The Trees Beyond the Grass (A Cole Mouzon Thriller) (6 page)

CHAPTER 12

AGENT LEAS MADE
prompt use of the number Winters had handed him and by six-thirty he was on his way to meet her for drinks. He was surprised she had said yes, but he wasn’t going to complain.

She arrived at Wisteria in the Inman Park area of Atlanta in the same dress as before, but this time it was uncovered and more completely spoke ‘Southern lady.’ Meeting her at the door after just arriving a minute before her, they immediately agreed to extend the night into dinner. The host walked them to a corner table of the dark-lit brick and natural palette colored space and took stock of the couple. It was apparent from his face that he did not understand the mismatch between the sophisticated lady and Leas, who had swapped out his standard black blazer and tan slacks for dark indigo jeans and baby blue button down, rolled at the sleeves.

“
I have to say I was pleasantly surprised when you called, Agent. I thought you would just leave town without any further contact.” Winters smiled wide as she turned to look at Leas, while slightly cutting her eyes. “I mean, it has been a while since I’ve had drinks, with the Amazon and all…”

“Well, I had the night here and it’s never fun to eat alone. And, company like yours is a rarity. Have you ever eaten with a group of cops? It isn’t pretty. Plus, the table talk is less than appropriate on most occasions.” Leas spoke a bit too loud, trying to compensate for the background noise of the completely packed restaurant.

Unrolling her cloth napkin and formally placing her silverware, Winters continued the conversation. “I would think so. Serial murders, huh? How did you get into that?”

Leas explained his fascination at an early age with the subject and his need to understand the criminal mind. Dr. Winters listened with deep interest in the conversation. It was obvious to Leas that she had never discussed the subject, though she admitted at one point in the conversation that she had some interest since a child. She’d read the thrillers of Patterson and her imagination always went wild with how someone got to that point of actually killing. “What makes them do it?”

Leas was enjoying the switch in roles; he now being the expert being questioned. “That remains the question—why? Serial killers usually come from rough backgrounds of abuse, neglect. But the sad fact is that a large percentage of our country is exposed to the same treatment without ever being triggered into the psychopathic mindset. There is a theory that if the ‘triad’ of symptoms is present: that is, setting fires, torturing animals, and wetting the bed, there is an extreme likelihood that the child will advance to killing others. Like myself, they are fascinated with the police and authority. They may have even worked, or attempted to work, in the security field.”

He took a sip from the cold glass of sweet tea perspiring on the table before continuing. “Their psychopathic nature hinders them from feeling sympathy for others and they must learn to mimic ‘normal’ behavior. Driven by a need to perform, to control and succeed, they create traps for their victims. Once fallen into, the killer exerts authority over the victim, taking pleasure in making them submissive. But the pleasure wears off at that point, as he has already won. So he exerts more authority, by killing. I say ‘he,’ because women are rarely serial killers, but it does happen occasionally.”

Leas could tell Winters was letting it all sink in before she spoke. “Wow, in my world you are usually dealing with knowns. If ‘x’ then ‘y,’ that type of thing. It really is interesting, not to say I would ever want to cross paths with a serial killer. But it is amazing. Don’t killers usually have trademarks?”

Shaking his head, he responded. “Some do, yes. Others just kill. But, the majority take pride in their work, and going back to the pride and public recognition aspect, they want to make sure everyone knows they killed. So, they usually leave a mark or handle the body in a certain way.”

Winters scooted in closer and slightly whispered. “And this one? What is the mark?”

“Ahh, I know you are a consultant and all, but since this is an active investigation, I better just leave it at there does seem to be a major link between all three.”

“Oh my god, to die that way. Who deserves that?” There was a pause as the doctor contemplated what she had just heard, shaking her head in disbelief.

As the waiter placed a plate of fried chicken on a bed of cornbread and collard greens in from of him, Leas continued to explain his theory as it related to the poison and the possible motives. He knew the victims were linked from a common past, information not made public to date. So, he suspected that same past was now coming to hunt them. The reality was that his only lead was a Facebook page of some guy named Mouzon. It wouldn’t be hard to find out where he lived, but whether he was alive when Leas arrived was another concern.

By midnight Winters had had her fill of the case and left Leas at the restaurant’s door, wishing he didn’t have to head back to D.C. But unless they located Mouzon, he had no other choice.

CHAPTER 13

BY TEN-TWENTY a.m.
Friday Cole Mouzon had been deposing Ray Wier for over an hour, pressing him on the details of his alleged injuries when a semi-truck carrying oil was sideswiped and spilled petrol. Wier, his lawyer, and a court reporter were crowded in a small white-washed room in the lawyer’s office, where the A/C had clearly been turned off in an effort to rattle Cole, who was defending Folsom Petro United, an oil transport company. Beads of sweat appeared and were quickly dropped, like torpedoes, off Cole’s chin onto his red silk tie.

