by David Lyons
With the victim immobilized by the knockout spray, the easiest thing to do would have been to squeeze the nostrils while keeping the mouth closed. This method he’d employed successfully a number of times but didn’t want to use on this job because there was the slightest chance the police might assume a pattern and investigate more thoroughly. Quillen preferred avoiding any inference of a crime even having been committed. Also, suffocation was boring. This situation offered the opportunity for a little creativity.
He looked down at the unconscious figure, then unbuttoned the top three buttons of his pajama top, folding it over. He pulled out his second and final tool, a hypodermic needle. He removed the protective cap, reached down to the man’s armpit, and plunged the needle in. Underarm hair would hide any sign of skin puncture. He pressed the plunger and injected sodium nitroprusside—from his own prescription, from his own doctor, to treat his own hypertension. The concentrated mixture he’d formulated flowed into the body. In this case, combined with drugs Epson had doubtless been given after his heart attack, it would bring death—and controversy. Fingers would be pointed, but not in Quillen’s direction. He replaced the cap on the used needle, put it back in his pocket, and returned the way he had come. Half an hour later, he was home and preparing for bed. There was only one drawback to the timing of this particular kill: it would not make the morning paper. Matt Quillen liked the image of bad news on the doorstep. Maybe next time.
CHAPTER 6
RADIO AND TV STATIONS interrupted their regular morning programming with the news.
“Federal District Judge Roy Epson died in his sleep this morning. He had just been released from the hospital yesterday. Questions are already being asked about whether his medical team erred in releasing him so soon after his heart attack.”
The flag above the Federal Building was at half staff. Boucher ran into two other judges in their private elevator. One was well informed.
“He had an overdose of antihypertension drugs in his system. Drove his blood pressure down like a rock dropped from a cliff. I hope his cardiologist has a good malpractice carrier.”
“Does he have family?” Boucher asked.
“No children. Four ex-wives. Five divorces. You figure the math on that one.”
“He married and divorced the same one twice?”
“Bingo. I only met two of the ladies, but I bet each one is having a meeting with her attorney as we speak. Judge Epson’s married life was an annuity for divorce lawyers. Seriously, Jock, Epson’s death is going to mean a lot of work for you. We’re all drowning.”
“I know. I just hope I’m up to it.”
“Hell,” the other judge said, “just do what I do, which is just what my law clerk tells me to do. There’s a reason we hire the top of the class. They know more than I can possibly remember.”
If you had a complaint about a sitting judge, and if you had the nerve, you went with your complaint to the chief judge of the district. There complaints lived or died. At the end of the day, Boucher called on the chambers of Chief District Judge Arnold Wundt.
“Jock Boucher, this is a pleasant surprise.” Judge Wundt walked across his office and greeted him. “Come right in. You know, I was planning to give you a call.”
Arnold Wundt had been on the bench for thirty years and had decided to retire. For more than a year he’d taken on no new assignments. His office oversaw the administration of the district’s judicial affairs. How much the senior judge was involved personally in these matters and how much he delegated was known only within the office that Jock Boucher now entered. He looked around. You only had to switch the photos and diplomas and it could have been the office of any judge on the bench, including his own. The men did little to personalize their working quarters. At least the women jurists had flowers brought in. The two men exchanged handshakes. It being after six and with all but one of Judge Wundt’s staff having gone for the day, a drink was offered. It was against his routine but Boucher accepted. A glass on the judge’s desk indicated His Honor was already a step or two along the path. If the cut-crystal decanter that the judge pulled from his desk was any indication of the quality of the liquor contained within, Boucher was being offered some high-class hooch straight up, no ice.
“Hope you drink bourbon. I understand you’re a boy from the bayou.”
“My grandpappy made the best moonshine whiskey in the parish, I’ve been told,” Boucher said. He raised his glass.
Judge Wundt returned to his chair behind the desk, dropping his huge frame rather than lowering it. “It’s a shame about Roy.”
“Roy?”
“Judge Epson. It came as a shock and a surprise. Shit, if anyone around here should be dead of a heart attack, it’s me.”
That statement was hard to argue. Wundt was overweight and his face was mottled from alcohol. He took short, shallow breaths, maybe one in ten a deep one to compensate for inadequate oxygen intake. Boucher debated bringing up the subject he’d come to discuss. This man had one foot on the banana peel.
“Something on your mind,” Wundt said. It wasn’t a question.
Boucher studied the dark amber liquid in his glass, rolled it around, held it up to the light. “Not sure I should. I didn’t know you and Epson were close.”
“Who the hell said we were close? I knew his first name. We worked in the same building almost thirty years, doing more or less the same thing. We’d speak in the elevator and we’d see each other at functions. Oh, we’d help each other out with a case now and then, always with an eye out for the quid pro quo, if you know what I mean, but close? Judges don’t get close, not with each other, not with anyone, if they’re smart. You’ll see soon enough. Anyway, you came here for a reason. Nobody comes to me without a reason. I’m listening.” The judge put his elbow on the armrest of his chair and rested his jaw on his fist, staring at the man before him as he’d stared down lawyers and litigants for decades.
