CHAPTER FIVE

The team always had a great relationship with the coroner’s office, but they also recognized that most of the cases they worked weren’t related to someone famous. Butch Cavet was a professional athlete, and the whole country was waiting to hear if he had really committed suicide or not.

“Pierre, it’s nice to see you, brother,” said Dr. Thibodeaux. Felix Thibodeaux was a homegrown boy. He’d gone to high school in New Orleans, college at UNO and Tulane, and had been with the coroner’s office for almost twenty years now.

“Felix, how are things? How’s your mama?”

“Good man, always good. She’s retired and involved with all the church ladies,” he laughed.

“I know that’s right,” smirked Miller.

“You said you wanted to see me about Butch Cavet.”

“We’ve been asked by one of his teammates to look into this. He doesn’t believe that he committed suicide.”

“There seems to be a lot of speculation about how he really died,” nodded Felix. “This one has me stumped, Pierre. I’m not usually stumped. If I were a different man, I’d stamp suicide on the death certificate. But I’m not that man. It’s too easy. Too simple. The marks on his wrists are clear, cut at the right angles, all of it. But there was nothing found near him.

“How would a man slit his own wrists, get up and put away the razor blade or knife without dripping any blood, and leaving no evidence? I’ve never seen that trick in all my years.”

“It does seem too easy,” frowned Miller.

“What about his brain health?” asked Wilson. “Any signs of CTE?”

“Man, that’s the sadness in all of this. His brain was riddled with scar tissue. They claimed he had four or five concussions,” he said, shaking his head. “More like eight to ten. He had to have been suffering from headaches, mood swings, possibly even mild psychotic episodes.”

“Shit,” muttered Wilson.

“That ain’t all, brother. That man has had his throwing shoulder dislocated twice, three ribs broken, four broken fingers, a fractured ankle…”

“Wait,” frowned Miller. “We read the reports on him and only the fingers and ribs were in the medical on him.”

“That’s right,” nodded Felix. “They didn’t tell anyone. It was all hidden.”

“Jesus, who knew football was so fucking cutthroat. I guess we knew. I mean, I remember my high school coach asking me to suck it up and play through the pain. Mama gave him hell for that.”

“I’ve done a bit of research on CTE, Felix. Can you give us any further insight into this?” asked Wilson.

“Yeah, let’s go get a coffee,” he said, covering Butch’s body. “He ain’t going anywhere.”

Locking the body in the cooler once again, he told his assistant not to allow anyone near the body until he returned. They were well aware of the hype around this case and weren’t about to make any mistakes.

Although it was cool outside, the sun was out, and the three men grabbed coffee and took a seat at one of the wrought iron tables.

“So, CTE,” said Felix. “Chronic Traumatic Encephalopathy, or CTE, is a progressive degenerative disease, as you all are aware. It affects people who have suffered repeated concussions and traumatic brain injuries. You’ve seen it in those that were hit or affected during the military. The more common occurrences are in athletes who have repetitive head injuries.”

“Wasn’t there a book or movie about this?” asked Miller.

“There was. In fact, that doctor helped to change the way the game treated concussions. Or at least that’s what we thought. He was a coroner, just like me, but he was seeing this more and more in the brain during autopsy. He’s my personal hero,” smirked the man.

“Anyway, the causes of it can be repeated head injuries, especially in contact sports like football, boxing, and hockey, military service, or even domestic violencewhere the victim is hit in the head repeatedly.”

“Would he have been angry a lot? What kinds of signs would he have shown?” asked Wilson.

“Cognitive problems are the most common, such as memory loss, confusion, difficulty concentrating, and mood changes such as depression, anxiety, and aggression. All of those things should have been recognized by the medical staff. The ones that his teammates spoke of were his behavioral problems, such as being impulsive and irritable. He might not have been sleeping well, either. His coach mentioned that he was slower than usual, not releasing the ball as quickly. That could be related to motor problems, such as tremors and difficulty with balance.”

“There’s no doubt that he suffered from this?” asked Miller.

“None. We’re still doing some studies, tissue samples, all of that, but that man should not have been playing football.”

“If he were diagnosed, or at least spoken to about the possibility, what was the treatment for this?” asked Miller.

“There is none. His career would have been over, and his life would have been very different. Some therapies and medications can lessen the effects of the symptoms, but there is no cure. If he was diagnosed, or there was a suspected diagnosis, and the team covered up for financial reasons, well, that’s your wheelhouse.”

“Shit,” muttered Wilson. “It looks like they covered up a lot with this guy, but was it so much that they would try to make it look like he committed suicide?”

“We’re talking millions of dollars owed to him. Millions,” said Felix. “His life expectancy would change, not to mention all the injuries that were covered up by the team.”

“Damn, I really hate this,” said Wilson. “It’s not like this guy was seventy. He was still young.”

“I understand he has a daughter in Arizona,” said Felix. “My suggestion would be to get someone to speak with her. Ask if his moods had been different, anything strange in his behavior.”

“Thanks, Felix. You’re always the best,” said Miller.

“Tell your Mama I want a coconut cake for this one,” he grinned.

“Done,” laughed Miller. He and Wilson walked away from their friend, weaving through the holiday crowds on the street. Wilson gripped Miller’s arm and pointed up to a billboard.

Memorial Service for our beloved longtime QB – Butch Cavet – Saturday 1:00 p.m. at Fire Stadium.

“Somebody’s trying to send a message to the public,” frowned Wilson.

“We’ll get to them. First, I want to know about the daughter.”