Blood Game: A Jock Boucher Thriller

by David Lyons

  “You will remain a judge of the Eastern District of New Orleans, but you will not try cases until you are told otherwise. You will handle any administrative task that any other judge in your district decides to give you, and they’re going to pile it on. I also want you to see if you can help that poor judge who was swamped with all the oil-spill litigation. I understand most of the lawsuits have been settled, but if there are any complaints, I want them going to you. It’s a no-win situation for you, Jock. The poor people affected by that tragedy are going to hate the process for going too slow or for not giving them enough money. But because a federal judge who has no connection to the offshore energy industry is involved, the people will know the matter is being taken seriously. Have I made myself clear?”

  “We had a judge impeached in our district. He was given a similar penance while his proceeding went forward.”

  “You’re not being impeached, at least not yet. This assignment was at the advice of your chief district judge. He’ll oversee your work. I’m at arm’s length here.”

  Jock said nothing.

  “Look,” the president said, “I couldn’t fill your slot if you left now. There’s been a death and an impeachment in your district. One of your judges has had no time for anything but oil-spill litigation. Help me out here, Jock. When the political landscape shifts and I can get an appointment approved, you can go back to full duties, or you can quit. Do you agree to my terms?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The president looked at his watch. “Then we’re done here. I’ve got family duties. There’s someone waiting outside to show you to your sleeping quarters. You scared of ghosts?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You’re sleeping in the Lincoln Bedroom tonight. I figure that’s a good place for you to think about the duty you owe to your country. Don’t worry, there haven’t been any sightings in forty years.”

  “Maybe I’ll get lucky,” Boucher said.

  The president shook his hand, looking deep into his eyes. “Yes,” he said, “I’m hoping you will.”

  • • •

  Boucher called his girlfriend, Malika, on her cell. She answered after the first ring.

  “Well, I’ve had a few dates cancel with fancy excuses,” she said, “but dumping me in Mexico for a meeting with the President of the United States, that’s a first. Where are you?”

  “I’m in the White House,” Boucher answered. “Specifically, I’m in the Lincoln Bedroom, where I’ll be spending the night.”

  “Isn’t that where they see his ghost?”

  “No. This room was Lincoln’s study and his cabinet room. It’s where he signed the Emancipation Proclamation. I’m getting goose bumps just thinking about it. When President Truman moved Lincoln’s bed in here, they started calling it the Lincoln Bedroom. I’m sitting on the bed right now. It’s huge: eight feet long and six feet wide.”

  “Wow. I can’t imagine Lincoln’s spirit isn’t hanging around that. There can’t be too many beds that size in heaven.”

  “You’re trying to scare me, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, I am. Just because your country’s leader calls, you think that’s sufficient reason to leave me stranded in Puerto Vallarta all alone with the sound of the gentle surf and the soft strumming of guitars . . .”

  “I’d be on the next plane if I could.”

  “I know. What did the president want? Are you going to be shot at dawn for leaving the bench?”

  “I have a mission. I’ll be going back to New Orleans in the morning. Maybe it would be a good idea if you got a flight out tomorrow and met me there.”

  “Juan, could I have another margarita?” Malika was holding the phone away from her face, teasing him. At least he hoped she was teasing him.

  “Malika, look. I’m sorry.”

  “I know you are, Jock. It’s not your fault. Your country needs you, and I need a vacation. I was hoping we’d have a chance to talk about our relationship and where it’s going, but I guess affairs of state trump affairs of the heart. Don’t worry about me. I’m going to stay till the end of the week, then I’ll be back in New York. Call me when you can.”

  “I will.”

  He heard music in the background. Damn those guitars.

  • • •

  Jock Boucher was a collector of antiques, and for someone with this particular passion, the Lincoln Bedroom was nirvana. He used his cell phone to surf the Web and educate himself about the famous collection. First the bed itself: Mary Todd Lincoln bought it in 1861, along with a suite of bedroom furniture. Originally, it was placed in what then was called the Prince of Wales Room. There was no evidence that Lincoln ever slept in it, but his son Willie probably died in it in 1862, at eleven years of age. It was moved around over the years, and there was no doubt that several subsequent presidents slept in the bed.

