Ice Fire: A Jock Boucher Thriller (10 page)

Discovery in law is a fact-finding process prior to trial. Its purpose is to allow parties in a lawsuit to properly prepare, and is based on the proposition that the free exchange of information will lead to the truth. The process is governed by state and federal rules to prevent abuse, and permissible discovery may include material such as written questions requiring sworn answers, oral depositions taken under oath, inspection of items or places that cannot be physically brought to court, and the presentation of documents. It was this final area where Judge Boucher found the elephant under the bed. Bob Palmetto was being forced to turn over trade secrets or go to jail. Never had Judge Boucher seen such obvious flaunting of the rules of discovery. Lawyer Dexter Jessup had put up a good fight, his objections
valid and timely, but the files showed he was refused as a matter of course, and he was threatened with contempt of court more than once. The papers the judge held in his hand made a mockery of the justice system. His thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door.

“Sorry to disturb you, Judge, but I’m going home now,” his assistant said. “It’s almost six. I’m going to lock the hall door.”

“Fine. Good night.” He didn’t even look up, but continued turning the pages in front of him. In the silence of his chambers he knew he held proof of judicial wrongdoing in his hands.

“So what?” he said aloud. There was no one to answer, so he muttered his own response. “The judge was bent. The judge is dead. So what?”

He closed the files and locked them in his desk, rose, and left his office, puzzling over the killing of Ruth Kalin. He passed by his assistant’s desk, on which lay a copy of that day’s paper, which she must have bought from a stand in the lobby on her way home and brought back up to the office. The first report of Ruth Kalin’s death had made the Saturday papers. There had been no calls to his unlisted number and he’d just said he could not comment on the matter to the few journalists hanging around his house—it wasn’t like these were strange words coming from a federal judge. It was reported again on Sunday. The story had legs. By the Monday edition, it was number one with a bullet, front page, above the fold. His assistant had left the newspaper on her desk, folded so the leading headline was prominent: “Missing Lawyer Shot in Judge’s Driveway.” Right under this banner was the subheading, “Federal Judge Returns from Barroom Brawl to Find Body.” Red lights blinked on the desk phone indicating incoming calls being answered by the recorder.
Good time to be somewhere else,
the judge thought as he took the paper and left.

*  *  *

Judge Boucher reconnoitered his own house. As he expected, the press was gathered and ready for a feeding frenzy out front. He drove away unseen. Where to go? He remembered Fitch’s ashtray: the Old Absinthe House. Corner of Rue Bourbon—could there be a better address for a bar?—and Rue Bienville. It was a port in a storm, with a restaurant upstairs. At this hour there would be few diners. The owner of the restaurant greeted him, the consoling nod of his head saying that he had seen the day’s papers. With Italians, discretion was an art form.

“Good evening, Tony. How about over there?” Boucher pointed to a corner table.

“You need a menu?”

Boucher shook his head. He knew this place well. “Caesar salad with oysters, and veal piccata. Glass of Montepulciano.”

The proprietor returned and uncorked the wine. “On the house,” he said, leaving the bottle.

Boucher finished his meal in solitude, then called for the owner. Tony came over. “Does Detective Fitch come here often?” the judge asked.

“He’s downstairs in the bar now. If you need to go out the back . . .”

“No, no. He’s on my side, I think. Is he by himself?” Tony nodded. “Would you ask him to come up?” Boucher asked.

Fitch was shown to the table moments later.

“I’ve already eaten,” the judge said. “Sorry. Would you like some wine?” Fitch nodded. He raised his glass in a silent toast before sipping.

“You saw the papers, I guess,” Fitch said.

“I did. Body in driveway, barroom brawl; none of this is going to do my judicial reputation much good.”

“Yeah. It almost looks like the press has it out for you.”

“The newspapers are just doing what newspapers do,” Boucher said. “My alibi was printed. Who ever had a barroom brawl as a defense? At least I’m not a suspect, right?”

Fitch sipped. “This is good wine. No. As far as I’m concerned, you’re not a suspect. It’s likely the girl was shot someplace else and driven to your house in her own car. How was your dinner? Food good here? I never came upstairs before. This is nice.” He looked around the room.

Boucher raised his hand again. “Tony, would you bring Detective Fitch a menu?”

