Aghast, Fawn briefly looked up, wondering where the man had come from. Then she shook herself back to reason.
She knelt down, sliding a hand between the bushes and placing two fingers on the side of the man’s neck. The skin was taut, leathery. There was no pulse. She tried again, moving her fingers closer to the underside of his red-colored jaw, which had a slippery feel to it: still no pulse. The absolute stillness of the body told Fawn she was touching a corpse.
A shiver wracked her body momentarily, and she recoiled, pulling her hand away. She looked down at her fingers. There were red smear marks, similar to what she had seen on the old man’s hands at the flower shop; not blood, but something else. She forced herself to look again at the head. There were clearly two shades of red: one where there was no hair—a dried, uneven layer capping the head—and a less severe coat across the visible portion of the face.
A mild burst of wind filled the alley, and the smell struck her, rancid and vile. Still kneeling, she lost her balance and fell back, covering her nose and mouth with her bare hand, gasping for clean air. She gagged, nearly vomited, and drew herself up on shaky legs.
Fawn staggered back up the alley in a daze. She was met by two Fernandina Beach police officers. She turned slowly, and pointed weakly to where the body lay.
The next thing Fawn knew, she was sitting in the back seat of a police van at the end of the alley, rubbing her eyes. A man who introduced himself as Detective Michael Mayes sat to her side. Although a rugged-looking man in his mid-thirties, he had a personable smile with a deep dimple in each cheek and sandy-blonde hair. He was well dressed in a dark suit and tie.
Detective Mayes’ questions—his words—were audible and understandable, but her head felt like it was full of cake frosting. Things were happening, yet she felt disconnected. Everything around her appeared as in a dream. The detective was patient, asking questions in a mollified cadence to allow Fawn time to respond. The questions were easy, requiring little more than a brief reply. Detective Mayes had already confirmed Fawn’s innocence after taking a statement from Lisa Fortney.
Mayes momentarily left the van. Fawn looked down at her hand. The red smear was still there, and it suddenly terrified her. She reached into her pocket, withdrew a Kleenex, and quickly wiped it clean, almost obsessively. She threw the Kleenex in a dispenser.
At some point—Fawn had no idea how much time had elapsed—Detective Mayes took Fawn’s driver’s license and copied some information. He asked if she was okay, and Fawn nodded unconvincingly. Then he handed her a business card and told her she was free to go. The detective stepped from the vehicle, and she remained, hesitant to leave. Inside the air-conditioned van was a safe haven. Outside was heat and death. She eventually forced herself to leave. Only as she stepped from the idling vehicle did a wave of reality return. She spotted Lisa standing where a small crowd had gathered and was staring down the alley. Police barricades prevented further ingress. Fawn headed toward Lisa.
Ahead, the scene was cordoned off with yellow and black police tape. Half a dozen men, a combination of uniformed officers, Detective Mayes, and a man and woman in white jumpsuits, scurried about. Another man was snapping pictures, huddled over the body, moving incessantly to reposition after each flash. It was like a choreographed exercise in police murder-scene investigation.
“You okay?” Lisa asked, taking Fawn’s hand and giving it a squeeze.
Fawn sighed. “I will be.”
“Here,” Lisa said, “that detective told me these are yours.” Lisa handed Fawn a pencil, notepad, and cell phone. “You dropped them near the…body. Your phone still works. I tried it.”
Fawn looked down at the items in her hand. The graphite tip of the pencil was broken off, and the notepad was blank.
Some journalist you are, Fawn thought as her senses returned. “Do they know who he is?”
“No,” Lisa responded. “I think the man was homeless.” Lisa eyed the crowd of people to either side as if searching for someone. “Mr. Lattinhouser, who owns the candy shop, was here a minute ago. He said he’d seen the man on the streets the last few months panhandling for food.”
“Got a pencil or pen?” Fawn asked. Lisa withdrew a pen from her pants, and Fawn was soon scribbling notes. She wrote down what Lisa had said about the man being homeless, everything she could recall about the body, including the shades of red on the face and top of the head.
The crowd was kept back some distance at either end of the alley. Lisa went back to mind her flower shop, leaving Fawn to watch, occasionally asking others in the crowd what they knew. Other locals confirmed the victim as a homeless man.
Fawn searched in vain for the old man who had found the body, the one who entered the flower shop. She never got his name.
It was nearly an hour later before the forensics team concluded and the coroner’s office personnel arrived. By now, everyone involved was sweating profusely, including Fawn, who still stood watch from some distance away. This was a major story, and she was not about to leave.
Other news media had arrived on the scene, including one of the Jacksonville TV stations that had already done two live cutaways. Reporters and journalists flocked like birds at either end of the alley.
****
Several miles away, on the eastern side of Amelia Island at Fernandina Beach, 19-year-old Emily Seaver was walking along the desolate beach tossing a Frisbee to her dog, Jordy. With each throw, she led the dog into the Atlantic surf, and Jordy plowed through the waves, splashing about happily to retrieve it.
It was mid-morning, and the beach would soon be overflowing with tourists and locals. Until then, Emily and Jordy were content in their near-solitude; master and best friend, thrower and catcher. Jordy’s tail wagged. The dog’s contentment brought a smile to Emily’s face.
