Three Keys to Murder

by Gary Williams

“No, but if it had been cast to the side, it would have been consumed by critters in no time. Hell, a bird could have flown off with it. Nice snack for a buzzard.”

  “What was used to color your victim’s face?”

  “The red? Sorry Mayes, I thought I’d already told you that detail. It was clay.”

  “As in dirt, that type of clay?” Mayes could not suppress his surprise. He had expected to hear it was from a red marker.

  “Yeah. At first we thought the man had just pressed his face in it when he fell. There were pockets of clay on the ground, and he’d fallen in some. Upon further examination, it was applied to the face too perfectly. It had been ground into the skin, covering only the left side. It had been done intentionally.”

  “One last question. Did you find anything underneath the red clay?”

  “Underneath? Like what?”

  “Anything on the skin. A picture, tattoo, birthmark, writing.”

  There was silence. Then Mayes could hear the Callahan detective shuffling through sheets of paper, probably reading his victim’s autopsy report.

  “Nope, our coroner reported nothing. Why do you ask?”

  “Our victim had a word, possibly a name, written underneath.”

  “No shit? We have nothing like that.”

  “OK, thanks.” Mayes hung up still deep in thought. He rubbed his eyes. Two brutal killings with similar signatures: the half-red face, the removed skin from the top of the head.

  His next steps were to check the database for similar characteristics of murder victims within the last decade and to dig into the victims’ backgrounds—acquaintances, associations, religious affiliations, political ties, employment history—hoping for some link between the homeless man and the hunter that might lead to a suspect.

  As Mayes stood to stretch his legs, his gut told him the murder victims were linked by something deeper than what could be discovered by searching through records.

  CHAPTER 6

  Elizabeth Courtland had thrown out so many facts and assumptions yesterday that Fawn immediately went home and set about putting them to paper. Fawn felt compelled to pick up the phone and notify police of the similarities between the current day murders and Lawrence Courtland’s killings in 1969. Yet a little voice in her head had held her back.

  The woman seems lucid, but how do I know she’s telling me the truth? Besides, if I tell the police the murders are related to the death of Osceola 170 years ago, they’ll think I’m crazy.

  Still, if it might give the police an opportunity to catch a psychotic killer, it was her responsibility to share the information.

  Then Elizabeth had made an unusual request, which solidified the decision for Fawn.

  “Dear, I’ve told you this information as I feel it’s all connected. Possibly it could help catch the murderer, but I also do not wish to have knowledge of my lineage to Osceola publicly exposed. I know it’s a hard thing to ask a journalist, but I need you to respect my wishes on the matter. I lead a quiet, simple life, which I do not want under the spotlight. Inasmuch, I request that my relationship to Osceola remain a secret…even from Mike.”

  “Ms. Courtland,” Fawn had said, confused, “why did you tell me all this?”

  “Because, dear, the news of the murder this morning flustered me. Finding out about the half-red face brought back harsh memories of my father. Don’t get me wrong, I have made you privy to this information with the hopes the killings can be stopped, but I fear that what we’re dealing with here is something the police are going to find difficult to accept.”

  “I…I’m not following you,” Fawn had stuttered, trying to make sense of Elizabeth’s words.

  “You’ll need to validate what I’ve told you about Father’s victims and Osceola’s death. The police only deal in substantiated facts.”

  So do journalists, Fawn had thought.

  “The half-red face trait never made the papers in 1969. Father claimed it was covered up by the police so as not to alarm the masses. Remember, my father was responsible for two deaths. At the time, the public didn’t know the murders were related, but if the police had publicized the red-face characteristics, everyone would have known there was a serial killer on the loose. It would have created a panic.

  “After you have gathered facts, go to the police, but only after you have a strong case. Remember, you must garner this knowledge via some other manner than quoting me. I do not wish my ancestral secret exposed. Also, they’re going to inquire as to how you know about the half-red faces, since this information regarding the recent victims has not been released to the press. Again, I do not want my position in this matter exposed, nor any reference to this information having leaked from the coroner’s office.”

  “After notifying police, and only after I’ve read the draft of your story, leaving me out of it, can you take it to press. Can I trust you to respect my request?” Elizabeth had asked, eyeing Fawn intently.

  Fawn found Elizabeth’s assertion that the two recent murders were linked to the murders Elizabeth’s father had committed in 1969 very disturbing. Just as radical was that both the current and the 1969 murders were related—if only through association of the half-red faces—to the death ritual in that Osceola had engaged prior to his own demise in 1838.

  Fawn awakened early on Sunday. Elizabeth’s words still consumed her thoughts. It would make a tremendous news story if she could validate Elizabeth’s claims.

  After a two-mile jog and a shower, Fawn settled in at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee and her laptop. She reviewed her notes composed the day before, leaning back in her chair. In her mind, she formulated the events and considered the angles in which a story could be composed. The headline should reference a living relative to Osceola by the name of Elizabeth Courtland, but Ms. Courtland had been adamant. She was not going to allow her heritage to Osceola to be exposed. Fawn had given her word. She would not betray the woman.