“That’s all right. Whatever the judge had is good enough for me.” Fitch looked at Boucher, his elbows on the table, his fingers folded, forming a dome on which he rested his chin. “You know how to get a lifetime federal judicial appointee kicked off the bench?” he asked. “Catch him driving drunk dressed in drag. That’s my favorite. But get him in a bar fight, then find a body at his house, that’s not bad either. It looks like someone wants you to have one of the shortest judicial careers on record.” He was brought his salad. “I love Caesar salad; never had it with oysters before.

“Judge Boucher,” he said, “you got enemies. You’ve been on the bench less than a month and you got enemies. What the hell did you step in, son?”

“Twenty-year-old shit,” Boucher said. “I can’t believe the stink is still so strong. Sorry.”

“Doesn’t bother me. By the way, I looked into Dexter Jessup’s case file.”

“Anything interesting?”

“Maybe.”

“Come on, Detective. What’s your first name anyway? I buy a guy dinner, I should know his first name.”

“It’s Roscoe, but nobody calls me that, and that’s fine with me. Never did like it much.”

“So what should I call you?”

“Fitch. Just Fitch. How about you? I need to call you Judge?”

“If it’s just the two of us, I’d prefer Jock. If we’re in front of others—”

“It’s Judge. I understand.”

“So, what did you find?”

“It was a contact wound. Barrel of the gun was placed right to the back of his head. He had male pattern baldness. Back of his head looked like a bull’s-eye.”

Jock sat in silence. Fitch ate an oyster.

“He’d pulled off the road,” Fitch said. “Motor was still running when the body was found, so it was discovered not long after the shooting. There were contusions on the right knee, so I’m thinking he got out of his car, saw the guy with the gun and tried to get away, slipped, and struck his knee on loose stones on the shoulder.”

“Did he have a flat?”

“No, why?”

“Well, if the motor was running and he didn’t have a flat tire, I wonder why he pulled off the road.”

“Only answer I can come up with is that someone he knew flagged him down. He got out, saw the gun, and tried to run. Didn’t make it. Anyway, it’s all speculation. It was a half-assed investigation, partly because the crime scene was all fucked up.”

“How?”

“Guy who found the body. He pulled right behind the deceased’s vehicle, then flagged down others. Remember, not everybody had a cell phone in their pocket back then. Anyway, any chance of getting
tire tracks from the perp’s car was zero and any other clues were gone or compromised too. The scene had maybe half a dozen cars and people tramping around it before the first patrol car got there, so I’ll cut the guys a little slack.”

“So there was no evidence at the scene.”

“What I’m telling you came from our cold case files. The files just have paperwork and photos. Anyway, physical evidence? Forget it. Our property room was underwater after Katrina. No way anything that old would still be there. Now, if you will let me continue . . .” Fitch took a sip of wine, licking his lips.

“Like I said. Contact wound. Barrel against the bald spot at the back of his head. It left soot. Almost like a tattoo.”

Enjoying himself now, Fitch took a bite of romaine, then forked a thin sliver of Parmesan. Jock gritted his teeth.

“It was a .38 Special, gun was Smith and Wesson Model 10,” Fitch said.

“Without a bullet, how can you know the gun and the caliber?”

“The caliber can be reasonably estimated from an entry wound. There’s a measurable difference between a .22 and a .38. I know it’s a Smith and Wesson Model 10 because of the tattoo. I put the barrel of one against the photo of the wound; perfect fit. Also, it was a Model 10 made between 1961 and the early 1990s.”

“So we think the deceased knew the shooter, and we think the gun was a Model 10, one of which you just happened to have lying around. That’s not much to go on.”

“I’m not finished.”

Fitch was served his entrée, took two bites, then continued.

“The S and W Model 10 Military and Police or M and P revolver was revised in 1961, adding a heavy barrel with a ramped front sight. The Model 10 was used in police departments all over
the country, including New Orleans, until the early 1990s, when it was also phased out.”

“Wait a minute,” Boucher said. “A police car could have pulled him over. The weapon was a standard police-issue at the time. You know what you’re implying? The shooter might have been a policeman. That could have been a reason why the investigation went nowhere.”

“I’m going to finish this dinner before I say another word,” Fitch said.