Jordy had just grabbed the Frisbee in midair when the dog’s attention was suddenly drawn to something at the water’s edge. The dog watched the water intently, his eyes following the outflow of the surf, then tracking it back in. He cocked his head, dropped the Frisbee, and began barking aggressively.
Confused, Emily walked over to Jordy in the shallow surf. Jordy paid her no attention, keeping his eyes cemented to the water. The dog’s posture was defensive; ears forward, tail rigid and locked. He growled between barks. It was a guttural sound Emily had never heard Jordy make, and it chilled her.
“What is it, boy?”
The dog remained focused, rigidly perched in four inches of water as the surf rolled in and out. Jordy kept swiveling his head, tracking whatever had his attention, but the foam from the swirling surf prevented Emily from seeing anything beneath the water.
Emily suddenly realized the Frisbee Jordy had dropped was being drawn out with the tide, and she took several quick steps forward to retrieve it. When she lifted it, it was upside down and held a clump of dark, black, clustered fibers seated in some sort of rubbery substance. Startled, she slung the Frisbee and its contents onto shore.
“Yuck!” she yelled, shaking her hands and doing an erratic dance. Jordy turned to look at the Frisbee and continued to bark ferociously.
Emily left the surf with Jordy in tow, still yapping and growling. It was obvious to Emily that the black stuff on the Frisbee is what alarmed Jordy. When she reached it, she bent down and tentatively grabbed the edge of the Frisbee, flipping it over and spilling the dark tangled mass onto the beach. It was not any sea creature or even trash from what she could tell.
“Ewww…” she said, looking at the underside of the Frisbee to make sure it had all detached. Then she looked down at the object again. Recognition struck her with a resounding blow.
Emily Seaver’s scream could be heard a half-mile along the beach in either direction.
****
The male and female forensic technicians remained close as several men from the coroner’s office prepared to bag the body. Using gloves,
the body was lifted from the bushes and placed on top of the splayed black bag lying on the ground.
“Wait,” the female technician said.
“I’d prefer not to,” the coroner, a pudgy, pink-skinned man named Dr. Tommy Jones said, as he continued to pull the black bag up and around the corpse. Jones was not a fan of sunshine, and rivulets of sweat streamed down his face. The skin on his head glistened under his red, crew-cut hair.
“Just a second,” the technician reiterated forcefully.
“We’re in plain view here,” the coroner snarled. “You got cameras at either side of this alley getting this poor soul on film. It’s time to seal him up.” With that, he tucked the mangled legs and arms inside and began to draw the zipper up.
Detective Mayes had overheard the conversation. The technician gave him a pleading look, hoping for support. After the first bizarre characteristic of the victim had been discovered, the detective wondered what else could possibly have caught the technician’s attention.
“Tommy, just a sec,” Mayes said, putting a hand on the shoulder of the coroner.
Tommy Jones stopped the zipper at the chin and looked up, giving the detective an incredulous look. For a moment, their eyes locked. Then Jones shook his head and backed away from the corpse. Only the face remained visible.
“Goddamn public show,” the coroner groaned, walking away. “You got one minute before I load him.”
The female technician dropped to the side of the body bag and examined the face. The left side was solid red, but the right side was covered in dirt. All except for one small patch on the upper cheek.
“Mark, hand me a brush,” she directed the subordinate technician. He complied. As she began delicately wiping sand from the right side of the corpse’s face, the skin materialized.
When it was clean of debris, she looked up at Detective Mayes with a blank stare.
Tommy Jones, who was now standing beside Mayes, chuckled. “Now that’s a first,” the coroner said, mopping his brow with a handkerchief.
CHAPTER 3
That night at home, Fawn watched the six o’clock news while she ate dinner. Earlier, she had submitted a story on the murder to the Jacksonville News, a widely read newspaper in Northeast Florida. She had tried to gather additional facts after contacting the Fernandina Beach Police Department and talking to their public relations representative. They told her little that she did not already know. Fawn had also attempted to extract information from Detective Michael Mayes not long after leaving the crime scene, but he had declined. He assured Fawn the facts given to her were identical to what the other newspapers and television stations had received. Yet there was something in the tone of his voice that told her there was more to this murder than police were divulging. Fawn also could not shake the notion she had seen Detective Mayes before; not on the island, but in some other venue she could not place.
She now waited anxiously to see if the TV reporters had scooped her on any facts. God knows her phone had rung several times that afternoon looking for interviews. Others in the field had learned of her first-hand experience.
When the local news came on, the murder was the third story. Every detail reported she already knew. The victim was homeless, as Lisa Fortney had suggested. The man’s name was Claude Agater. He had been killed by blunt trauma to the head. The murder weapon, a piece of wood, was discovered on the roof of the building adjacent to the alley. Initial indications were the man had been killed days before. Evidence on the roof, including hair and blood, revealed the corpse had remained on the edge of the roof until something caused it to fall this morning, and markings suggested buzzards. The speculation was that several large birds may have been feasting on the body when it teetered off the roof, landing near the elderly, asthmatic man. The killing did not appear premeditated, and police had no suspects at this time.
