Am I the Killer? - A Luca Mystery - Book 1 Read online

  Am I the Killer?

  A Luca Mystery Book 1

  By Dan Petrosini

  Copyright © 2015 Dan Petrosini. All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the permission, in writing, of the author.

  ISBN: 978-1-515004622

  Acknowledgements

  Special thanks to Julie, Stephanie and Jennifer for their love and support and to David Larkin for his editing and suggestions.

  Other Books by Dan Petrosini

  Vanished – A Luca Mystery Book 2

  The Final Enemy

  Complicit Witness

  Push Back

  Ambition Cliff

  Preface

  I’d been charged with murder. The cops say I beat to death someone I knew. 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 the bastard off. 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 that 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 suffered while serving in Afghanistan. It’s really frustrating. For me, trying to remember something is really 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, including the prosecutors, think I can’t remember the events that led to the murder charge, but others believe I won’t say what happened so I can 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, including my name, I’m sure of:

  Day of Arrest

  Fumbling, I reached to shut off the blaring alarm clock. I succeeded in 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 quickly reminded me to 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 on these days. 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 back over my protruding ears, I fingered the tail 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 chin stubble. Yeah, some coffee and a shave oughta help, I thought. I checked the date on the note and popped open the pill organizer.

  Gulping down two handfuls of meds, I headed down the stairs. Then I realized—I had no pants on. I plodded back up, tugged on a pair of jeans, and went back down to the kitchen.

  As the coffee brewed, I sucked down a glass of a gritty concoction the doctor had ordered to combat the tinnitus. It tasted like shit, but it seemed to dim 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 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 tracing yesterday’s steps, but the coffee signaled its readiness, and I poured a mug.

  Sitting at the kitchen table, I started to read through the notes my brother, Vinny, left next to the coffee machine. Oh yeah, got to do those brain exercises. Did I do them yesterday? I hope so. They say it helps, but I don’t know about that. I put the mug to my lips, but it was empty, and I poured another mugful.

  I took a sip, realized it needed milk, and swung open the fridge to the faint sounds of car doors slamming. My ass had just hit the chair when the doorbell rang. Before I had a chance to sneak in another mouthful, the pounding on the front door began. 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 bay 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. The combination of the pounding on the door and a cop tapping on the window finally forced me to the door.

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

  I nodded as an officer checked my face against a photo.

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

  “What? What?” I leaned into the door frame.

  The officer pulled out a pair of handcuffs.

  “Macquire, read him his rights.”

  A cop, no more than twenty-five, stepped forward and flipped open a fold of paper. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and may be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to speak to an attorney and to have an attorney present during any questioning. If you are unable to afford an attorney, one will be provided to represent you at government expense." He looked up. “Do you understand?"

  I nodded slightly, fixated on how much he sounded like the cops on TV. The officer asked if that was a yes.

  I mumbled affirmatively, and 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? Was it Chris, or Kent?

  I tried to remember the guy’s 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 yesterday, or anytime this week?

  Chapter 1

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

  Opening the door, the warm air seemed to be sweeter. I inhaled deeply, attempting to quell my percolating nervousness. Swinging the door wide open, I nodded. Finally I’d get the heck out of here. Stepping out of the hanger, I walked around for a last look at hell.

  It was weird to be outside without a helmet, vest, and equipment. Even though dawn had just poked over the horizon, 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 it smacked into a wall of craggy mountains. My eyes skimmed the brown peaks. I focused on a large niche that formed a plateau, bringing back like it was yesterday a brutal, screaming firefight. I shook the me
mory of the carnage from my head, cursing the loss of two buddies. My shirt was starting to stick to my back, and I headed back in, saluting a major who was having a smoke.

  “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 Army 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 most of my platoon behind. Tony Burato was the only buddy making it out with me. He was on a different timeline than me, but after they forced another tour on me, we found ourselves getting out at the same time.

  Tony’s eyes flashed open as I approached. He fist-bumped me as I sat, then he went back to an edgy sleep. I ran my hand over my head, feeling the blond hair that was just starting to grow out. Thank God, I thought. I needed my hair to help mask my ears, which stuck out a bit too much. 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 all 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 like two months, max. But losing him hurt like hell. I didn’t give a crap what people thought when I cried like a baby for days. The head doctors claimed my reaction was my fear of it being me next, and maybe that was part of the distress I felt, 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 plastic 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, and I looked tired, but I smiled again with the thought of staying in a real bed, in my room, alone. Well, maybe not totally 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, and I was super disappointed. Anyway, soon we’d be reunited.

  Missing her more than I thought possible, I’d spent countless nights tucked in my sleeping bag thinking about it all. Was I really missing her? Or was being out in a cold Afghan night the reason she was incredibly appealing? A month of mental tug-of-war led to the conclusion that the ache I felt was really 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 of here alive.

  I smiled into the mirror. 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 new 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 would be 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 pre-boarding instructions, and I hustled out of the bathroom thinking, shit, it 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. We’re heading out!”

