete started coughing, collapsing into a deep sleep.

Vinny unhooked his hand as Angie tended to the patient in the next bed.

“Hey Ang, Petey reacted like crazy when I told him he was going home.”

“I don’t know, Vin, it’s doubtful he knows where he is.”

Vinny got up.

“Nah, I swear he moved his head, and his eyes lit up.”

“Well, you never know.”

“I’ll wake him, okay?”

She came to the bedside. “Leave him be. Hmm, his heart rate’s elevated.”

Peter coughed, and Angie asked, “He been coughing regularly?”

“Yeah, every ten to fifteen minutes or so.”

“Anything come up? Like blood?”

“No.”

She opened his mouth, swabbed inside, and came up with what looked like blood. “Damn.”

“What’s wrong?”

She hit the call button and rushed out.

Vinny watched his brother’s heart rate fluctuate around 120, and he coughed twice in the five minutes it took for an X-ray machine to be rolled in.

A few minutes later, Dr. Molanari came in, trailed by Angela.

“Your brother has a pulmonary embolism.”

Angela explained, “A blood clot in his right lung.”

“That serious?”

“Can be deadly.”

“You fucking kidding me?”

“The doctor is going to give him something to help with this.”

The doctor handed a syringe to Angie. “Here’s the TPA. In the left arm while I administer the coumadin.”

Vinny questioned, “How the heck did he get this?”

“Combo of trauma to the leg and immobilization.”

“Now what?”

“Well, he’ll be on blood thinners. It’s complicated by the TBI. I hate to break it to you, but he isn’t going anywhere.”

Vinny shook his head and headed for the elevators.

A nurse at the station called out, “Vinny! Call for you, from New Jersey.”

It was Mary.

“Hi Vinny, how’s Peter?”

“Well, right now, not so good.”

Mary gasped. “What’s going on?”

“Look, he’s hooked up to a bunch of machines, and a new problem just cropped up.”

“Oh my God, I feel terrible.”

“Look, save your tears. You got your life to live, and Pete’s—”

“How dare you!”

“How dare me? No, it’s how the fuck dare you!” Vinny slammed the phone down.