by Scott Pratt
“So you think he’s still around somewhere?”
“He had a lot of enemies. He did a lot of bad things. I think somebody probably got even with him.”
“Well, I don’t suppose you came here to talk about Ben Clancy,” Morris said.
“I didn’t. I came here to talk to you about Grace and our baby and what happened to them. Do you know anything about it?”
“Just what I read in the obituary. That Grace and the baby both died during childbirth.”
“There’s a lot more to it,” I said. “Have you ever heard of a doctor named Nicolas Fraturra?”
Morris twitched, almost imperceptibly, when I said the name. His chin came up just a touch, and his head leaned to the right. It was something a normal person might not even pick up on, but I was anything but a normal person at this point. I saw the twitch. He knew him.
“What was the last name?”
“Fraturra. About your age, early forties. Works for an OB-GYN group here in town.”
Morris shook his head slowly and averted his gaze. “Fraturra? Can’t say that I do.”
He was lying. I would have bet my life on it.
“I’d like for you to get to know him,” I said. “And then I’d like you to charge him with two counts of reckless homicide and send his sorry ass to the penitentiary where he belongs.”
“Darren, do you have any idea how hard medical cases are to prove? That’s why they all wind up as wrongful death cases in civil court.”
“This one shouldn’t be that tough,” I said, and over the next several minutes, I laid out everything I knew. I told him what happened the night Grace and Jasmine died, what I’d learned at the bar, how Fraturra had come in late and drunk, and how Dr. Jenkins had tried to save Grace and Jasmine. The only thing I left out was the threat I made to cut off Fraturra’s head and bury him in the mountains.
“I can see some problems with this right on the front end,” Morris said.
By his tone, I knew he’d already made up his mind. There would be no criminal prosecution. “Really? What problems?”
“The first thing that jumps out at me is that we’ll have to prove he was intoxicated if we want to prove he was reckless.”
“You do the same thing I did. You send investigators to the bar he was in. It’s called the Portal. Like I said, I’ve already been there and talked to the bartender who served him that night. The bartender’s name is Bud. You subpoena the tab. Take a look at his credit card records. Get your investigators to talk to Bud. Get them to talk to the blonde he was bird-dogging. Her name is Danielle Davis. Subpoena his phone records for the pages and the calls and the voice mails that came from the birthing center. Canvass for witnesses. I’ll testify that he was drunk when he came into Grace’s room, and I’m sure a couple of nurses and maybe a doctor will, too. Do a timeline. It should be open-and-shut.”
“Okay, let’s say we do all those things. We find out he had too much to drink. We find out he ignored the pages and the phone calls you told me about. The fact remains that he didn’t lay a hand on Grace, if I’m understanding you correctly. He didn’t do the surgery, right?”
“That’s right, but—”
“Then how do we prove he caused the deaths recklessly or otherwise, if he didn’t touch Grace or the baby?”
“The whole point is that he acted recklessly by drinking and not responding to the pages when he was the doctor on call that night. When a uterine rupture occurs, the medical literature says they have between ten and thirty minutes to get the baby out and attend to the mother. If he hadn’t been drunk, he would have been there and would have been able to take care of her. Instead, he got there late and he was drunk. They had to wait for another doc to show up, and by that time, it was too late.”
“And he hires a defense expert who comes into court, a highly paid medical whore, to testify it was something entirely different that killed Grace and the baby. They’ll say the birthing center or the OB-GYN group should have a backup doctor on call and immediately available. We get into a war of experts, the jury goes to sleep, and we’re dead in the water. Who made the call that Fraturra couldn’t do the surgery?”
“What? You mean when he finally showed up?”
“Right. Which doctor or medical administrator gave the order that Dr. Fraturra was too intoxicated to operate on Grace and the baby?”
“I . . . I don’t know. I know I told him right there in Grace’s room that there was no way he was touching Grace. He was shit-faced, Stephen. He smelled like a distillery, his eyes were red and bloodshot, his speech was slurred. The guy was too drunk to be driving a car, let alone cutting open a human being and performing surgery in a life-and-death situation.”
