Blood Game: A Jock Boucher Thriller (8 page)

Fitch did not need to finish the sentence, and from Logan’s next words, he knew it wouldn’t have mattered anyway.

“Thank you, Detective. I’ll take care of it from here. You’ve done a fine job.”

Fitch took a deep breath, then stood up to leave. He got to the door and turned around. “A buddy of mine was stuck up in the Quarter a few nights ago. We got the perp, who has since died from complications of drug and alcohol abuse, and we got his gun. It was an odd weapon for a strung-out street thug, made in Romania. It used the same
ammo. Kinda makes you wonder. Kinda makes me worry. Body armor would be about as much protection against it as a T-shirt.”

Fitch left the office of the superintendent of the New Orleans Police Department as Chief Logan stared at the contents of the Ziploc bag on his desk.

C
URLY FREEMAN HAD BEEN
an investigator with the Louisiana State Police for six months. He still chafed at the nickname bestowed on him his first day, finding it neither clever nor humorous. There were other skinheads on the force, though they generally weighed in at 250 and over. Monikers for the big guys were bestowed carefully if at all. Curly was five-six and punched the scale at 140. Since he didn’t want his size disparaged, he put up with Curly.

He’d been assigned the case of a body found in the gulf, within three miles from shore, which made it his department’s jurisdiction. He’d already talked to the ME, who had declared death by drowning, no doubt about it; no other possibility; don’t waste your time. Curly had thought this finding was a little too pat, especially since somewhere along the forensic trail, an early examination
of the body had mentioned head trauma. It was worth a question or two. That was what he was paid to do.

He was driving from state police headquarters in Baton Rouge to Houma, seat of Terrebonne Parish, southwest of New Orleans. Houma was home to a newly expanded port facility with access to the Intracoastal Waterway and the gulf, and it even had its own airport. It was also home to Dumont Industries, the largest offshore services company in the state and the employer of the deceased. Curly estimated the drive time at about an hour and a half, if he didn’t run over any gators. Like Baton Rouge, Houma was bayou country, Cajun country. If nothing interesting was learned on this trip, at least he’d treat himself to a good meal. Curly hadn’t called ahead for an appointment.

Dressed in plainclothes and driving an unmarked car, he showed his badge at the gate of the complex and was given directions. He passed the shipyard on the way to the corporate offices. The hull of a huge vessel, at least three hundred feet, was being laid. Several smaller ships were also under construction. This was quite an operation, and Curly guessed that possibly two thousand people were employed in this location alone. Economic importance meant political importance, and that meant he’d have to be polite today. The receptionist was a heavyset black woman with a smile in proportion to her size. “Why sure, hon” was her response to almost any query. After making a phone call,
she took him in tow and personally led him to the head of personnel.

“My sister lives in Baton Rouge. Name’s Ruth Corey. She plays piano and sings in a bar called King Porter’s. You know her?”

“I don’t believe so.”

“You ought to check her out. She sings like Billie Holiday. On Fridays she has other musicians with her. But if you don’t like jazz . . .”

“But I do. I know where King Porter’s is. I’ll check it out when I get home tonight.”

“I’ll call her and ask her to save you a special table.” She stopped at an open door and beckoned him to walk in. “Sam Matthews is head of personnel. Have a good day, sir.”

“Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.”

“That’s my job.” She and her smile returned to the front desk.

Sam Matthews had seen Curly from his windowed office and had come out to meet him. He introduced himself.

“If that woman ever wants a job in Baton Rouge, you tell her to look me up,” Curly said, handing him his business card.

“She’s not going anywhere if I have anything to say about it. Lois greets everybody who comes in this building the way she greeted you, and if you arrive in a bad mood, it’s gone by the time you reach your desk. We all love her. What can I do for you, Officer?”

“Just a routine inquiry”—Curly never started an investigation with those words—“and I don’t want to take up much of your time. It’s about an employee of yours whose body was found floating in the gulf.”

“Mac Halley. You won’t be taking much of my time, because there’s not much I can tell you about him. He had just been hired and was out on his first trip. Terrible accident.”

“It was his first time out?” The ME’s words rang in his ears: “Don’t waste your time.” Curly was thinking he should have listened.