Taciturn by nature, Cole had developed the ability to channel the limited words he said into stealthy comments and interrogations. So far, he had caught Wier in multiple lies over his claimed injuries, and he was just getting started.

Cole shook his head in disagreement as he spoke. “No, sir. That is not what I asked. Now, answer my question.”

Wier slyly grinned. “Colin…”

To Cole, a deponent using a lawyer’s first name was a clear red flag that the guy was a crook. Whenever a deponent attempted this he was trying to gain power, to dominate the questioner. Cole had seen this too many times in his six-year career as a lawyer. It was a desperate act that signaled Cole was getting under this guy’s skin and close to showing the guy for what he was—a fraud.

Wier looked sadly down at the wood table and wiped it with his hands as he spoke. “You see, my life has been devastated. I can’t do my job. I’m behind in my child support…all because your client dumped a tanker of oil in my front yard.” He was avoiding eye contact. “It’s really quite horrible, Colin. I had a great life before this, but now…well, I’ve lost everything.” Mr. Wier’s gaze on Cole deepened with his last words.

Cole turned and reached into his red well file holder to withdraw a document. He didn’t need to look at it. Its image had been saved, like every other document in the case, safely in his head. “Let me show you what’s been marked Exhibit 13. Do you…”

Before Cole could get out his question, Wier interrupted. “What the… Those are my Facebook pictures. How did you get those?” Mr. Wier’s face now matched his lawyer’s, red and inflamed. He shot Cole a look full of hate.

Cole glanced over to the court reporter who was apparently enjoying the show as she typed. It was her turn to get in on the action. “Sir, I’m going to remind you again. I cannot take down two people talking at the same time. Please let Mr. Mouzon finish his question before you answer. Okay? …OKAY?”

Wier gave a half-hearted, “Yes.”

Cole continued, this time speaking slower. “Mr. Wier, is that your picture, a picture of you snowboarding just two months ago in Vail?” Cole gave a Cheshire cat smile. He had this guy and he knew it. Cole’s intensely green eyes glowed with excitement from the heated exchange. Wier lurched across the table to attack, but his lawyer caught him with his right arm extended.

“Objection! Now, sit your ass down, boy. Just sit here and hush while I say something to Mr. Mouzon.” That seemed to have awoken Wier’s lawyer, Henry Babbick, a large, red-faced man with bulging pale blue eyes and bad skin. His butter-yellow dress shirt was unkempt, and the layer of dandruff on his shoulders could pass for snow, but for it being the middle of May. In his late 40s, the lawyer came across more as a first-year associate than the experienced partner his wrinkles suggested.

Cole pushed on, ignoring the objection. Wier’s skin was turning ‘oh shit’ red, signaling that he knew his story of having the perfect life just before this accident, only to have it come crumbling down, was falling apart. “And you lost your job, not because of respiratory failure as you claim in this case, but because you got your butt kicked when you picked a fight with your boss on the job, then showed up with the cops and tried to press charges. All because you called him…a ‘fuckwad?’”

Babbick tried to slow down the interrogation. “You’re badgering my client. Asked and answered. Lack of foundation.”

Cole smiled again as he turned to the lawyer. “I think the only objection you forgot was ‘calls for speculation.’ Would you like to add that one? Your client is here claiming $500,000 in damages because my client got in an accident and five gallons of oil,
five
, leaked into a ditch two hundred feet away from his front door.”

Wier stood to lurch again. “You’re an ass! That bastard had it coming to him. Just go fuck yourself, I’m done here.” Defeat covered Wier like smoke settling in, choking his ability to play victim any longer.

Looking up to the still-standing man across the table, Cole responded. “Is that a yes?” In an effort to put the final nail in the casket, Cole pressed forward. He knew this case would settle for nuisance value in a month if not sooner, but he had to have the admission on the record.

“Yeah, that’s a yes, and yeah, you can go fuck yourself. I’m done!”

Moments later, the red-faced lawyer trailed behind Cole as he walked out of the old office. Cole wasn’t paying attention to the man’s pleas and proffering of why Wier presented so poorly in his deposition. “Mr. Babbick, save it for a jury. You and I both know the claim is bad, your client is worse, and your reputation will be left stinking unless you convince him to get reasonable. I’ll be sending over an offer of judgment tomorrow. I’m thinking three thousand dollars. It will cost me that just to draft a motion to dismiss this case. Decline it at your client’s peril. My clients love it when you pay their fees.” Cole opened the glass door and left.