“Was he stumbling? How long did you talk to him? Did you know it was a life-and-death situation at the time?”
“I’ve been around enough drunks in my life to know the difference between somebody who’s had a couple of beers and somebody who’s half in the bag. And, no, I didn’t know it was life or death at the time, but that wouldn’t have mattered. No way was that drunk touching Grace.”
“So maybe you killed her,” he said.
He was stone-faced when he said it. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. He must have sensed something from the look on my face, because he held up his hands.
“Take it easy,” he said. “I’m just playing devil’s advocate. That’s what the defense is going to say, Darren, and you know it. They’ll say he was fine and you interfered. They’ll blame it on you. Think about it, Darren. What do you really want here?”
“I read the preliminary autopsy report, Stephen. My daughter suffocated. Grace bled to death from hemorrhage. All of it was preventable if only he hadn’t abdicated his responsibilities as a doctor that night and decided to go get drunk. You can prove this case. And as far as what I want . . . I want the scales evened.”
“You want justice.”
“Call it what you like.”
His intercom buzzed, and he picked up the phone on his desk, muttered a few words, and put it back down.
“Used up my allotted time?” I said. “Important meeting to go to?”
“I’m sorry, Darren. I can’t bring a criminal prosecution under these circumstances.”
“And you won’t even authorize an investigation?”
He shook his head and stood.
“It’d be a waste of time. It was good to see you again. My deepest sympathies for your loss.”
I stayed in the chair and smiled at him.
“Turns out Grace was right,” I said through clenched teeth. I wanted to tear his precious chandelier down and strangle him with the shiny strands of fake crystal beads.
“Leave, Darren.”
“Fuck you. I’m not going anywhere until you tell me you’re going to do the right thing and go after the man who killed my Grace and my baby.”
“I mean it, Darren. I know you’re upset, but if you don’t get up and walk out the door right now, I’ll have you arrested.”
“For what? Exercising my constitutional right to free speech? The right that allows me to tell the elected district attorney general he’s a gutless piece of shit?”
I stood slowly as he reached for his phone.
“Fraturra could have prevented two deaths just by doing his job,” I said.
“Sue him, Darren. Get a good medical malpractice lawyer and sue him.”
I looked at him and said very slowly, “You could prevent one by doing yours.” There was no mistaking what I meant.
I turned to walk out of the office when he said, “What was that? Was that some kind of cryptic threat to kill Dr. Fraturra, Darren?”
I stopped and turned back to face him. The statement was so obvious, the question so idiotic. My psyche was in slow-burn mode, and I knew where it would lead. Fraturra wouldn’t last long, and the way I was feeling, Morris might just join him.
“You have no balls. Grace had you pegged.”
CHAPTER 7
The Portal was one of those risky ventures for entrepreneurs. You hire a high-dollar chef, build out a first-class bar and restaurant in an expensive space surrounded by even more expensive spaces, you call your bartenders “mixologists” and stock the bar with expensive wine and spirits, you charge extravagant prices, you cater to young professionals—many with expense accounts—and hope people come. If they do, you clean up. If they don’t, well, it’s off to bankruptcy court.
I’d never set foot in the Portal before the night I went to see whether Dr. Nicolas Fraturra might be there. I was operating on a very strong suspicion that he would, based on my conversation with Jenny Diaz, but I wasn’t certain. I hadn’t really started my serious recon of Fraturra, the kind of recon that ultimately leads to a killing. I knew where he lived, but I’d only driven by once. I knew a little about his family situation from Jenny, and I knew, of course, what he did for a living and where he worked. But I hadn’t really decided to kill him until earlier that day when I met with Stephen Morris, the district attorney, and realized that Morris wasn’t going to give me any satisfaction. But since Morris had turned me down flat, I had to figure out how I was going to kill him and get away with it. If I screwed up and the cops were going to be able to come after me, I knew I’d have no trouble putting a bullet in my own head. My attitude about going back to jail hadn’t changed since my release from prison. I would rather die than go back.