  Pieces whose use by Lincoln was documented included four Gothic Revival walnut side chairs—the only ones remaining that had been used at Lincoln’s cabinet table; a French portico mantel clock purchased in 1833 by President Andrew Jackson; and a slant-front desk transferred from the Soldier’s Home—Lincoln’s summer residence—and on which he was known to have worked on drafts of the Emancipation Proclamation. A complete restoration of the room was completed under the guidance of First Lady Laura Bush in 2005. Boucher stared in awe, hardly daring to run his hands over the items that had witnessed one of the most meaningful acts in the history of America—especially to his forebears.

  But it had been a long and draining day, and he was tired. When Boucher pulled down the sheets and climbed into Lincoln’s bed, he thought of the mind-numbing boredom that faced him with his new job description. It put him right to sleep.

  CHAPTER 2

  NEXT MORNING, JOCK WAS brought breakfast and informed that a car was waiting to take him to the airport. He was to make his own way home. Waiting for his flight at Dulles airport, he bought a newspaper and mused over a small article stuck in the back pages. In a Mexican village not far from the border, thirty-nine bodies had been found dismembered and decapitated. There was a time when such a heinous crime would have been international front-page news, but no longer, so callous and accepting had people become to cartel murders. Even the president had asked if Jock had seen any violence from his vantage point at an idyllic resort on the Pacific coast. He discarded the paper and shopped for another necessary purchase, a pair of socks. His loafer-clad feet were freezing.

  It was late afternoon when he arrived at Louis Armstrong New Orleans International Airport and hailed a cab home. An antebellum house in the French Quarter, Jock’s home was his castle, and as he walked the steps to his porch and front door, it felt good to be the king. He’d certainly been knocked off his throne yesterday. As he unlocked the door, he thought again about the responsibilities the president had given him. He decided the punishment fit the crime, then opened his door and forgot about the challenges ahead, focusing his thoughts on where in the Quarter he would have dinner. It was good to be back.

  A shower, a nap and change of clothes, a bourbon with bitters, and Jock was ready for his evening meal. The night air was cooled by the breeze blowing off the river, but his sport coat was enough protection from the elements. He walked from his house on Chartres Street, a couple of blocks, then right on Dumaine toward Bourbon. Mardi Gras was over, and though there was still plenty of pedestrian traffic, the annual crush with all its chaos and color was gone. With no specific destination in mind, he knew something would speak to him, and the accent was Cajun. He called the game restaurant roulette, and the odds were in his favor. It was impossible to lose when his love of the French Quarter and its restaurants was so absolute and consuming. As he walked, he admired the eighteenth-century facades, looking up at the decorative hand-wrought iron filigree on the narrow second-floor balconies of the Creole town houses. The larger of these extended farther out from the building. These were add-ons built in the 1850s, called galleries. They were supported by columns cast fr
om molds in local foundries. He was gazing up at a second-floor gallery when he bumped into a fellow pedestrian and began to beg pardon, though the collision had not been his fault. The man blocked his path.

  “Keys, wallet, cell phone, credit cards. Quick,” the man said.

  “What?” Boucher was stunned. He was on one of the most public streets in the Quarter, only blocks from his house, his neighborhood, in the early evening. His reaction was visceral, primal, and territorial. But not a muscle in his face twitched.

  “I gotta spell it out for ya?” the gunman said.

  Boucher froze; the barrel of a pistol a foot and a half from his gut. The man wore a hoodie pulled well over his head. The face was hidden, but a pair of eyes glared out, the whites opaque, almost yellow. High on something. His right hand held the gun. It shook. From the left hand, palm up, fingers fluttered like feathers in a breeze; the classic “gimmee, gimmee” motion. Boucher slowly raised his hands to his chest.

