Louder Than Words

by Brett Baker

  “An update on the story we’ve been following out of Taylor County all morning. Police have found six bodies in a wooded area just off of an unincorporated, beach-adjacent part of Taylor County. A source at the Florida Department of Law Enforcement tells us that the victims include people known to FDLE. Names of the victims have not been released, but according to our source at least some of the victims have criminal histories, and police believe this may be related to past criminal activities. However, we should stress that none of the victims have yet been identified.”

  “Criminals killing criminals,” the gas station attendant said. “That’s a relief. If they want to kill each other, so be it. I’m sure they know the risks when they start a life of crime like that. At least it’s not a bunch of innocent people.” She grabbed the remote from the counter and changed the channel. A bunch of dead criminals didn’t arouse as much sympathy and interest from her as a dead innocents. “Did you need something?” she asked, settling on a morning game show, and putting down the remote.

  “Yes, I do,” I said. I walked to the cooler, grabbed a bottle of orange juice, and put it on the counter. “What’s a Florida morning without orange juice?”

  “What’s a Florida morning without a cigarette? Tobacco. That’s what keeps this state afloat. Well, the people in the state anyway. The morning cigarette is as much a part of Florida culture as an afternoon thunderstorm. Don’t buy into that orange juice bullshit. That’s the sunshine and rainbows crap they created to attract tourists. It’s no more real than the Magic Kingdom.”

  She scanned my orange juice. I paid her, thanked her, and started walking out when I decided to not to waste the opportunity to ask her a question.

  “What do you know about Dirk Oswalt?”

  “That’s right. You’re the lady driving around in Cooper’s car the other day. I knew I’d seen you in here before. Did you steal Cooper’s car or are you his new girlfriend?” She looked past me into the parking lot outside the building. “You’re not driving his car now. Get tired of getting pulled over by the cops, or did he cut you loose?”

  “No, that’s my car out there. I gave Cooper’s car back to him.”

  “I thought you weren’t driving Cooper’s car. You told me it belonged to some other dude. Fred somebody. I thought it sounded like a bullshit story. So are you Cooper’s lady?”

  “No, I’m not his lady. I was just returning his car to him. I didn’t want you to think I stole it. He’s got it back and everything’s good.”

  “Why are you asking about Dirk?”

  “He seemed like an asshole when I went over there.”

  “You went over there? I thought you weren’t his lady.”

  Her inability to focus on the words that came out of my mouth rather than what she wanted to discuss was maddening. Talking to her made me feel like she didn’t need another person to have a conversation.

  “I’m not his lady. I returned his car. His dad was on the way to the airport when I left and he seemed like a real asshole, so I thought maybe you’d know if he was an asshole by nature, or I just caught him at the wrong time. You knew Cooper so I thought you might know Dirk, too.”

  “Dirk’s an asshole. He’s the type of guy who will stab you in the back, and then when you realize what happened he’ll throw a hundred bucks at you, apologize, and think that makes up for the knife sticking out of your back. People kiss his ass because he gives back to the community,” she said, using air quotes, “but I’ve never trusted the guy. There’s something just not right about him. He puts that fake ass smile on his face when he talks to people, but he’s hiding something. Without a doubt.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. He’ll have a downfall one day, and it’ll be big. Just wait.”

  “And you’ll have that television back there to watch it when it happens,” I said.

  “You’re damn right,” she said, and let out a single deep, raspy chuckle. “Just wait.”

  Chapter 22

  I raced fifty miles to Gainesville and parked in front of the apartment complex. The garage door remained unlocked, and I opened the steel access door to the Roost. A brief check to ensure no one followed me, and then I picked up the phone to call Polestar. Kathleen, the agent to whom I’d spoken after I eliminated Coulson, identified herself.

  “I’m still working in Dixie County trying to track down this Coulson thing. Last night in a forested area of Taylor County, which is right next door, I eliminated six men. I just saw it on the news. Do you have any information?”

  “We saw that story and thought you might have been responsible. As you know, we like to eliminate the evidence before this sort of thing happens, but our team lost the location on their way to the site. It’s a very elementary reason for failure, but it does happen. We began working on identification as soon as we heard the news this morning. All six men are known to us. Various drug offenses. All have spent time in prison. Two of them have had previous encounters with agents from The Summit, but as ancillary participants. Another one is of particular note. Pietro Ospina. Colombian. He was a target of American law enforcement for years. Started as a low-level organizer of a caravan that transported heroin from Colombia over land through Central America to Guatemala’s border with Belize, where they setup shipping and air transport to the States. They succeeded in breaking up the caravan, but they never caught him. Three years ago they stopped looking because a source confirmed that he’d been killed in a firefight with a competitor in Cartagena. So they’re going to be quite surprised to find out that he’s one of the bodies in the woods.”

  “They don’t know yet? If they don’t know, how do you know?” I asked.

  “We tapped into FDLE’s network, secured the photos they took this morning, and used facial recognition software. They’ll figure it out soon.”

  “The others are drug-related?”