The restaurant was noisy when I walked in at 7:00 p.m. There were a couple dozen people sitting in the lobby, waiting, and the bar was packed. I’d dressed for the occasion—a navy-blue suit, white shirt, and navy-blue tie—the lawyer’s uniform. The bar was to the left, and I walked past the hostess’s station and looked around the large, ornately decorated room. There was an avant-garde sort of vibe in the room. The bar was a big square, constructed of river rock with a granite cap. Hanging from the ceiling above the bar was a model of a dirigible. It was lighted purple on the inside, and it cast a soft hue over the entire room. The walls were exposed brick covered with old gears and fans and copper piping and mechanical drawings.
I spotted Fraturra within twenty seconds. He was sitting on the other side of the room at a counter, facing away from the bar. I expected a woman to be sitting next to him, but instead, he was deep in conversation with a man in a suit that was very much like the one I was wearing. I recognized the man immediately. It was Stephen Morris, the district attorney who had looked me in the eye earlier that very day and told me he didn’t know Fraturra.
That twitch back at the office. I knew Morris was lying then, and now, here was proof in the flesh. I felt my heartbeat rise and told myself to try to keep it together. I didn’t need to go to jail, but how I longed to walk over there and smash Morris in the face. A day or two in jail might have been worth the satisfaction of breaking his jaw.
I squeezed between a couple of people at the bar and finally managed to catch the eye of a bartender. I ordered a beer and stepped back, trying to decide exactly what to do. It didn’t take long. I decided to do what I usually did when I was angry—confront the situation head-on without thinking it through—and I worked my way around the bar toward the two men.
When I got to them, I stood directly behind Morris, facing toward the bar so he wouldn’t recognize me, and then I turned.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” I said, and both of their heads shot around. I looked at Morris. “This is a hell of a coincidence, isn’t it, Stevie? A few hours ago you told me you didn’t know this guy, and here you are, having a drink with him. You must have just met, right? How are you two hitting it off?”
“Get out of here, Darren, before I call the police.”
“People say that to me all the time these days,” I said. “Go ahead—call ’em up. While you’re doing that, I’ll call the News Sentinel and see if we can get a reporter down here. Get both sides of the story in the paper.”
I looked at Fraturra. “On call again tonight, Doc? Ignoring your phone?”
Fraturra looked at me like he wanted to spit in my face, but he didn’t say anything.
“I asked old Stephen here to charge you with reckless homicide for killing my girl and my baby,” I said. “He made up a bunch of bullshit excuses why he couldn’t do it, so you’re safe. Doesn’t look like you’ll be going to jail. He’s a good friend. I just thought you should know that. You have a good friend there.”
I looked back at Morris. “Where did you guys meet, anyway, Stephen? High school? Frat buddies in college? Hook up in the bathroom of some bar? Was that it? Love at first sight?”
“Darren,” Morris said, “I swear to God if you don’t walk away right now I’m going to bring a shit storm down on you that you’ll never forget.”
“Really? What are you going to do? Frame me and put me in prison? Blow my mother to bits? Kill my girlfriend and baby? Because those are all things that have happened to me, Stephen. Really. They happened. I’ve been through those experiences. What would you possibly think could be worse?”
“I . . . I . . .” He had no answer. “What do you want, Darren? What are you doing here?”
“I just wanted to check this place out. I’ve heard such good things about it, you know? I’ve heard the people who come here regularly are stuffy and a little sleazy and think they’re better than other people. I was hoping I’d fit right in. And you know what? I feel like I am fitting in. I think I’ll come here every night, just to feel superior and sleazy and say hello to my good friend Dr. Fraturra.”
Fraturra rose from his seat and hurried away toward the entrance.