  “What’re you doin’?”

  “My wallet. It’s in my jacket pocket.”

  Boucher was wearing one of his two-button patch-pocket blazers. Making sure his eyes engaged those of the robber, he grabbed his lapel with his right hand, slowly pulling the garment from his body; he slid his left hand inside to retrieve the billfold. It was a ruse. His intention was to get his arms above those of his assailant. Boucher had spent most of his military career as a member of the All-Army Boxing Team and had added to his martial arts skills over the years. He was fast, and now he was angry. Anger added an edge. As he continued to stare into the man’s eyes, his motions were a blur. His left hand, fingers extended as if preparing a salute, chopped down on the assailant’s right wrist with enough force to shatter bone. The right hand pulling the blazer lapel was already formed into a fist and a short distance from the gunman’s head, too short for a hook but enough for a jab. Elbow next to his body, Boucher extended his right arm straight out, rotating his fist, turning the thumb inward as he dropped his chin. He stepped forward with his right foot, connecting with his target at the same moment his right toe struck the ground, magnifying the force of contact. Caught on the chin, the man’s head snapped to his right with enough force to break his neck. The pistol clattered to the sidewalk. Boucher crouched, ready for another swing, but it was unnecessary. The man fell back onto the sidewalk like a toppled tower, his head hitting the cement. It sounded like an egg thrown on the pavement.

  Boucher pulled the silk kerchief from his breast pocket, draped it over the pistol, picked it up, and stuck it in his belt. Though not an expert in firearms, he knew that this was a lot of weapon for a common street criminal. He bent over the unconscious man and pulled back the hood for a look at his face. Blood oozed from the assailant’s left ear, dripping down to form a scarlet pool on the sidewalk.

  Boucher stood up. “Everything’s fine,” he said to those within earshot who had stopped to watch the street drama as if it were no more than a page of flash fiction played out for their amusement. The attempted robbery and takedown had happened so fast that those over twenty feet from him hadn’t known what was happening. He pulled his cell phone from his sport coat and dialed 911.

  “I need an ambulance. Now!” he hollered into the device.

  “Let the bastard die.” A man had walked up and was standing next to Boucher, who ignored him.

  “A man is injured,” he reported, giving the address, then answering the expected questions. “It was an attempted armed robbery. I knocked him out. I think he’s seriously hurt. My name? Jock Boucher. Federal District Judge Jock Boucher. I’ll wait right here, but hurry.” He hung up.

  “Guys like him are ruining the Quarter for the rest of us,” the spectator said. “I think you did a good thing.”

  Jock Boucher didn’t share that opinion. He’d already killed in self-defense. It was not something he wanted to repeat. Ever.

  He bullied his way into the ambulance and accompanied the injured man to the Interim LSU Public Hospital on Perdido Street, then paced back and forth outside emergency while the man underwent treatment. When a doctor finally came out, Boucher stopped him in the hall. “How is he?”

  “You family?”

  “I put him there. He tried to rob me at gunpoint. I hit him. I’m Judge Jock Boucher.” He offered a hand in greeting, which the doctor refused with a frown. Handshakes were discouraged during the course of intensive procedures.

  “Go wait where you’re supposed to. I’ll keep you informed.”

  Boucher found a chair within sight of the emergency room, and whether it was an approved waiting area or not, he sat. No one bothered him. Well over an hour later, the doctor came out, saw him sitting there, and walked over.

  “He has expired,” the doctor said. His selection from the number of words available to convey the passing of a human being was his only concession to compassion. Death was commonplace here, its description blunt as a matter of course.

  “My God, I killed him.”

  “Not unless you punched him in the kidneys. He died of acute renal failure, the result of a long history of drug and alcohol abuse. You knocked him unconscious, but that was not life-threatening. You ever do any boxing? You must have quite a haymaker.”

  Boucher turned and walked away.

  • • •

  “I see you’re back in town.”