  “Yes. Two other guys suspected of leading other organizations. Smaller than what Ospina did, and at a lower-level, but the same idea. The other three are footmen. Safe to say they’ve got something brewing among the three of them. We assumed you could fill in some of the holes, but seems like you might not have any more information than we do.”

  “I didn’t hear much of what they said. Just as I got close the camp, an alligator showed up and that’s how the whole thing got started. They heard me avoiding the alligator, pursued me, and everything unfolded after that. But one thing they said caught my attention. One of the men was asking questions about a guy who was supposed to go to Chicago for some meeting. They were waiting to hear back from him. Seemed like they were a little anxious about it. One guy – I assume it was Ospina – seemed to be in charge of the whole thing. He’s the one that asked about the guy in Chicago. But the guy he asked, Oswalt, hadn’t heard anything.”

  “Oswalt? Who’s Oswalt?” Kathleen asked.

  “He’s the seventh guy. He got away.”

  “How do you know his name?”

  “I’ve been tracking him down here. It’s been a strange few days.”

  “You need to brief us,” Kathleen said.

  “Dirk Oswalt. He’s a county commissioner in Dixie County. Owns a logging company in the area. He was at the scene last night.”

  “You saw him?”

  “Yes. He led me there. I followed him based on evidence I’ve uncovered during my investigation. While I engaged with the others, he fled. He saw what happened, and saw me eliminate a few of the men, but took off before I could get to him.”

  “We haven’t heard anything about another person at the scene.”

  “Of course not,” I said. “The last thing someone of his position and stature wants is to be placed at a meeting with six drug lords. I suspected he might be responsible for the attack on me in the motel the other night, but now that I know the company he keeps I have no doubt.”

  “Explain.”

  With that I recapped everything that happened and everyone I met since my arrival in Cross City. Poles
tar had the ability to distill information down to its most important components, but to do so they relied on complete, accurate information from agents. Polestar understood that without first-hand accounts from agents who carried out the missions, everyone would be flying blind. Kathleen asked short, pointed questions, using the fewest words necessary, as usual. I heard her type as she listened, accumulating every significant piece of information to add to Polestar’s limitless files. After fifteen minutes I’d told her everything that happened, and she responded with the most common question from both Polestar and agents: What now?

  “I need to find out what Oswalt has planned. It’s possible that it’s going to fall apart since he’s working with so many dead guys now, but he’s still around so I need to keep digging. And let’s not forget that I’ve still not made any progress on Martin Coulson. No one down here has heard of him, so I’m not sure I’m on the right track. Everyone around here deals in secrets it seems. They’re happy to tell stories, but I think they all know more than they’re willing to share.”

  Kathleen didn’t respond. I heard her fingers punch away at keys once again, and I was just about to disconnect when she said, “Dirk Oswalt. That’s your guy?”

  “He’s the guy at the meeting last night, yes.”

  “We don’t have much information on him. Just a file of existence. However, when we run the separation calculation, one of the names that appears is Pietro Ospina. They’re separated by one person. Toby Stockton.”

  “They both know Toby Stockton?”

  “That’s right,” Kathleen said.

  “And who’s Toby Stockton?”

  “Land developer in South Florida.”

  “How do we know him?”

  “He’s an associate of Flanagan, the guy we took out a few years back during the Catholic priest case in Pittsburgh.”

  “Oh no,” I said. I hadn’t worked on the Flanagan case, but it’s come up a few times during briefings with Polestar. Flanagan helped Catholic priests who had abused children find refuge outside the United States. When an agent happened upon the scheme during another investigation, The Summit decided to eliminate Flanagan, but in doing so uncovered a larger, more complicated network in place to protect religious abusers. Because Flanagan got his start in banking, he had connections everywhere. Agents from The Summit investigated thousands of his friends and acquaintances to make sure they destroyed every aspect of the network. It worked. Flanagan met a horrific end, and every piece of his network disappeared.

  “Stockton looks clean as far as Flanagan is concerned. But he did go to prison. Served six years for tax evasion. He’s out now and in Miami. Seems to have rebounded and has land interest throughout south Florida.”

  “He must have other interests if he’s involved with Ospina.”

  “Safe assumption,” Kathleen said. “Didn’t you say Oswalt has a logging business? Stockton is a land developer, and he’s tied to Ospina, too. Perhaps it’s not mere coincidence that Ospina knows both of them.”

  “Probably not. Maybe it’s time to get to know Stockton. Oswalt knows me, and if he sent those two guys to kill me the other night then he’s obviously keeping tabs on me. I have the element of surprise on my side with Stockton. I’ll pay him a visit.”

  “He’s well-known in Miami,” Kathleen said. “He shouldn’t be as hard to find as Coulson.”

  “Coulson’s easy to find. He smeared all over the front of an El train in Chicago.”

  Chapter 23

  Miami is five hours by car from Gainesville, and I couldn’t wait to talk to Stockton, so I decided to take a break from Dixie County and head south. As I approached Miami, I was reminded again that Florida is a collection of different worlds. The conservative, American South-extension of northern Florida gives away to the family-oriented tourist trap in the middle of the state, before the beach-and-alligators culture of the southern part of the state takes over. By the time I reached Miami it seemed hard to believe I was in the same state as Dixie County.

