Blood Game: A Jock Boucher Thriller Page 6
“Anything missing?”
“No. The murderer must have had his own gun and taken it with him.”
“You go in there in those shoes?”
“No. The ones I wore are right inside here.” He pointed to the floor just inside the door. “I didn’t want to track blood through the house.”
“Good. You touch anything?”
“No.”
Fitch knew this was a lie, a lie he would be forced to cover up. This was why he’d been called. “Has your wife seen this?”
“I wouldn’t let her downstairs. She’s in bed.”
Fitch took a deep breath, and wished immediately he hadn’t. There was so much decay in the air. Aerated blood. The dank musk of long-fermented juice of the grape seeping through the rare imperfect cork. Mold spores so fecund in dark, humid subterranean caverns. Mostly, it was the rank scent of death.
“Got to get the body moved.” He pulled out his cell.
“You won’t get a signal down here,” Ray Dumont said. “Shall we go upstairs?”
They went to the kitchen, and Fitch made the necessary calls.
“She knew the killer,” he said, looking at the empty plate. Everything on the table was just as it had been.
“Yes,” Dumont said. “She probably let him in through the back. I know he left that way; the door was open when we got home. You can look in her quarters. I think she let him take a bath.”
“You seem sure it was a man.”
“Look in the bathroom.”
Fitch did. The team would be busy in there, as well as the kitchen. A glance was all that was necessary. “It was definitely a man, and they probably knew each other well,” he said, “though I doubt their relationship would have stood the test of time even if she hadn’t been killed.”
“Why do you say that?”
“The state he left the bathroom. Women might excuse a guy not rinsing the tub when he’s done taking a bath, but not rinsing the sink after shaving? That’s disgusting. Anyway, they’re going to remove the body, then go through the basement first. Anything down there you don’t want them to see?”
“No, Detective, nothing.”
To Fitch, this confirmed the previous lie. “Mind if I take another look?”
“Certainly not.”
The cave was no more inviting on the second visit. Fitch sidestepped the pool of blood in an attempt to stand where the shooter had been. In the ghostly light, he calculated the height of the body, then extrapolated that of the killer; only slightly taller. Which meant he was holding the gun waist-high, pointed up. Which meant a good possibility that the shooting was an accident. An aimed gun would have been held higher. He glanced at the far wall, at the height where the woman’s head would have been before it was blown off her body. There it was. He stepped around the gore and pried the bullet from the wall without damaging it too much. A penknife was enough; the concrete was softened and slowly rotting from humidity. He stepped back to his previous position and noticed a chink in the cement floor, close to and possibly right between the feet of the gunman. He bent over. It was recent. Something hard had fallen and chipped the cement. The gun? Yes, Fitch surmised, it had been a horrifying accident. The man had dropped the gun. Fitch got down on his knees and took his mini Maglite out of his pocket. There was a chip in the cement floor and powder burns. The gun had fired when it dropped. The second bullet could be anywhere, and the team would soon be here. Now he’d have to stay with them and oversee every last detail until they finished and left, taking custody of the second bullet if they found it before he did. It was going to be a long night. He stood up, cursing his creaking joints, and went upstairs.
“Can you make some coffee?” Fitch asked Dumont.
The owner of the estate home just looked at him.
“I know how to make a pot of coffee, if you’ll just show me where everything is,” Fitch said.
Again Dumont was dumbfounded. “I wouldn’t know where to look. The maid always prepared the coffee. I could fix you a drink . . .”
Vehicles were heard in front of the house, adhering to Fitch’s instructions—no lights, no sirens. He went to the front door. Two paramedics rushed forward with a stretcher.
“Body’s in the basement. There’s no need to rush. It’s not going anywhere.”
From a patrol car, two plainclothes officers got out and approached the house. Fitch let them get to the front door, then held up his hand. “Something you need to do before you start,” he said.
“Sure, Detective, what is it?”
Fitch stuck his hand in his pocket and pulled out a ten-dollar bill from his money clip. “Go buy me some coffee. Black. Master of the house doesn’t know where it’s kept.”
• • •
It was late the following afternoon when Fitch made it to Chief Logan’s office on South Broad Street. The chief sat behind his desk in his white shirt, looking like he had just put it on. Fitch, on the other hand, wore a shirt he had ironed himself and a tie with stains from the energetic shaking of a bottle of Tabasco sauce, the stains concealed only when he kept his sport coat buttoned. But he had showered and shaved, and his hair was combed. That was the best the chief was going to get from him after he’d been at a crime scene all night.
“I appreciate it,” Chief Logan said.
“And?” Fitch said.
“I won’t forget it.”
“That’s better.”
Fitch threw a Ziploc bag on the chief’s desk. Had the bag not landed on the simulated leather top, its contents might have dented the wood, but Fitch knew what he was doing. He was making a point.
“What’s this?” Logan asked.
“One is the bullet that killed the maid. The other, a random shot I dug out of the wall about eight inches up from the floor. I think the shooter knew the victim and the killing was an accident. He had drunk a lot of Dumont’s tequila. Probably dropped the gun in shock after he killed her, and it discharged. Hence the second bullet.”
“What do you want me to do with them?”
“Chief Logan, it’s not my case, and in the immortal words of Rhett Butler, ‘Frankly, I don’t give a damn.’ ”
“Do you have the gun?”
“No. Had I gotten there before your friend Mr. Dumont, I might, but he got there first. No gun.”
“You think he’s hiding the murder weapon? His alibi is airtight. Why on earth would he—”
Fitch held up his hand and gave a slight nod. It wasn’t exactly a command for silence from his superior, but it was damn close. “Do those bullets look familiar to you?”
Logan reached for the Ziploc. He held it up in front of his face. “What caliber are these?”
“Bingo,” Fitch said. “They’re cop killers, rifle caliber made for a pistol. Your friend kept a small collection of weapons in the basement. I did not examine them, and I kept the investigation away from them as best I could. There were gun cabinets and display cases. I think the shooter fell back on the one where he’d taken the gun and broke it. It looked to me like Dumont might have cleaned up and removed the damaged case, and the other display cases looked like they might have been moved to cover the gap. I think he took the murder weapon. I don’t believe he had anything to do with the murder, but I think your buddy might be in possession of illegal firearms. If he’s hiding the murder weapon . . .”
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.”
CHAPTER 7
CURLY 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 pl
ace. 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.”