  It was Saturday morning. Boucher had hoped to sleep late. The jarring phone ring ended that plan. The speaker was Fitch—just Fitch—a detective with the New Orleans Police Department and his best friend.

  “I’m looking at the Times-Picayune, page one, above the fold,” Fitch said, then sighed. “They’ve cut back on the number of editions they print. I guess I’m going to have to read about your exploits in their online edition.”

  “Shit.” Boucher rubbed his eyes with his free hand. “What does it say?”

  “You disarmed a gunman who tried to hold you up on one of the busiest streets in the Quarter at seven p.m. on a Friday evening. We’ve had a dozen calls already.”

  “What?”

  “Verdict’s still out, Your Honor, on whether you’re a hero or a villain. Businesses say the attention is scaring the tourists. Others wish you’d shot the bastard with his own gun. Here in the department, we’re concerned that your act is going to encourage copycat vigilantes. Not everyone has your martial arts experience. You should have let him have what he wanted. You can always cancel credit cards and change your locks.”

  “I wasn’t thinking. I was out enjoying an evening walk just a few blocks from my home. I reacted instinctively.”

  “I’m not criticizing you,” Fitch said. “Probably would have done the same thing myself in your position—if I was your age and had your expertise. Understand you went in the ambulance and sat with the guy most of the night.”

  “He died. You have anything on him? He had ID, but it was fake.”

  “Wasn’t fake; just wasn’t his. He’d hit a guy earlier. Probably spent the cash to score some crack, was coming down from his high when he took you on. He might have done that over and over all night long. You ruined his evening.”

  “I ruined more than his evening,” Boucher said. “He altered my plans a bit too. You know who he is—or was? How old was he? He looked in his mid-thirties.”

  “He was twenty-five. The street life ages one fast. Record as long as my arm. Habitual.”

  “He has no habits now. Look, Fitch, I’ll talk to you later, okay?” Boucher was about to hang up, but he heard Fitch holler at him.

  “Don’t you dare hang up on me. You there?”

  “I’m here.”

  “I’ve got to work today, but I’m off tomorrow. I’m going to pick you up at five a.m. Got that?”

  “What the hell are we going to do at five in the morning?”

  “We’re going fishing. Today I suggest you go for a walk in the Quarter, make up for that dinner you missed last night, and try to get whatever guilt you’re feeling out of your system. You’re moping over
this already. I know you. Sometimes you liberal bleeding hearts need a right-wing boot up your butt. This man was an irredeemable recidivist. Now he’s off the street. I’m not going to have you feeling guilty about the loss of one dirtbag. Tomorrow we’re going out in the gulf, catch some fish, and do some talking, man to man. You got that?”

  “I’m not a bleeding-heart liberal,” Boucher said, “and it’s too cold to go fishing.”

  “The chill will help keep your mind off self-pity too. Dress warm. See you in the a.m.” Detective Fitch hung up.

  • • •

  Walking and dining in the French Quarter always lifted Boucher’s spirits, but not today. His brooding concern for the man whose life had met with a violent end did not mix with the savory sachets of Cajun cuisine. His mood was such that the chef came out and inquired whether there was a problem with the food. Realizing he was ruining the evening for those around him, Boucher returned home and went to bed early, not at all looking forward to the Sunday plans Fitch had made.

  CHAPTER 3

  BOUCHER WOKE SECONDS BEFORE his alarm sounded and turned it off, glad to have avoided the annoying buzz. He got up and had already completed a comprehensive inner monologue of invectives before reaching the bathroom. Fishing, he cursed. It was still cold, even though there had been a temporary warm spell. Why hadn’t he just said no? He could have done that. He was still a federal judge. By order of the president. His thoughts turned to audible grumbling as he showered, dressed, then fixed some coffee and toast. He heard Fitch pull into the driveway; he gulped his coffee, then grabbed his coat and walked out the back door, locking it behind him. Fitch waited in his car, an unwashed Ford Taurus missing a hubcap on the front wheel, passenger side.