  “Easy, Petey, 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 left 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, whose engines were roaring, to open its door for a waiting stairway. The door cracked open, and I burst through the doors, welcomed by the deafening but comforting thunder of my ride home.

  As I adjusted the duffel that had scrunched down, I caught a glimpse of a shining black mass before it slammed into me, catapulting me skyward. I had a quick view of my belongings flying through the air before everything went dark.

  ***

  The pressure in my head was building as I slipped in and out of consciousness. Pain blurred my vision and muffled the voices of who I hoped were the doctors that would fix the problem before my head burst.

  Attempting to scream, I blacked out again and came to when something got shoved down my throat. Before disappearing back into a black morass, I heard a high-pitched whine that reminded me of my father’s old Black & Decker drill.

  Flipping from blackness to the enormous pressure in my skull, I barely emerged from unconsciousness and felt like I was being carried. I struggled to open my eyes, but shadows moving in and out of a white light were all I could make out before an envelope of pain shoved me back toward a shock-induced blackout.

  Fearing death, I fought for control. What were those voices saying? Who were they? Where the hell was I? Was I underwater? Yeah, that was it. The pressure and muffled voices made sense now. I struggled to get to the surface, but I was stuck to the bottom. Was I trapped in mud? 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 my mother. I reached out to her.

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

  ***

  Dr. Mancino, the head of triage at Bagram Airfield, hustled in out of the heat and changed his sweat-soaked scrub suit. He grabbed Peter’s chart as the head nurse gave him a quick condition update.

  On his way to the sink to wash up, he barked, “Get a diuretic line going! We’ve got to control the swelling. Johnson, increase the oxygen flow to six liters a minute.”

  “You want to induce a coma?”

  “Haven’t decided, but stand ready. Meanwhile, make sure you keep an eye on his blood pressure.”

  Dr. Mancino raced to prevent the swelling brain from furthering the damage. He asked for Peter’s vitals and pulled his face shield down.

  Hunched over Peter’s shaven skull, Mancino drew a series of black circles and mopped his brow.

  “Can’t we get it any damn cooler in here? Move that portable unit closer. I’m gonna drip on the poor bastard.”

  A soldier, pressed into being a nurse’s aide, rolled an air conditioning unit closer to Dr. Mancino, who nodded his approval.

  “All right, let’s get going.” He took a whining drill from a nurse, kicked it into high gear, and approached Peter’s head.

  Skin flicked away, and blood began to flow. “Sponge, clean the wound.” The drill sound deepened and seemed to slow as it bore into the skull. Bone, skin, and blood sprayed as he closed in. “Sponge! Sponge it, dammit! I need to see where the hell we are here. Again.” He gently applied the drill, and as it broke through, a rush of cerebral fluid shot up, offering some relief to the growing pressure on Peter’s brain. “Goddamn it! Shit’s on my glasses. Get me a new mask!”

  As he changed masks, the doctor ordered, “Grab a sample of the fluid. Run labs on it, and get the hell out of the way.”

  Dr. Mancino methodically bored openings in other spots, allowing more cerebral fluid an escape route as the body responded to the trauma, then ordered more fluid testing. The surgeon inserted drains before he checked Peter’s abdomen and right leg.

  “Get the portable. X-ray the ab and leg. I just 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 looked down at his patient and shook his head. “I don’t want him moved around too much, but we have to get him to Landstuhl where they can treat
him properly.”

  Dr. Mancino flipped up his mask and walked away, shouting, “Hustle, hustle! You know the drill. Stabilize him, and get him on the next flight out.”

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

  “Doc, how’s my buddy doing?”

  Dr. Mancino raised his eyebrows and brushed by the soldier.

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

  The doctor waved him to walk with him. “He’s suffered a traumatic brain injury.”

  “He’s gonna be okay, right Doc?”

  “He’s out on the next flight to Ramstein. We did all we can to stabilize him, but he’s gonna need more 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, and they’ll decide the best course of action.”

  “Shit, man, it’s all fucked up. We were heading home today.”

  The doctor stopped in his tracks. “Heading home?”

  “Yeah, me and Peter. We finished our tour and were heading home.”

  Six hours after his head was pierced and now in a drug-induced coma, Peter and six critically injured soldiers were rolled on gurneys onto a retrofitted truck parked in the same staging area where Peter had been waiting for his journey home. The vehicle transported the wounded over a tarmac that was releasing the day’s heat. As darkness gathered, a dull-gray C-5, whose nose was lifting, revealed a gang of soldiers adjusting a ramp to the plane’s interior cavern.

  When the C-5 was ready, soldiers and nurses escorted each wounded warrior, ensuring the various IVs and monitors stayed in place as they rattled up the ramp. The loading finished, a line of soldiers, some going home via Germany and others with orders for reassignment, climbed aboard for the ride.

  Refusing to board his original flight when Peter was injured, Tony hopped aboard for the ride to Germany. He secured his duffel bag as the gurneys were clamped onto hangers suspended from the plane’s frame to limit the jostling.