CHAPTER 14

BACK AT HIS
Sixteenth Street office, Cole walked into a half-empty space—everyone seemed to have had out-of-office work to do.
Perfect,
he thought,
I can get out early and be at the airport with enough time to grab a Fat Tire.
Between work and the bad dreams, he needed his vacation and the sooner it started the better.

Kathy, the office assistant, came walking into his office with her hands full of documents just as he was settling down in his chair. “How did it go?”

Cole threw his jacket over the back of one of his guest chairs and loosened his tie. “Ah, it went… Same story, different day. He gives injured parties a bad name. Draft an Offer of Judgment for three thousand dollars and let’s get that out. That way if they decline it and the jury gives them that or less, he has to pay our costs.”

“You got some mail. That crazy Mr. Kreepers filed something again. Looks like he’s been reading Peanuts this week.” Mr. Keppermoore, Mr. Kreepers to Kathy, was
pro se
, representing himself in a case outside Atlanta against one of Cole’s clients. His claim was that the laying and spreading of woodchips had been toxic to his sensitive system and he demanded justice. “Respect my a-thor-a-tay,” as Cartman from South Park would say, popped into Cole’s head every time he thought of good ‘ol Kreepers.

Kathy yelled from the front desk, “When’s your flight to Charleston?”

Looking down at the stack of mail in his in-box as the image of his ticket flashed across his mind, he shouted back, “Oh, two-thirty. That should get me in by eight p.m. or so with the connection through Atlanta. It’s Friday after lunch, so it shouldn’t be too busy at the airport.” It had been five months since he’d been home and Cole was excited to return to see his family, even if that meant subjecting himself to their form of cross-examination about all things Cole. He didn’t know why, but the constant turmoil in his head was always better when he was home. He always brushed it off as just being around family.

Walking out of his office into the reception area with the piece of mail Kathy had just handed him, he laughed. “Ha! I love Kreepers! Look at that, he cut and pasted a mini version of the Magna Carta in this brief. I guess I better get licensed in the U.K. if we’re going to start arguing English law.” Kreepers’ pleadings were always a mosaic of cut and paste. A Xerox copy of some criminal code pasted here, the judge’s signature pasted there, with just the right touch of lawyer comic strips sprinkled throughout—all in support of his opinion that justice was being denied him. The court in Cobb County, Georgia had a handle on the situation, having dismissed all claims and found Kreepers in criminal contempt for his continued filing of frivolous pleadings against the court’s order. Apparently he hadn’t got the memo that his case was dead.

BRINGING HIS ATTENTION
to a box full of emails, he saw little of importance. He double-clicked on the Google Earth icon on his computer’s desktop and a large image of the world popped up and spun. It was obvious to Cole that someone at Google believed Kansas was the center of the world by the map’s default center always landing on the state at start-up. He typed in ‘Charleston, SC’ into the search box and hit enter. The globe spun and zoomed in to his hometown, grey with development on his screen. As he moved the mouse around the map, numbers at the bottom of the screen changed to note the longitude and latitude of the marker. He zoomed in further to note the distance between his hotel and the Dock Street Theater, where he had tickets for Saturday night. The map was saved in his mind.
That’s walkable.

Closing out the program and turning, the capital building outside his window caught his eye. He took a second to enjoy a mental break. He had come to Denver almost a year and a half earlier after living in Atlanta for six years. He loved Atlanta, but it housed too many bitter memories. He accepted that a move would be best and Denver offered a ‘life with a view.’ That it was a state that provided the opportunity to get licensed to practice law without taking the dreaded bar again was an added bonus.

Looking out the window and thinking about his past pushed up against his inner wall. He took a deep breath and shifted his thoughts back to work. Cole shot off a few more emails and decided to get out while the getting was good. Grabbing his jacket, he said, “Okay, I’m out of here. I’ll see you in a week and a half.”

Kathy looked up from the pile of documents she was indexing and responded. “Have fun! I’m so jealous, I’ve heard Charleston is just beautiful. I bet it’s very romantic.”

Cole grinned. "It is, though when you’re from there it gets lost on you.” Cole was only half serious. No, he didn’t walk around the cobblestone streets of the Holy City, as Charleston was known, looking like some crazy tourist. But he did take pride in the city, its history, and all its eccentricities. And it had an ample supply of those. “Later ‘gator, just email or call me if you need anything. I have my iPad and I’ll be doing some work.” The sad reality of being a lawyer—you’re never completely off the clock.