Jock had no choice but to let the man eat. Fitch chewed the last bite and wiped his mouth with his napkin. He took several gulps from his glass of water.

“I don’t think it was a cop,” Fitch said. “It’s possible, but I don’t think so. Cop shoots a guy he pulled over, it’s because the guy presented an immediate danger, and the cop goes to some trouble to build a case of self-defense, justified response and all that. There was none of that here. Also, we’ve never had singles in patrol cars, they always partner up. Two cops in on a murder of a prominent lawyer? It’s a possibility, I guess, but not a very realistic one.”

“You say the gun and cartridge were used by law enforcement. That would include the FBI, wouldn’t it?”

“Of course. There’s even what they call an ‘FBI load’ to a .38 cartridge. Packs a bigger punch. There’s something else. Using the same procedure—which I’m not saying would stand up in court—the gun that killed Ruth Kalin . . . ?”

“A Model 10 using a .38 Special cartridge,” Jock said.

“Yeah,” Fitch said. “But there’s a lot of those guns and bullets around, and it wasn’t the same gun in both murders, just the same model. The gun the woman had in her hand was a throw-down. Serial number was filed off. Cops use them when they shoot someone
and need to claim self-defense. The bullet that killed her exited the right temple and went out through the open passenger-side window. We didn’t find it. We think she was shot somewhere else and driven in her car to your place. Blood and tissue were on the passenger seat, like she’d been pushed onto her right side. Shooter bent her over, squeezed in, and practically sat on her. Also, the driver’s seat was back as far as it could go. Her feet would have barely reached the pedals.”

“The gun being put in her left hand seems kind of amateurish to me,” Boucher said. “Especially with no gunshot residue on that hand.”

“In the heat of the moment, criminals often overlook the obvious. She was shot in the left temple because that was the side that was exposed. She had her windows down. Maybe she knew the killer, maybe he was asking her directions. He was on her left side. That was the side he got out of when he got to your place. It was easiest to reach down, grab her left hand, and put the gun in it.”

“It doesn’t make sense to me that he’d put the gun in the left hand of a right-handed person.”

“He wouldn’t necessarily have known she was right-handed. How about this as another consideration? There’s a common element in both murders. The victims, both of whom had plenty of reason to be cautious, let the shooter get close, like they knew him. From everything you’ve told me, there’s one person they both knew: their client, Bob Palmetto.”

“Palmetto the killer? No way. If you saw him, you’d know. He was dependent on Dexter Jessup. His lawyer was trying to save him and his company. And from what he told me, he never even knew Ruth Kalin.”

“Well, you can’t deny this: Lawyer Jessup gets shot. Palmetto disappears. Lady lawyer disappears for twenty years, then she and
Palmetto surface at the same time. Lady lawyer gets shot, and now, where the hell is Palmetto? Maybe there was a crooked judge in the middle of all this—wouldn’t be the first time—but you seem a little eager to fling mud at a judicial colleague, and a little overprotective of this guy Palmetto.”

“And you’ve implied a police cover-up,” Jock said. “That might say something about how you and I view our own professions. Anyway, I reject your theory about Palmetto.” As he said this, he was wondering if his releasing the man had not been a mistake.

“If he were around, I’d sure have a bunch of questions for him,” Fitch said.

“Such as?”

“Well, I’d want proof that he wasn’t the one stealing ideas like that lawsuit claimed. And I’d sure want to check out his connection with Ruth Kalin.”

The doubt in Boucher’s mind flashed. The connection between her and Palmetto. There was something else—they had both sought him out in a short space of time, and they had both been to his house. Fitch was right. He and Fitch both had a lot to ask Palmetto—and Judge Jock Boucher had let him go.

“One more question,” Fitch said.

“Yes?”

“What’s for dessert?”

It didn’t take long.

Next morning there was a note waiting for him on his desk:
See me now.
It was signed by Judge Wundt. Boucher could almost hear the words spoken, and thought,
Here I am, as close to the top of the ladder of life as one could hope to get, and I’m still taking orders.
It rankled,
and his furor only festered more when he arrived at the chief judge’s chambers and was made to wait for almost fifteen minutes. He was boiling over when finally admitted. Judge Wundt did not get up to greet him, did not offer a handshake.