Boucher swallowed the remaining bourbon in his glass, letting it burn its way down his throat. “A long time ago, Roy Epson did something he shouldn’t have,” he said. “I was told about it. I met with an FBI agent I know who confirmed it.”
“What’d he do?”
“He took a bribe.”
“That’s all?”
“He might have murdered someone.”
“Any proof of that?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“Then don’t repeat it. You know better than that.”
Wundt stood up, took the decanter, and poured one more shot each. He leaned against his desk and said:
“We all fuck up. Good intentions, bad intentions, it doesn’t matter, sooner or later we all fuck up. Thing is”—now he swirled the liquor in his glass and looked down into it—“we can’t afford to let the world know when we do. I’m not talking about judicial decisions, I’m talking about a judge stabbing somebody in a bar, driving drunk in drag, beating his wife and breaking almost every bone in her face. Someone has to do what we do, and sometimes behind decent legal minds lurks every personality disorder imaginable. It’s like flagpole-sitting. We’re perched up there, no real human contact, with everyone staring at us from below, wondering if we’ll fall—or jump. Some of us snap.”
“Are you saying Roy Epson snapped?” Boucher asked. “Seems to me he accepted bribes. Maybe worse. Why was there no follow-up?”
Wundt studied the carpet. “The FBI looked into it and gave their findings to Judge Epson. Why? Maybe they found no proof of any of the allegations. Maybe they wanted something to hold over him. Maybe they realized what a can of worms could be opened by charges of a jurist unfit for his job. Such a claim might have called into question the finality of every judgment he ever made and open a floodgate of motions to relitigate. Who knows? Anyway, he’s dead. Soon he’ll be buried. Let him rest in peace. Let it go, Jock.”
Boucher stood up. “I’ll try,” he said.
Judge Wundt watched him leave, shaking his head.
CHAPTER 7
ATEPID, FLAT SOFT DRINK and half a stale tuna sandwich on his desk were unappetizing reminders that he was starving. Fatigue could no longer be ignored either. Boucher dismissed those who had soldiered on with him after normal working hours, and took the elevator to the basement and his pickup and headed home.
The local radio news station was still reporting on Judge Epson’s death, but added little more to the elevator account he’d gotten that morning. The two shots of bourbon had made him sleepy. He was almost too tired to be driving and fought to keep from weaving into the next lane, raising his chin, stretching his jaw muscles with a mighty yawn. He drove just under the speed limit. Traffic was not heavy. He noticed, then focused on a pair of headlights in his rearview mirror. After ten minutes there was no doubt, he was being followed. Palmetto was back. Well, it would be interesting to hear what he thought of Judge Epson’s death, and a caffeinated drink, hot or cold, was what he needed at this point. He pulled into a convenience store. Palmetto followed and pulled up right beside him. Only it wasn’t Palmetto.
A woman in her mid- to late forties got out of her car. She walked to the hood of her vehicle, standing between him and the entrance to the store.
“Judge Boucher, my name is Ruth Kalin. God, I haven’t spoken that name in twenty years.”
He approached her, holding out his hand. She took it with a firm grip.
“I’m very pleased to meet you,” he said.
“You know me?”
“Bob Palmetto mentioned your name.”
She looked around nervously, a habit ingrained over two decades. “Could we go someplace and talk?”
She was wearing a jogging suit and sneakers. It gave him an idea.
“I’ve just joined a new gym. No one knows me there.” He gave her directions and they left in their separate vehicles.
Twenty minutes later he pulled into a strip mall. There were few cars out front. He nosed into a parking space and she pulled in next to him. They entered the gym and headed to a far corner and the juice bar.
The judge ordered a couple of Cokes. They sat down and two cold cans were set on the table, then they were left alone.
“Excuse me,” Boucher said. He popped open his drink and took a big swallow. “It’s been a long day.”
He studied her, comparing the actual person to the image he had formed. He had pictured a young, idealistic woman in her twenties. Even allowing for the passage of two decades, the mental image he’d formed of her was more flattering than the reality. Not that there was anything wrong with the woman sitting across from him, not at all, but she looked older than he would have imagined. Then he realized. It was not aging, it was not the loss of youth. It was the theft of what was once a part of this person, something no cosmetic surgery could restore. Gone were her hopes and dreams. But aside from the dry skin and worry lines around the eyes and mouth, the woman looked healthy, even fit. Her complexion was Mediterranean, somewhere between Italian and Middle Eastern; her black hair, with patches of gray, was short and curly. She was slim, but any hint of a figure was disguised by her attire. She wore no jewelry, not even a watch.
“I have to assume you learned of Mr. Palmetto’s appearance before me,” Boucher said. “I understood you two hadn’t spoken to each other in over twenty years.”