“Yes, on this job. But he’d had experience. He owned a coastal transport company at one time. Guess the guy had a run of bad luck. I’ve got a copy of his résumé in my files. Would you like to see it?”

As Curly read the résumé, Matthews continued, “Guy did okay in the end.”

“How do you mean?”

“Life insurance. We’ve got perks in that job you wouldn’t believe. For his two days of service, his beneficiaries are going to come into a small fortune. Policies cost us, but Mr. Dumont is very generous to his offshore service workers.”

“You think it might have been a suicide to get the insurance?”

“Don’t think so. I doubt he even knew about it. Halley was hired on the spot because we needed a cook and
the ship was going out. We usually set up a counseling session with new employees to explain their benefit packages, which can be a bit complicated, but Halley wasn’t with us long enough for me to arrange a meeting. You might ask the crew what they thought about him. I never met the man. I could check and see who was on that trip, it won’t take a minute.” He went to his desk, tapped on his keyboard, and the printer spat out a document in less than thirty seconds. “You know,” he said, “the only thing that amazes me about computers anymore is how we take them for granted. A couple years ago, that little task could have taken hours. But talking to any of those guys is going to be another matter. They’re all at sea right now. No, wait. Ken Self, he’s here. He’s in the dispensary. He called me a few minutes ago to confirm his medical coverage. I could check with him.”

“That would be very helpful.”

But it wasn’t. Curly met the seaman as he was getting a prescription filled. “Didn’t know him,” Self said. “He was the cook on that one trip. I don’t go in the galley. I’m on deck when I ain’t sleeping.”

“Well, thank you for your time,” Curly said. He was done here.

He returned to where he had parked but stuck his head in the reception area with a final essential question. “Could you recommend a good restaurant?” he asked the ever smiling Lois.

“Why, sure, hon.”

He ate jambalaya like a bear gorging before hibernation, wondering not for the first time if his mental and digestive processes were somehow linked. Curly often ate out alone, which was good in a way, because he would have ignored anyone sharing a meal with him. When he ate, he thought. When his thoughts were deep, he ate till he could burst. His questioning of the seaman had brought on that familiar feeling in his gut, and Curly went with his gut—even when it was bloated with beer and boudin. The guy hadn’t wanted to talk about his dead shipmate; that was obvious. The decedent had experience with boats, and such men didn’t accidentally fall over railings. Suicide was possible, but one generally doesn’t take on new employment with the idea of ending it all. And the first to examine the body had found head trauma. Curly paid his check and walked to his car. There was someone he needed to talk to in New Orleans before heading home.

•  •  •

“Hey, Fitch, there’s a guy here wants to see you.”

“What guy?”

“Come see for yourself. I ain’t your secretary.”

Fitch didn’t move fast for anyone, least of all unnamed strangers. Before he got up from his desk, the man was standing in his doorway, leaning against the jamb. The face looked familiar, but Fitch didn’t know him. He was sure
of that. He had no acquaintances that bald. This guy had no hair, not even eyebrows.

“I’m Chris Freeman,” he said. Fitch stared hard at the face. “My dad told me to come by and say hello.”

“You Tom Freeman’s boy?”

“I am. The guys on the force call me Curly.”

“They would, those assholes. Come on in and sit down. How’s your father?”

“He bought a fishing shack that backs up on Lake Verret; never leaves the place. Just throws his line off the porch, catches what he wants to eat. A neighborhood woman comes by to clean up and bring him groceries.”

“Can he get around?”

“He’s in the wheelchair, if that’s what you mean. Bullet busted his backbone.”

Fitch said nothing, recalling a joint mission and one man’s bravery. “I heard you were following in his footsteps,” he said.

“Criminal investigation. Been away for a while, just got back.”

Fitch tried not to stare, but Curly saw the question in his eyes.

“Stage four cancer,” he said. “Lost my hair with the chemo. They say it’ll grow back. I’m starting to have my doubts.”

“Sorry. What brings you to the Big Easy?”

“You found a body in the gulf. I got the case. I wondered if you might tell me anything about it.”

Normally, Fitch would have reached for a cigarette long before now. Testaments to his abstinence were scattered on his desktop in the form of chewing gum wrappers. The urge to do something with his hands was strong, and he took an inner wrapper from a stick already chewed and folded it lengthwise repeatedly. “Not much to say. We were fishing, caught nothing, and were about to head back in.”

