“What the hell just happened?”
Cole sheepishly smiled, worried that he had exposed himself to ridicule or judgment. “Sorry about that. It’s…it’s something I do. I can kinda make this photo real in my head, 3D and everything, and then manipulate everything in the space, analyzing it and such. It’s called ‘spatial intelligence.’”
“Spatial what? Is that like some special power or something?”
Cole slightly recoiled, feeling he was being judged. He tried to explain again. “No, no super power other than a very over-active imagination. ‘Spatial intelligence’ or so some Gardner expert says. I think it’s also called ‘picture smarts.’ We all kinda have it as kids. Think about invisible friends and such. As a child, that person or thing is our imagination being projected across our vision so that we think we are seeing it, that it’s there. Most people lose that mental skill early. But, some…like me, maintain it. I wouldn’t be surprised if schizophrenics also have the skill, but unlike them, I know real from imagination and mine is not involuntary. I have to actually force it to happen. It doesn’t mean I’m super intelligent or anything; it’s just that I process everything by visualization.”
Cole couldn’t remember a time that the gift wasn’t there, but he knew it wasn’t something you talked about without being seen as a freak. He had always relied on it…trusted it in secret. But, emotions disrupted it like static. It lied to him in such moments, making accuracy impossible. That scared him now where emotions were constantly flooding against his wall since the revelation of being hunted and the story of his mother’s last act of protection. To him, if there were ever a time he needed to be able to think clearly it was now.
“Holy fuck! What does it feel like? Can you see anything?”
Cole laughed, Leas wasn’t judging…he was entertained. “I can’t see anything. Ever see Star Trek, the holodeck thing they go into? It’s just like that, but transparent. I see the wall that I am looking at. In that image I can walk, look under things, pick up things and such, as if I was actually in it. But it’s limited by the information I have, the images I have. That’s where having a photographic memory really pushes it to the limits. My mental images are very clear with all that information. So, for example, looking at this picture of Havex’s kitchen, I can work that space in my mind up to the edge of the photo. My imagination can certainly fill in the visual gaps, but I try to avoid that because I’ve discovered I’m usually wrong about what lays off the edge of the photo. So, if I look at in my mind, in the space, I let it just fall off into darkness.”
Leas shook his head and started laughing hard. “Damn man, what kind of attorney are you? You’re like psychic or something. I would not want to be cross-examined by you. And, yes. Even the local detective missed that bit about the glasses. Of course, until Texas, we really weren’t linking the poison to anything.”
“Ha, well the glasses are in the picture. They are just kinda dark. It’s my criminal background that made me pay attention to them. Working serious felonies like child molestations and murders I may have picked up a few things. Test any bottles or the wine glasses in that place and you will likely find poison.”
Still chuckling to himself, Agent Leas was on the phone even before Cole could get the words out. “Yeah, Leas here. Is that crime scene in the Havex case still sealed off? Good, can you send one of your guys out there and collect any glasses that may be lying around or on a wine cart and test them for poison, specifically those that would cause immobilization. Belladonna, check for belladonna. Appreciate it.”
Cole kept reading. According to the Havex file, a suspicious woman, like in Texas, had been identified in the security footage. The front desk security guard had messed up, buying the lady’s story that she was surprising her boyfriend with a striptease for his birthday, but needed access to his floor to get the party underway. The price, a flash of her breasts, had been caught from the back on the video footage. Havex was seen entering the underground garage and accessing the elevators within twenty minutes after that, providing ample time for the killer to prepare.
FROM WHAT THE investigators could tell, the murder didn’t happen for almost an hour, suggesting the killer hid and waited until Havex was likely drugged and unable to resist. In the bathroom, Havex’s hands were bound by rope and she was dragged over the room’s door until she hung by her hands against its back, the rope tied to the handle on the other side. That’s when the cutting started.
Leas got off the phone with a slight smile “Sure you’re not a psychic? That’s some good stuff. Mind going through the rest of these and tell me what you see? A pair of fresh eyes may be what’s needed. You can stare at my grungy wall all night if you want. I promise not to laugh…too much.”
