October 2001 to June 2002

Third District DIU (Property)

This was the fourth district I’d been assigned to so far in my career.

I wasn’t exactly jazzed about property crimes, but it was a chance to get my hands into investigations—this time as a supervisor. Fifth District Captain Warren Riley understood the move and approved the transfer, probably relieved to pass me off to someone else. Thanks, Cap.

So off I went to supervise detectives dealing with the sexier side of law enforcement: burglaries, car break-ins, and auto thefts. Thrilling stuff, truly. Lt. Bobby Norton ran the show over there. Now, that guy—Bobby—was a full-blooded Chalmette original: funny as hell and sharp in a crisis. The kind of guy who could stop a suspect mid-chase with a joke and still have time to critique your report afterward.

The station was located where the Deutsches Haus sits now on Bayou St. John. Real scenic spot. Behind it was Special Operations Division and Traffic, also back there was EMS.  Picturesque.

The Third District had a bit of a country club feel back then. A lot of the officers were second-generation cops—sons and daughters of old-school NOPD. The pace was slow. Quieter than I was used to. The area was very large and covered Lakeview, Gentilly, West End, and a slice of Mid-City, which meant your average emergency was more likely to involve someone upset about their neighbor's recycling habits than a full-blown shootout.

Trying to remember standout moments from my time there is like trying to recall the plot of a fever dream. It’s all a blur of calls, coffee, and city-issued chairs that were definitely built to hurt your back. But I did make some great friends during that stint—guys like Eric Williams, who I’d later work with in Compliance. Fred Fath. Chris Billiot. Justin Crespo—also known as Simba.  Then there was Mardi Gras.

Mardi Gras Madness and the Legend of Freaky Fred

There was one Mardi Gras I’ll never forget—well, technically I did forget a decent chunk of it, but the parts I remember are the stuff of legend. After wrangling frat boys and fending off drunken goons at Endymion (aka, Bacchus’ sloppier, louder cousin), we all retreated to a nearby bar for what we called a “debriefing.” Civilians would call it a bender. Pretty sure it was Evangeline around the corner off Orleans. Could’ve been somewhere else. Hard to say. Those nights had a way of melting into one long, strange party.

And then there was Fred. Good Lord, Freaky Fred Fath.

Fred had a habit of getting naked. I don’t know what it is with cops and clothes—maybe the uniforms are so itchy, they just want to feel the breeze. Anyway, Fred took “letting loose” to Olympic levels.

One night, Jean Jordan is sitting peacefully at a barstool playing video poker, fully unaware that Fred has been standing behind her, completely nude, for God knows how long. No one said a word. Not out of malice—just pure curiosity to see how long it would take. When she finally noticed… oh, man. Laughter. Screams. A few people may have passed out from oxygen loss.

And that wasn’t even his final form.

Later, Fred disappeared into the bathroom, reemerged mummified in toilet paper, and began dancing like some sort of deranged, naked pharaoh. It was like The Mummy meets Cops: Mardi Gras Edition.

At this point, either Chris Billiot or Armando “The Rooster” Asaro (we’ll blame them both, just to be safe) thought it’d be hilarious to light a corner of Fred’s toilet paper wrap on fire. Now, in theory, it was one of those “harmless pranks.” Quick flash, a puff of smoke, everyone laughs, no problem.

But Fred, being both committed and flammable, panicked. He backed up—ass ablaze—into a pile of empty beer boxes. Apparently, his plan to extinguish fire with cardboard seemed like sound logic at the time.

Cue chaos.

Luckily, we had enough beer-soaked cops on hand to smother both Fred and the fire before things got too insurance-claim-worthy. No one died. The bar didn’t burn down. Fred’s butt lived to see another Mardi Gras.  It wasn’t as bad as it sounds, but – you know – fish stories.