Leas immediately reached in his pocket and called Quantico; he needed insight into poisons and fast. If the killer had switched to poison for taking down men, there was a chance she would do it again. Half an hour later he had a contact. Leas left the ME’s office in haste, leaving more questions than answers for the Dallas Police. He would send another agent to complete the FBI’s investigation into the Patrick matter. For now, he needed to get to Atlanta and talk to his new contact, a Dr. Winters, about the poison they found, before Mouzon died.
CHAPTER 11
ATLANTA
LEAS HAD SOME experience with poisons. He had learned some time ago that poisons are handled by several different federal agencies. The Department of Agriculture studies them with an emphasis on livestock deaths, the Food and Drug Agency is charged with of warding off exposure pathways arising from food and pharmaceuticals. The Center for Disease Control and Prevention in Atlanta covers the rest, usually acting as a central hub for poisonings nationally and internationally.
Dr. Beth Winters held an impressive curriculum vitae; a fancy name for a resume in any other field. At thirty-five, she was the youngest person, much less woman, to ever head the National Center for Environmental Health/Agency for Toxic Substances and Disease Registry within the CDC. Her expertise, poisons, required her to be an expert in botany and toxicology. Working in conjunction with the FDA and its detailed poisonous plant database, she had become a ‘go-to’ expert where plant poisons were involved. Leas had been instructed to head to Atlanta and meet with Winters about what the agency was seeing in the murders.
He had flown into the busiest airport in the world on Sunday night and checked into his room at the Residence Inn on Peachtree Street carrying nothing more than his carry-on, originally packed just for Tulsa, and a fresh bottle of Knob he’d grabbed from Mac’s liquor store in the heart of Midtown, Atlanta. With the luggage thrown to the corner of the room, the bottle was promptly opened and tipped back as he loosened his tie. He passed out half-dressed, saved from the darkness of the memories that had returned in his sober state.
First thing Monday morning he jumped into another rental and weaved through the winding roads of the affluent neighborhood of Ansley Park, headed to the CDC on the north end of Emory University’s campus in the North Decatur area of Atlanta.
“Did you know, Agent Leas, that adults aged twenty-four to fifty-six are more likely to die of poisoning than in motor vehicle accidents?” Leas was still slightly in shock from Dr. Winter’s youth and beauty as he was escorted into her office. She immediately grabbed a stack of files and opened a grey metal filing cabinet, and began thumbing her way through the drawer until she’d placed each manila folder. This placed her backside front and center into his view. By his calculations, she was five-eight; five-ten with her powder blue heels that perfectly matched her eyes. Her dark hair was collected in a ponytail and stood out against her white lab coat. As she busily moved around the room while still talking, the coat flashed open here and there to reveal what appeared to be a billowed black linen shirt and deeply-cut white blouse intended more for a cocktail party than a lab. This impression was only enhanced by the large string of pearls she wore around her neck.
Trying to refocus, Leas spoke. “Really? That’s a statistic you don’t hear a lot about. How many of those are intentional?” Leas observed several cultural masks and paintings on the walls of the otherwise white drywall of the office. From the corner of his eye, he thought he caught a picture behind her desk of the doctor with Obama.
Still moving about the room, she responded. “Well, that’s hard to say. Ninety-one percent of all poisonings are caused by prescription drugs. As it relates to murder, which is why you are here, the statistic has been for centuries that woman are more likely than men to use poisons to kill, which explains to some degree the fact that men are twice as likely as woman to die from them, though they also have a higher exposure potential to poisons because of their workplace conditions. A recent study by Shepherd at the University of Georgia actually reviewed mortality rates for homicidal poisoning. His findings were very interesting, showing that though poisonings accounted for less than one percent of all homicides, there is a clear up-tick in such deaths over the past decade or so. And, this really doesn’t help you, but homicide by poisoning is usually reserved for children and the elderly, not the age bracket you indicated you are dealing with in your case when you called.”
Leas didn’t know what was sexier, her body or her mind. She clearly was more intelligent then he would have imagined if he saw her on some Atlanta street. She continued babbling facts like an encyclopedia-fed brook. “Now, from what I understand from your guys at the FBI, there is a strong suspicion that poison is involved more often than documented in murder cases generally. There is a great deal of support for that suspicion. Coroners and their labs rarely consider homicide by poisoning unless the bottle is sitting right in front of them. Even where a poison is identified in the deceased’s system, there is an eighty percent chance the manner of death will be deemed ‘undetermined’ because poisons and their pathways are so misunderstood. Seventy-six point six percent of poison exposures are through ingestion. Other pathways include breathing in poison gas, bites and stings, and exposure to the eyes or on the skin.”
She paused for a second to catch her breath and look up from the fresh batch of files she had been shuffling around the office since Leas arrived. Smiling, she said, “I’m sorry, I can rattle on forever about this stuff. If this were a date, you would already be out the door. But tell me, Agent, why are you here again?”
Leas grinned and then described to the doctor the three murders he was investigating and the belief that more were to come. If the murders were related, the first appeared to be a test of sorts, and with each new murder the perpetrator was refining his skills and trademark. The last had signs of poisoning. The last two had the same mark of removal of a small patch of skin on the victim’s lower back. That patch contained a mark, a brand left there when all three of the victims were young. It appeared someone was collecting those who had been kidnapped all those years ago, and she was moving fast.