Laughing, Cole said, “Of course.”
The video of the bars Patrick frequented had been pulled. He had been spotted at some Mexican restaurant the night of the murder. There was a female, blonde hair, slender, but she avoided the camera. A pro. From the notes, she played him like a fiddle, getting him to buy her a drink and then leaving with him within twenty minutes.
By one a.m., all the files were reviewed. It was apparent the Neal murder in San Diego was the first, based on the timeline, and the killer was still cutting her teeth on it. There was no evidence of poisoning, just pure violence—leading the investigators to initially believe they were dealing with a male suspect. Other than the removed singe mark on the back hip, there was nothing that linked it to the two other murders. It had occurred over two months earlier and then there was silence until three weeks ago. Why the rush? Police pressure? That remained unanswered as Cole left with his private escort.
CHAPTER 69
AGENT LEAS HAD walked Cole out and then ran to his car for a fresh bottle he had picked up at the ABC package store around the block earlier in the day. As he slowly walked back to his room he noted the hotel appeared from its exterior to be abandoned. The few guests it did host were shadows, rarely revealing themselves to anyone. As he shut the door behind him he placed the brown-bag wrapped bottle of whiskey on the cheap table next to the bed. He stared at the bag. He knew once he started the bottle, it was unlikely he would quit until it was gone. Too many times he had lied to himself about his ability to stop, to control just how much was enough.
It hadn’t always been this way. The drinking had come on fast, real fast with the death of his wife Maria. He could hardly think of her without craving a drink now. But, when she was alive, thinking of her was all he could do. She was beautiful. Not in the ‘cover of some fashion magazine’ way, but close. It was her spirit that really made her attractive and that made him fall in love with her. The day she died broke him like glass upon concrete, into a million shards of pain.
He wanted to kill him, her murderer. And, but for six other agents in his way, he would have. He had been investigating George Kelley for a year, but he got too close. Kelley had discovered his pursuer and aimed all his evil at Leas. The vision stuck in his head, the unmovable Post-it that, though frayed at its edges, refused to be torn away. Kelley had tortured her; that was the pain Leas could not let go, the thought of her calling out for him and him never rescuing her. The horror and sense of abandonment she must have felt in those final moments. He put himself through this mental exercise whenever he was alone.
Knee-deep in these thoughts, Leas twisted the cap off the still-wrapped bottle. The whiskey burned going down. He had hated whiskey before his loss of Maria. But now, it was the only thing he could stomach. Kelley sat in some dark cell, smiling at his success, while Leas toiled with the results. The death penalty wasn’t an option, according to the DA. If he only had five minutes with his wife’s killer, maybe then there could be some relief, some sense of closure to it all.
Leas lay back against the pillows of the bed and closed his eyes, savoring his second swig. Everyone has their day, he told himself over and over again. Everyone has their day.
CHAPTER 70
IT WAS TEN a.m. Wednesday
morning, and in all the excitement, Cole had forgotten to return one of Ann’s calls. An hour and a half later, he had reached his limit of Ann advising him on what he should do or not do. She was naturally concerned. Who wasn’t concerned? But it appeared he was safe for the moment. She had offered to come down, back to Charleston, but Cole refused to have her anywhere near the city while his hunter was still on the loose. He had already sent away his family and demanded Jackie follow, but she was having no part of that. By the end of the conversation he promised to keep her in the loop, even if just through texts.
Agent Lea’s call had gratefully interrupted Ann’s ranting about crazies. His voice was excited as he clicked back over to his line. “Cole, you were right. Belladonna was found in the glasses, even the clean ones. My expert tells me that such a dose would cause a rapid heart rate that would ultimately end in death. A scary way to die. So, the last two murders involved poison!”
“Wow, what’s the source for something like that? It can’t be too huge.”