“We?”

“Me and Federal District Judge Jock Boucher.”

“Whoa. That’s uptown.”

“He’s a good friend. He spotted the body. I motored over, picked it up, called for a crew to meet us, and brought it in. The body had probably been in the water for several days, maybe a week. It was little more than a gasbag.”

“The forensics guy was from here?”

“The first one, yeah. He told me he thought he saw evidence of a blow to the back of the head, but the ME overruled him, and it was put down as death by drowning.”

“Did he contest the ME’s finding?”

“That isn’t done here if one wants to keep one’s job. Especially now.”

“Yeah, I heard you guys got some shit flung at you.”

“The department has been found to be ‘dysfunctional.’ We’re operating under a consent decree while we clean up our act.” Fitch shrugged. “There’ll be some new icing, but it’ll be the same cake.”

Curly leaned back in his chair as if changing position
could add comfort to the government-issue furniture. “Reason I came by, I was just at Dumont Industries over in Houma. Decedent was their employee. Met with the personnel director, he was cooperative; then I happened to meet a seaman who was on board when the fellow went over. He definitely did not want to talk to me about it. I got this feeling.”

“Uh-oh.”

“Yeah. So I was wondering if maybe something did happen on that ship. Maybe the guy did get one upside the head, and maybe the ME’s got a reason for wanting to play it down. I know who Dumont Industries is, and the ‘dysfunctionality’ you guys are catching shit for ain’t exactly a singular phenomenon in this state.”

A folded copy of the
Times-Picayune
was on Fitch’s desk. He pushed it toward the man sitting across from him. “Take that,” he said. “Check out the employment section. Guy thinking like you is going to be looking for a new job soon.”

Curly ignored him, staring unblinking over Fitch’s head.

Fitch sighed. “Well, if there’s no talking sense into you, what I’d do, if it were my case”—Curly leaned forward—“I’d get that cooperative personnel director to tell me when the ship will be back in port, and when it docks, I’d interview every man on board before they can go anywhere. If I still had that ‘feeling’ after talking to a couple of them, I’d get some tech guys to go over the ship as a possible crime scene.
After doing all that, I’d buy me a small ranch in Montana, ’cause I’d sure be throwing away my chances for a peaceful retirement in Louisiana.”

Curly took the business card out of his coat pocket and made the call from his cell phone. “Mr. Matthews, this is Trooper Freeman. Can you tell me when that ship is going to be back in port? I want to interview the captain and crew. Tomorrow? Great, I’m going to bring an investigative team to go through the vessel. Shouldn’t take too long. But if we find something, I’ve got to tell you that we may have to keep the ship in port. I’ll see you tomorrow. Thank you, sir, your cooperation is appreciated.”

“I wouldn’t have told him you’d arrest the ship,” Fitch said, “even though they know you can.”

“Arrest the ship?”

“Maritime law term. Means the same for ships as it does for suspects. That ship is a huge investment, and it doesn’t make money sitting at a pier. You’ve given them a reason not to like you very much, and you’re still just trying to confirm your ‘feeling.’ ”

Curly nodded and stood up. “You’ve been helpful, Detective.”

“Say hi to your dad for me.”

Fitch stared at the back of Curly Freeman’s shiny bald dome as he left the office, shaking his head at the impertinence of youth while blessing the courage of the father passed down to the son.

•  •  •

Curly Freeman used his cell for half the journey on his drive back to Baton Rouge. He set up a team to accompany him to Houma for the interviews and the possible arrest of the ship. Otherwise, it was an uneventful drive. His lunch was still with him when he reached the Baton Rouge city limits. He didn’t feel like dinner or going home to his empty apartment. He thought of the invitation extended earlier in the day. Maybe the woman’s sister sang at cocktail hour.

The bar was genre Louisiana icehouse, on a back road nestled alongside the Mississippi. As he pulled into the gravel parking lot, he hoped the seminal 1920s Jelly Roll Morton composition “King Porter Stomp” was the establishment’s namesake and that the singer included songs from that era in her repertoire. Turned out the barman/owner’s name was Porter, and he had crowned himself king when, as a younger man, he’d tried his hand at vocalizing.