“We didn’t even speak back then,” she said. “I never met the man; knew him only by name and description. Neither of us appeared for that court hearing after Dexter was murdered. When I heard Judge Epson had died, I called the district court and found out you had taken over his docket and that Palmetto had been brought to you on an old warrant. I haven’t practiced law in twenty years, but I still know how to get information out of a court. I knew that Palmetto’s appearance wasn’t a fluke and figured he had turned himself in to you. If he thought he could trust you, maybe I can too. Did he mention me on the record?” she asked.
“No. We spoke briefly after I released him, then again . . . later.”
“What did he say about me?”
“Like you said, that you were to meet him at court all those years ago. Dexter Jessup was shot and you disappeared. He was afraid you might have met the same fate as Dexter.”
“I would have.”
“I have a hard time believing that.”
It was like sticking a pin in a balloon. She seemed to collapse right in front of him and her olive skin paled. He placed his hand on her arm.
“I didn’t say I don’t believe you,” he said. “I’m hearing things lately that I’m having a hard time accepting.”
“Maybe I should go,” she said.
“Please don’t.”
Now she studied him. “Twenty years.” She sighed, then stared into his eyes. “When I heard Judge Epson was dead, everything came rushing back like it was yesterday. The life I had was destroyed because of the crimes of arrogant, dangerous men. I’m trusting you,” she said, “and I don’t know why. Because Bob Palmetto did? Like I said, I never even met the man.” His hand still rested on her left arm. She placed her right hand on his, continuing to stare into his eyes, unblinking.
“I’m putting my life in your hands. I think Judge Epson killed Dexter Jessup. I can’t prove it, but Dexter was shot by someone he knew, somebody he let get close to him. Judge Epson knew Dexter was going to the FBI. They told him. You guys in that Federal Building are one big fucking cabal.” She looked down and removed her hand from his. “Sorry, but it’s true.”
“Why would anyone want to kill you?”
“You know the answer to that. Dexter had evidence of crimes committed by a federal judge: that the judge accepted bribes from John Perry. Before he could present this evidence, he was killed. I worked for Dexter Jessup. Please, Judge Boucher; you’re an intelligent man.”
“This has nothing to do with intelligence. You’re telling me a federal judge is a killer, you have no proof, and you waited twenty years till he was dead to speak up about it.” Boucher pulled a five-dollar bill from his money clip to pay for their Cokes. “Come on, let’s go.” They exited and stood outside. People were walking past them.
“Get in my truck for a minute,” Boucher said. When they were seated in his truck, he spoke with a husky whisper. “Judge Epson is dead. The matter is closed.”
“How did he die?” Ruth asked. “Was there anything peculiar about his death?”
Boucher said nothing. He had thought something about Epson’s death was odd. He had met the late judge’s doctor. The doctor had denied him access out of concern for his patient. It didn’t follow that the same doctor would be careless about releasing Epson from the hospital prematurely.
“They said Dexter’s assistant, Marcia Whitcomb, died of natural causes,” Ruth said. “She was twenty-eight and in perfect health. Something similar will be said about Judge Epson’s death, just wait.”
“He had a heart attack. He didn’t fake that.” But Boucher wasn’t even convincing himself.
“Let me ask you something, Judge. If I knew you met with Palmetto, how many others know?”
“Judge Epson knew. It was his case. You found out because it’s now a matter of public record.”
Ruth’s eyes bored into his. “Judge Epson was killed because what he did all those years ago has come back to haunt someone who still has a lot to lose—John Perry. If you can’t see that, you’re in the wrong profession. What’s worse, you’re in the wrong place at the wrong time. Judge Boucher, you’re in danger. Believe me, twenty years ago I was right where you are now. You must protect yourself. You wouldn’t be the first federal judge to be murdered. You wouldn’t even be the first this week.” She opened the passenger door.
“Wait,” Boucher said. “I need to know more about this. Would you, uh, like a drink?”
“I don’t drink,” Ruth said, “but you can buy me dinner if you know a place where I can get in dressed like this.”
“Do you like fried chicken?”
“I do.”
He knew just the place. He led the way, R
uth following in her own car.
What had started as a lunch counter in the 1940s had become an institution over the decades, its specialty New Orleans–style fried chicken. Run by an octogenarian who kept her Cajun recipe a secret even from her own family, it had been discovered and praised by some of the country’s greatest chefs. The place was crowded when they arrived, and soon they were lost in the anonymity of the hungry throng. Judge Boucher spoke as they waited for their table. He pointed to a wizened old woman scurrying about.
“That’s the owner,” he said. “This place was destroyed by Katrina and she was relocated to live with her family in Kansas. One day she just left without telling them, flew back to New Orleans. She was found sitting on the doorstep of her destroyed restaurant. The police thought she was just another homeless person. They found out she was a celebrity. Folks got together, raised money, rebuilt the restaurant. It’s another example of the resiliency of the spirit of New Orleans.”