This was not the type of community where violent crime was prevalent, nor were there many vagabonds that Fawn could recall. She had learned from the police the homeless man’s things were all tucked back in a corner on the roof where he had assumed residence. None of it had been disturbed, ruling out robbery as a motive.
As it turns out, the police did not release any information relative to the bizarre appearance of Claude Agater’s head, namely the two distinct shades of red: one on his face, the other on the top of his head. Thus, Fawn’s story had information the television reporters lacked. She could not help but smile.
Fawn considered the man’s red face again. If the body had been perched on the roof for several days in this blazing heat, perhaps it was severely sunburned. Does skin burn from exposure once the body is dead and no longer regenerating new cells? She had no idea. Then she remembered the red substance smeared on her fingers, on the old man’s fingers, and how slippery it had been. It was no sunburn. It also was not blood. Now she wished she had not wiped the red substance off when she was in the police van. She would give anything to have that tissue back for further examination.
After dinner, Fawn called her fiancé, Mike, on his cell phone in Connecticut. She told him what had happened that morning: about finding the body, the subsequent police questioning, the article she had written. He offered sincere words of comfort. It was something she could always count on from Mike. It was one of the many traits she loved about the man.
Later, alone in the two-story house, Fawn thought more and more about the man’s grim death. To take her mind off things, she watched TV for an hour then went upstairs to read in bed.
More time passed, and the pages turned, but she found herself unable to concentrate on the story. Death was again interrupting her life: first her father, now Claude Agater. It only took several minutes for her thoughts to turn exclusively to Juan Velarde Cortez and the cigar box nestled underneath her bed.
Fawn sat up. She reached down and dragged the cigar box out, sliding it across the hardwood floor. She straightened, looking at the box beside her feet. It was probably the twentieth time she had pulled it out from under the bed since its arrival, and not once had she raised the lid to view the contents.
She thought about the strange way that her father’s box had reached her. It had taken some time for the Lewisburg Bank to validate the paper work—the death certificate, the probate documents—and release her father’s holdings to her. It was not until late July, a full two months after her father’s death, before Juan Velarde Cortez’s effects, including his nineteen-foot Sea Ray, had arrived at Fawn’s new residence on Amelia Island. She had avoided the boat while it sat on the trailer in her backyard for a short time. It was the vessel her father was diving from when he disappeared in the Gulf. The memories attached to it were painful, so she had encouraged Mike to take the boat to his place. Fawn planned to put it up for sale. In preparation, Mike performed some general repairs and cleaned it inside and out. While scouring out one of the bow compartments, Mike discovered a hidden hold covered by a thin layer of plastic. It had been painted to match the compartment walls. In this small, recessed hold was an object Fawn knew all too well: her father’s cigar box.
When Mike showed it to her, she almost tossed it in the garbage. Then she had considered walking out on a pier and casting it into the Atlantic Ocean. It seemed a more fitting place for it. Yet she had done neither. She knew damn well what was inside. That was the problem. Its contents were a large part of what fueled her internal discord toward her father.
Now, alone on the edge of the bed gazing down at the brown box, she recalled the numerous times she had been in this very position over the last few weeks. It always played out the same. For 15 to 20 minutes she would sit on the bed without moving and stare at the box with its black inscription etched across the lid. In the stillness, every minute sound in the quiet room would be amplified: the creaking of boards settling, the secondhand of the table clock notching forward, the light breeze brushing against the window.
All outside noise, howe
ver, was soon drowned out by the confusion in her mind. She had loved her father, and he had loved her when he was around, although those times had been few and far between. No matter how hard she tried to suppress it, she would eventually flush with hatred toward the man. Then, as much for self-preservation as anything, she would reach her right foot forward and, with her heel, gently push the box back along the hardwood floor until it was once again hidden from view beneath the bed.
Out of sight, out of mind.
Tonight was going to be different. Her determination was galvanized by some unknown force. Maybe it was from being rattled by seeing the corpse that morning, or maybe it was awareness that it was time to move on. If ever she was to get over the anger, she had to try to understand what drove his obsessive behavior.
The real problem was that she was not convinced she wanted to get over the anger.
Fawn took a deep breath and cleared her mind. The room became deathly quiet. Fawn closed her eyes and mentally pitched a strong, protective wall. Built with mortar and bricks, it could withstand the greatest of onslaughts. It was a masterpiece of architectural engineering. It was Fawn’s defense against this burning anger. This wall; a wall the therapist had suggested, had been built by Fawn many times, only to crumble into apathetic rubble each time.
Fawn steadied her breathing and opened her eyes. To her surprise, she looked down to see two trembling hands folded in her lap. Her feet were tapping the floor listlessly. Her eyes widened in confusion. Then it was all too clear: she had successfully blocked the rage from her mind only to have it manifest itself in other parts of her body.
It had been Mike’s suggestion that opening her father’s cigar box and viewing the contents might be therapeutic. While this sounded good in the light of day, looking down at the box on the floor this evening, doubt crept into her mind in slow, building waves.
Three Keys to Murder Page 3