“Already on it, Colombo. Trying to locate shipments for the past twelve months to see if that leads us anywhere. I need to run, but I’ll advise you if we locate anything.” Agent Leas hung up suddenly.
Cole sat back against the couch, the TV humming in the background with some newscaster discussing the storm descending on the city. Eight inches of rain was projected in less than four hours, flooding and downed trees possible. The gloom of the storm approaching the city felt ironic, as he felt the doom of his hunter quickly approaching. He did not know from what direction, but his hunter’s imminence was casting a fast shadow over his life.
CHAPTER 71
“MR. CALHOUN… COLE, I’m not going to tell you this will be easy to watch. But, Cole, I need you to watch this and see if anything, anything sticks out. I’m going to turn on the video and then step out of the room for you two to watch. I saw it with your sister earlier this morning. So, just open the door when you’re done and then we can talk. Deal?”
Cole took a deep breath and looked over to Cash. “Deal.” The small room’s walls were scuffed with black from angry heels and seemed ideal for its intended purpose of interrogation. But cramped in the makeshift theater, Cole felt claustrophobic and restrained, making it uncomfortable to breath.
Agent Leas had called and asked Cole to come in to the police station to watch the videos of his and Mark Calhoun’s interviews back in 1982. Cole went cold at the idea that something like that existed. The thought of seeing himself at two, almost three years old was cautiously exciting. But what would be said, how he appeared, threatened to evoke the same mental carnage suffered by Mark. The choice was made to play Mark’s first because he was older and would likely be conveying more useful information in Cole’s mind. I can’t remember it now, but at two what really could I have said?
“Now this thing is on VHS so it skips a bit here and there. I’ve turned up the volume as far as it goes, but you may have to lean in at some points to hear what he’s saying.” The two men scooted their chairs across the linoleum to get closer. The screen flickered on as a blue screen turned to a title frame. Leas walked out of the room as a small child, no older than perhaps five, appeared on the screen. Cole’s mind momentarily flashed to Billy being four, close to Mark’s age. The thought of Billy in this video unnerved him and made his squirm in the black plastic seat.
“Mark, my name is Patricia Boone. Do you know why you’re here?” The brown-haired child nodded in affirmation. The too-short red tennis shorts and tube socks of the child aged the film. “Good, good. I’m here to talk to you about the past few days. Can you talk to me about that?” Again, his head nodded. Cole looked again at Cash, who was painfully transfixed by the screen, leaning in so as to not miss a word. The introduction between child therapist and patient went on for thirty minutes before there was any real headway.
“…I screamed, I screamed for Momma, but she didn’t come. He told me he would hurt me…hurt Momma if I didn’t stop.”
Tearful, the child responded, “Yes, ma’am, Miss Libby was there, she told him…told him our names.”
“Had you ever seen him before?”
“No, ma’am, never.”
“What happened next, Mark?”
“Miss Libby started crying…telling the man to stop, to leave us alone, but he wouldn’t. It was dark, ma’am, very dark.” The young Mark looked around as if he was about to tell a secret. “The bad man, he…he hurt me, tied my leg with another boy. Miss Libby, he hit her.”
“What other boy?”
“Mark, what was the boy’s name?”
“Lake, miss. He was smaller than me.”
“Was Cole there when you were tied?”
“Yes.” Mark looked down, clearly upset. Cole watched this person he had no memory of speak of him, speak of the horror he could no longer recall, and felt connected through the screen. He leaned closer. “He…all he did was cry. I tried to stop him. I rocked him like Momma does, but he wouldn’t stop. The bad man gave him some milk and then…then, he stopped crying.”
“What do you mean he stopped crying?”
“He just stopped. He just slept.”
“And Lake? What happened to him?”
“It was the day, the day he burned us.” Mark started crying again, weeping. “Can I see my mother?”
“In just a bit, Mark. Can you tell me about Lake?”
