Free Blood Game: A Jock Boucher Thriller by David Lyons Page B

Fitch didn’t know him. He was sureof 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 positioncould 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