With Winters now seated behind her desk listening intently, Leas walked further into the office. “Doctor, in this case, it appears that the most recent victim was poisoned, injected with curare. Is there any significance there?”
She turned her head to the side like a parrot as she pondered what had just been disclosed. “Interesting. A plant poison…highly lethal. Curare is nasty stuff. Because it mimics total lock-in syndrome, where paralysis impacts every part of the body, including the eyes, it’s impossible for someone poisoned to signal they are actually alive. It’s the ‘trapped in your body’ drug.”
Leas shook his head in horror as Winters turned to a particle board, thrift store-looking bookshelf, withdrew a teal covered book and handed it to the agent. “You may want to take a look at Fronhne and Pfander’s book just to see what you are dealing with.”
His mind was still on the visual of someone being tortured while trapped in their body when he looked down to read the back of what had been handed to him and then turned it to reveal its cover: “Poisonous Plants: A Handbook for Pharmacists, Doctors, Toxicologist, Biologists, and Veterinarians.” Just the thought of reading a book made him sick, much less some scientific manual.
Nestling back into her black cloth office chair, she told him, “It’s pretty straightforward book on plant-derived poisons, and can at least tell you what symptoms and etiology you can expect. I would give you my own book, but I’ve been told its sedative effects rival that of Ambien. It’s a bit technical.” The doctor flashed a smile to reveal teeth as white as her pearls, breaking her otherwise focused appearance.
Leas smiled back in kind, looking up from the book to respond. “No, no… ‘Poisons for Dummies’ will do for now. But I might have to hit you up on that book if my insomnia keeps up.”
She playfully tightened her eyes and said, “Fair enough. But, as
I was saying, the use of raw plant poisons is extremely rare today. I say raw because a large percentage of our pharmaceuticals are derived from plant chemicals. In fact, some chemicals like digitalin—which comes from the flower digitalis, also known as foxglove—are high highly poisonous in even small doses. But when used in minute amounts the chemical helps with cardiac conditions such as atrial fibrillation and congestive heart failure. And that’s just one example.”
Leas shook his head as he leaned into the wall beside him. “Wow, when I was told you were the person to talk to down here, they weren’t lying. And, again, thank you. My understanding is you just came back from some trip to collect samples or something. The Amazon?” His eyes caught what looked like a hand-held GPS under some files.
Noticing his glance at her desk, Winters leaned back into her chair and crossed her legs, revealing firm, tanned legs. “Ha, yeah. I may appear like a simple Southern belle, Mr. Leas, but inside, I’m a warrior and certified witch doctor.” She flashed a playful ‘don’t mess with me’ face when she emphasized the words ‘Southern belle.’
“I was down in the Balsapuerto area of the Upper Amasonas region, deep in the headwaters of the Amazon, studying the use of plant-derived poisons used by the indigenous people. My research was focused on strychnos, a plant whose resin is used in dart hunting by the local tribes. Think poison dart frog, but this one is plant-derived.” Winters looked to her desk and the still remaining files.
“It’s a shame really. I had another month of research planned down there, but in the middle of the night about a week ago, there was a raid by a Protestant fundamentalist group who’ve been killing the shamans, local witch doctors, for years in the area, accusing them of being ‘possessed by demons.’ My shaman survived, but he lost his wife and a son to axes by the time it was all over. His son’s head was ravaged, just ravaged, by the blades.” Winters grabbed her wrist. “I was pretty lucky; I had a metal bracelet given to me by a woman in the tribe on at the time that prevented a machete from completely slicing right through my arm.” She pulled back the white tape and gauze to show a clean cut with several black stitches. “It took two days to get me up the river to Yurimaguas for medical care.”
Leas stood in awe, eyebrows raised. “Wow. Warrior indeed, Dr. Winters. I’d say that would go head to head with any story I could offer in my career.”
SHE LOOKED UP. “I doubt that, Agent.” There was a slight pause before she continued.
“You know, it’s interesting that you mention curare. Like strychnos, it’s used in hunting. It paralyzes the body, while the prey remains conscious until suffocation kicks in. The thought of dying that way; well, that’s just rough to swallow.”
Leas agreed. “Yeah, as you mentioned, the pathologist couldn’t rule out the poison as the cause, but with the cuts, it was hard to say.”
Winters stood up from her desk and began slipping off her heels before maneuvering her feet into what looked like cheap white nurse’s shoes. With her back still to him she said, “Let me do this, Agent Leas… I need to step into the lab and complete some tests and check on the progress of research I have neglected while in the Amazon. But, I’ll think on this and what you’ve told me. If I come up with anything, I’ll let you know. Here, let me give you my cell phone number. I’d be interested to see how this plays out. So, call me anytime, day or night. I’m at your service.”
Leas couldn’t resist focusing on the shortness of her charcoal skirt and how it formed a perfect outline of her obviously firm ass as the doctor bent over her desk to write the note on a yellow sticky. A bit too slow in refocusing, he was caught. The doctor smiled as she smoothed out the back of her lab coat.
“Be careful out there, Agent Leas. Poisons are dangerous business. I look forward to our next meeting.” After a quick flash of her smile she exited the office and disappeared down the hall. Leas regained his focus and turned to leave. Yep, Obama.
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.
The Trees Beyond the Grass (A Cole Mouzon Thriller) Page 5