“Are you leaving?” I called after him. “Please, don’t leave! I was hoping we could bond!”
He walked around the corner of the bar in his gray suit, and I turned back to Morris.
“You lied to me, you son of a bitch,” I said. “You said you didn’t know him.”
“I’ve known him since high school,” Morris said. “We were on the debate team together. We actually got laid for the first time on the same night in the same house by the Williams twins. We’re old friends, Darren, but it doesn’t matter.”
Morris was trying to look tough. He took a long sip from the glass in his hand and said, “You wouldn’t have a criminal case whether I knew him or whether he was a complete stranger. Give it up, Darren. Take my advice and go find a malpractice lawyer. He pays a bunch for malpractice insurance. Run it up his ass.”
“What were the two of you talking about? Why did you meet him here today? Was I the subject of the conversation?”
“Your name came up.”
“In what context?”
“In the context of he needs to hire some protection, some security. I think you’re capable of some pretty terrible things.”
“And he isn’t? He’s responsible for two killings, and those are just the ones I know about.”
“He didn’t kill anyone.”
Just then I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned to face two very large men in tight black pants and jackets, wearing white button-down shirts.
“Is this gentleman bothering you?” one of them said to Morris. The man’s head was shaved, and he had green eyes. The other one had a buzz cut and brown eyes. The bald guy had tattoos on both of his hands. Fraturra was hanging back about ten feet behind them. I noticed the people close to us go quiet.
“Yes,” Morris said. “As a matter of fact, he is.”
“We’re going to have to ask you to leave,” the bald guy said.
I’d been in dozens of fights in prison. I’d fought inmates, cellmates, and guards. I’d fought big guys and small, quick guys. I’d fought grapplers and strikers. I’d taken punches and kicks and been choked out and even stabbed. There was probably nothing at that point I hadn’t seen as far as hand-to-hand combat. I figured I could kick the bald guy in the groin and punch the other dude in the throat before they knew what happened, but then I’d just wind up in jail for a day or two and have to go through the system after the cops found me and charged me with assau
lt.
“Why?” I said to Mount Baldy. “What have I done?”
“Dr. Fraturra is one of our best customers, and he says you’ve been harassing him. The gentleman right there, as I’m sure you know, is the district attorney. If they say you have to go, then you have to go.”
I took a swig of my beer and set it on the bar.
“Fine,” I said. “I’ll walk out, but if you so much as lay a finger on me, both of you muscle heads will be eating through a tube for a while.”
“Ah,” Buzz Cut said. “Are we a badass?”
“Touch me and you’ll find out real quick.”
“Great to see you again, Stephen,” I said to Morris, and I started walking toward the entrance. Baldy and Buzz Cut parted like a gate and let me walk past, but they followed close behind. As I passed Fraturra, I winked at him.
“Be seeing you soon, Doc,” I said, and I walked out of the bar.
I got into my car, looked toward the mist-covered Smoky Mountains in the distance, and headed for Gatlinburg.
CHAPTER 8
“You never call,” Luanne “Granny” Tipton said when she opened the door and saw me standing on her front porch.
Granny and two of her grandsons lived atop a mountain on two hundred acres about thirty minutes outside of Gatlinburg. I’d driven along the steadily climbing mountain road among lengthening shadows, negotiating sharp turns and switchbacks, until the asphalt ended and turned to gravel. A chat driveway eventually led to the Tipton compound. I’d climbed out of my car and walked up onto her front porch and knocked on the door.
Granny was in her early seventies, lean and still ramrod straight. Her hair was fine and white, and her eyes a deep brown. She smiled warmly at me. I don’t know what it was about Granny, but we connected at a deep level. She was always glad to see me, and the feeling was mutual.
“I apologize,” I said. “Do you have some time for an old friend?”
“Always,” she said. “I was about to go for my evening stroll. Care to join me?”
“That would be nice.”
“Let me get a shawl,” she said. “I know it’s warm, but these old bones start to chill.”
