near the drill mechanism.”
“Oil platform?” Zach said in surprise as a knot formed in his stomach. “He was on an oil rig? What was he doing there?”
Duff’s gray brows rose. “You don’t know? Have you not talked to Tristan in all these years?”
Zach shrugged, embarrassed. “Not really. We didn’t talk to anybody after we moved. You know, with Zoe being involved in the accident.”
Duff grimaced briefly as he nodded.
“Nothing more than an email at Christmas. A comment on Facebook. You know.”
“His dad was killed on a rig about two months before Tristan’s high school graduation, so he dropped out and went to work on the oil rig to help his mother.”
“But he was going to LSU. He was going to be a veterinarian. How could two months have made a difference?”
Duff nodded grimly. “I talked to him, but he was determined. He saw it as a choice. Taking care of his family—he and Sandy were planning to get married right after graduation—or taking care of himself. He chose his family.”
“Right.” Zach’s throat closed up. He felt sad and angry. Tristan had given up his education and the opportunity for a great career so he could go to work right away. The thought made Zach feel sick as he thought of all Tristan had given up. And for what? To end up dead at the bottom of the Gulf of Mexico?
“Wait a minute, Duff. Tristan had lived on boats and docks and floating logs on the Mississippi River and on the Gulf his whole life. He was the strongest swimmer I’ve ever seen. He couldn’t have fallen overboard and drowned if he tried. What happened out there?”
“I wish I could tell you more but I can’t,” Duff said. “He went over with another guy, a roughneck. Maybe they were arguing or even fighting. Maybe they ran into each other in the dark.”
“You know as well as I do it’s never dark on an oil rig. What’d the autopsy say?”
Duff looked surprised. “The autopsy?”
Zach thought he’d hesitated for an instant. “The autopsy. Who did it?”
“I guess that would have been the ME, John Bookman. He’s the medical examiner for the parish and chief of emergency medicine at the Terrebonne Parish Hospital in Houma.”
“Okay. Houma is about twenty-five miles north of here, right?” Zach asked.
The priest nodded, then gestured with his head. “See Angel?”
Zach followed his gesture and saw Angel DuChaud, Tristan’s ne’er-do-well cousin, talking to a small wiry man. Again, he was surprised. Three years older than he and Tristan, Angel had been the stereotypical bad boy all their lives. But he cleaned up nicely. His hair was styled and his suit fit impeccably, and hid his tattoos.
“The man he’s talking to,” Duff said, “is the parish medical examiner.”
At that moment, Sandy turned around and took Zach’s arm. He smiled at her and patted her hand.
“It’s so good of you to come, Zach,” she said.
“You know nothing could keep me from being here,” he replied.
Duff took Sandy’s hand from Zach’s arm. “Sandy, walk with me over here. I want you to meet—”
Zach silently thanked Duff for distracting Sandy. He hadn’t expected the parish medical examiner to be at Tristan’s funeral, but he was grateful for the opportunity to ask him some questions. He walked toward Angel and, eventually, Tristan’s cousin saw him.
When Angel spotted him, he waved. Zach sketched a half wave in the air and walked over to where Angel and the ME stood. Angel made casual introductions.
“You’re the ME,” Zach said to Dr. John Bookman. “Call me Zach. I was Tristan’s best friend in school.”
“I’m sorry. Terrible thing that happened to Tristan,” the doctor said.
“Do you live here in Bonne Chance?”
“No,” the doctor answered, eyeing Zach narrowly. “I live in Houma. Didn’t Father Michael tell you that?”
Angel wandered away toward the DuChaud family crypt. Zach was glad. He didn’t want him to overhear his next question. “I want to ask you about Tristan DuChaud’s death.”
Bookman’s eyes shifted toward the casket, which was still sitting in front of the vault. But now the vault door was open. “I don’t discuss my work, certainly not at a funeral.”
“I understand. If I may...” Zach paused, wondering if what he was about to do was a mistake. After all, he was here not in his official capacity but just to mourn the death of his best friend and to show his respect for his widow. He decided it didn’t matter whether it was a mistake. He needed to do it, for Tristan.
The question of what his boss would say flitted into his mind but he chased it out again. He’d worry about that later, if it came up.
He leaned in, close to the doctor’s ear. “I’m with the National Security Agency.” That was true. “We’re investigating possible terrorist activity in the area.” That was sort of true but not really. They were picking up chatter in the area around New Orleans and Galveston.
He went on. “I need to know what the cause of death was for Tristan DuChaud. Was foul play involved in his death?”
Dr. Bookman’s eyes went wide, then narrowed again. He took a half step backward and studied Zach as if he were a slide under a microscope. After a moment, he asked quietly, “Did you say NSA? Shouldn’t you be talking to the Coast Guard? They’re in charge of the recovery.”
“I need this information, Dr. Bookman.”
Dr. Bookman fidgeted, obviously uncomfortable. “Do you have ID?”
Zach groaned but pulled his badge holder and ID out of his back pocket and handed it to the doctor and waited. The doctor discreetly glanced at it, looked at it again for a beat longer and then handed it back.
“You might want to meet me at the parish morgue after the service,” he said quietly.
“No,” Zach said. “I need to know now.” He looked over at the groundskeeper, who was standing behind the cart that held Tristan’s casket. “After the service could be too late.”
Bookman followed his gaze. “I’m not comfortable with this. We should talk in my office.”
Zach shook his head.
“Okay, but please remember that you are at the funeral of your best friend, and don’t create a scene.”
The medical examiner took a step away from the crowd. Zach followed him, his scalp burning at the doctor’s statement. Don’t create a scene.
“We don’t have a cause of death,” Bookman said.
“You what?”
“Lower your voice, Mr.—or is it Agent—Winter? You don’t want to upset Sandy.”
“Why don’t you?” Zach asked quietly, afraid he knew the answer.
“Because we don’t have a body.”
Zach stared at him, then darted a glance at the casket.
“That’s right. That casket contains no human remains.”
“Son of a—” Zach stopped himself and rubbed his face. “You didn’t recover the body?”
Bookman sighed. “I have remains.”
“I don’t understand,” Zach persisted.
Bookman looked across the crowd at Sandy. Zach followed his gaze. “It’s pretty simple. There’s not enough of Tristan DuChaud to put in a casket.”