“When the bad man came to burn us, he burned Cole first. He didn’t wake up. He just laid there. I try to stop him miss, I did! I told him to get off Cole, to leave him alone. But he wouldn’t listen.” Tears continued down the child’s face unabated, gathering in thick streams. “He burned me next. I screamed. It hurt bad, ma’am. I told him no but he wouldn’t listen. Just kept saying I was number one.”
“And Lake? What happened to him?”
“When the bad man stopped burning me he took Lake away. He took him away.”
“Did you see him again?”
“No, ma’am. He was gone.”
Cole processed what he just heard. Mark, a boy maybe five years old, had attempted to protect him, to ward off the ‘bad man.’ A five-year-old boy. But for Mark, he might have suffered more, possibly died. The clear drugging had been a blessing in disguise. It explained a lot, especially why he had no memory of what he was now learning about, as he sat there with the five-year-old’s brother.
“Mark, can you describe the bad man? What did he look like?”
“He was a police man. But, then…when he came back…he was just with jeans. He had a black hat on; I don’t remember his face.”
“A black hat? Do you mean a mask, or could you see his face?”
Mark moved in close to the therapist. Cash and Cole responded in kind, creeping up to the screen.
Cupping his hand along the side of his mouth, Mark whispered something that sounded like, “He wasn’t like Nita.”
“Who’s Nita?”
Simultaneously, Cash and his bother spoke, in different times, different places, but the same thing.
“She cleaned…” Cash sat back from the TV.
“You mean he wasn’t the same color?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you recall the trees…the marsh? Getting there?”
“Only behind the building. Miss Libby untied us, told us we had to run fast. The bad man was gone. But Cole couldn’t move. She carried him in the dark. The grass hurt, but we ran…we had to run and hide like when we play. That’s what Miss Libby said. The bad man was behind us, yelling for us, but we ran. Miss Libby stopped and told us to be quiet and stay still. Then she went to sleep.”
Mark sat up and looked the therapist in the face. The tears were back. “She wouldn’t wake up…she wouldn’t wake up, ma’am. I screamed but no one heard us… No one heard us.” Mark faded off with the last few words as though at that moment he felt alone and captive by his own mind from the fear of it all.
CHAPTER 72
THE INTERVIEW WENT on for about ten more minutes wi
th little more from Mark before the therapist concluded it and the white and black static filled the screen. Cole placed his hand on Cash’s forearm. “Your brother was a good kid…” Cole let the last few works linger as Cash closed his eyes slowly, trying to keep back the tears.
After a few moments, Cash recovered. “You’re not telling me anything I don’t know. That protection that he showed you… he showed that to me every day, even when he was raging. There was always this side of him that could handle the internal anger and fear that consumed him. But if any such thing attempted to threaten me, he stepped in, like the big brother he was, and scared it away.” With a pause, Cash looked up. “Thank you, Mark.” The pain and longing wore on his face with deep sadness for a moment before he shook as a dog ridding himself of the dampness of rain, ready to proceed.
“You ready for this?” Cash had his hand on another tape, its spine marked in typewritten letters, “Mouzon, Cole – 3/22/82 Report No. 82-48921B”
Looking up, Cole asked with a slight grimace, “Do I have a choice?”
“Nope.” Cash smirked, clearly trying to break the tension.
“Well, put it in already.” It started like the first, just a blank screen.
“This is the interview of Cole Mouzon, March twenty-second, nineteen eighty-two.” Cole saw himself being held. There, holding him, was not who he would have suspected. It wasn’t Ava or Granny. It was Jackie. Tears welled up inside him and he fought them back. The salt that had accumulated in the corner of his eyes from a long day in saline air caused his eyes to sting. He felt an elbow in his rib as Cash knocked him out of an otherwise very emotional moment. Cole didn’t hear most of what was being said as he stayed tethered to the moment and realization that Jackie, even then, had watched over him. She rocked him in her arms as, question by question, he provided no insight. By the end of the very short interview it was clear that he had known nothing or had locked it away so deep in his mental safe that even now he couldn’t find the key.
The Trees Beyond the Grass (A Cole Mouzon Thriller) Page 22