  I planned to setup a meeting with Stockton in his office, but I found his home address with ease, so decided to meet him there. Although I rolled into Miami after five o’clock, I figured I’d beat him to his home. No businessman as driven as Stockton would end his day at close of business.

  On the southern edge of the Coconut Grove neighborhood, near Merrie Christmas Park, I found Stockton’s house. The entire neighborhood existed under the thick canopy created by the tropical hardwood hammock that had somehow remained with little interruption since people first settled in The Grove. A waist-high wall of privet hedges lined the perimeter of the property, interrupted only by a cobblestone driveway and sidewalk that seemed out of place in Miami. The house looked newly built and towered over its neighbors—unassuming, decades-old ranch homes. The stucco exterior had a reddish tint that looked more appropriate for Santa Fe, but its metal roof screamed modern hurricane resistance. At the back of the property a chain link fence surrounded a basketball court, thirty-foot pine trees blocking the view of the house from the court. Next to the court a concrete pad provided parking for a handful of cars. I backed my car into the space and waited.

  After a few hours, around eight o’clock, well into dusk, as a heavy, gothic pall began to overtake the neighborhood, I saw headlights as an SUV slowed and turned into the driveway of Stockton’s house. I jumped out of my car, hustled along the edge of his yard, between the privet hedges and the uncurbed street, and then up his driveway. He stood next to the open driver’s side back door and leaned into the car, retrieving something from the backseat.

  “Are you Toby Stockton?” I yelled, trying not to sound intimidating or crazy. He jumped, startled, and took a step back, into the open car door. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. I should introduce myself. I’m Mia Mathis. I’m doing a freelance piece for Florida Pursuit magazine. I’ve been trying to setup an interview with you, but no one from your office will return my call.”

  The tension disappeared from his face since it seemed I had no intention of killing him. He slung a satchel over his shoulder and took a few steps toward me. “Who have you spoken with?”

  “I’ve talked to Melanie a couple of times, and some guy another time. Brad?”

  “Brock,” he said.

  “Right, Brock,” I said, with a sigh, as though annoyed just thinking of him. No need for Stockton to know that I called his office five times over the course of the afternoon to get the names of people answering the phone.

  “I’m sorry no one got back to you. Had they mentioned you wanted to talk to me we could have made it happen. You should have come in so they could see you.” During my time with The Summit I had grown accustomed to disgusting men who acted as if the most interesting thing about me is my physical appearance. It often didn’t take long before they discovered other interesting things about me, but at that point they were usually fighting for their lives, so I didn’t ask whether their opinion of me had changed. Every time a man has tried to marginalize me because of my appearance I’ve found a punch to face is the quickest way to change his opinion.

  Instead of leading with my fists, I chuckled, and swayed my head while giving my best “Awe shucks” reaction. If a man revealed himself to be so subject to manipulation then why not capitalize on that?

  “I didn’t know that showing up in person would make a difference,” I said.

  “That can’t be a surprise to you,” Stockton said. “I’m sure plenty of men have told you how beautiful you are.”

  “A few, yes,” I said. “Does this mean we can talk?”

  Stockton took two more steps toward me, and said, “I think we can work something out. Are you free now?”

  “That’s why I’m here,” I said.

  “Come inside. I planned to meet a friend for dinner, but I can postpone that. He’ll understand when I explain the situation.”

  He turned and walked toward the back of the garage, and I followed. He opened the door into the house, flipped on a ligh
t, and stood to the side so I could follow him inside.

  “Are you hungry? I’m a great cook. We can go outside and I can throw something on the grill. You should see the backyard.”

  “I ate just a bit ago, but maybe it’s a good place to sit and talk.”

  He nodded and led me through the mud room, and into the living room. A large television dominated one wall, and a fireplace covered in dark marble tile drew the eye to the opposite wall. A fireplace in Miami seemed out of place, and it looked like it had never been used. A grizzly bearskin rug with the head attached startled me as I walked around the end of the couch, into the middle of the room, but seemed to fit Stockton’s persona.

  “I didn’t shoot it,” he said. “I saw it in Jackson Hole and thought it looked cool so I had it shipped down here. My Miami friends make fun of me for it, but I think they’re just jealous. It’s rugged.”

  “It’s spectacular,” I lied.

  He led me toward the back of the house and opened one of the French doors that led to the backyard. “Just grab a seat wherever you’d like. I’m going to grab a beer. Can I get one for you?”

  “That’d be great,” I said. “Whatever you have is fine.”

  Stockton disappeared inside as I sat down in a red-cushioned chair on his patio. A gray brick wall surrounded the patio, except for an opening to the yard, and a large firepit opposite the French doors. Chairs provided seating for a dozen, and a built-in grill and refrigerator made clear that Stockton did plenty of outdoor entertaining. I had no idea what I expected to uncover by talking to Stockton, but at least his backyard provided a good environment in which to do it. However, if the conversation went as I expected, his good memories of his backyard may have already ended.