  Fawn considered Elizabeth’s directive about not sharing the information with Mike.

  “He’d think I was going senile,” Elizabeth had said.

  This was contrary to everything she had heard Mike say about Elizabeth. ‘Her mind is as sharp as a tack.’

  The one thing Fawn had given the least consideration to was the assertion by Lawrence Courtland that there was a curse on the male descendents of Osceola that caused them to seek retribution against the white man. The fact—albeit based strictly on circumstantial evidence—that Osceola’s son Coyle had murdered in 1865 and then Lawrence had also murdered in 1969, both doing so for no apparent reason, did lend support to Lawrence’s claim. Fawn had never subscribed to curses, myths, and legends, though. Those were for the tabloid reporters to mull over. If anything, a more plausible explanation was that some form of mental psychosis had passed down through the generations of Osceola as a hereditary trait.

  Either way, as a former news reporter and now a journalist, she needed tangible facts, and that is exactly what she would pursue, just as she and Elizabeth had agreed.

  CHAPTER 7

  At noon, Fawn pulled into the parking lot of the Fernandina Beach Public Library. Pedestrian traffic was light, which was unusual considering she was a block from the tourist draw of Centre Street, where gift shops, restaurants, bars, and businesses lined the walk.

  Fawn strolled leisurely up the sidewalk, perspiration already forming on her face and body, causing her sundress to cling to her body. Her long hair swayed with each step. She reached the entrance to the library, where a dark-skinned boy, who appeared to be in his teens, sat cross-legged to one side of the pneumatic door. Long dreadlocks blossomed from his head like a weeping willow tree. He wore a Skindred T-shirt, long board shorts, and flip flops. The teenager looked up at Fawn and gave her a goofy grin. She smiled cordially, thinking how out of place he looked sitting on the steps of the library. The doors hissed open, and she felt the c
ool air greet her as she stepped inside.

  Although most journalists felt they could get everything they needed from the Internet, Fawn was of a different opinion. She was a bit old school in this regard. The Internet held a wealth of information, but it was good to have reference books at your disposal. Even today, many periodical back issues were not imaged, so there were limitations to researching online.

  Her goal was to unearth pertinent information about Elizabeth’s father, Lawrence Courtland, and his victims in 1969, and anything she could find on Sarah Courtland, Osceola’s lover, and their son, Coyle, in the mid-1800s. With any luck, she would have enough information to start building the outline for a story by this evening.

  Fawn searched the archives and found hard copies of the local periodicals dating back to the early 1980s. She would need the sixties to find news about Lawrence Courtland. Through a librarian, she learned that prior newspaper copies, going back to the 1940s, were in the process of being digitized and unavailable for another month or so.

  The library did have hard copy census data, but because the census is only conducted every ten years, and the government does not release data until it is 72 years old, the newest records available were from the 1940 census. Fawn searched the 1940 data and did find “Courtland: Lloyd and Winifred, and their son named Lawrence.”

  With no further hardcopy options, Fawn turned to the bank of computers located in the center of the floor. Two were designated as having Internet access. Fawn noticed the young man she had seen on the steps of the library with the dreadlocks stood before one, so she moved to the adjacent computer.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the young man appeared hesitant about using the keyboard. His fingers were hovering in the air above it, and his eyes darted back and forth between the screen and the keys. He obviously was not accustomed to the technology, and she started to offer him assistance. Then she refrained. She might embarrass him. She would wait to see if he truly needed help before offering.

  Fawn settled in and typed a search for Lawrence Courtland. While she knew she could just as easily do this from home, it was possible the search might generate a need to view other resources from the library.

  Lawrence Courtland proved to be a fruitless search, bringing back a thousand-plus hits. She scanned the first dozen pages one at a time, sometimes clicking links, but none of the returned data was relevant.

  As she read, Fawn became aware the young man beside her was humming. He still had yet to depress a key but at least he seemed happy. She ignored the sound, continuing with her search.

  Fawn switched the search criteria to Sarah Courtland, and then Coyle Courtland in turn. Several minutes later both had proved unsuccessful. While Sarah Courtland returned two dozen hits, Coyle Courtland drew a complete blank: not a single web match.

  “Damn,” she muttered under her breath.

  The dark-skinned teenager beside her stopped humming and gave Fawn a momentary stare. Fawn realized she had spoken louder than she meant to.

  “Sorry,” she apologized, half turning toward him.

  “No problum, mon,” his reply was upbeat with a thick Jamaican accent. “I hear de word before.”

  “Yeah, but not from me,” Fawn said with a brittle smile.

  Fawn returned to the screen then looked to the notes she had placed beside the keyboard. Again she searched, this time simply using Courtland. This returned a copious number of hits: over 2.5 million; far too many to weed through.

  She refined the search to Courtland & Family, trying to narrow the parameters. No good. Still nearly three-quarters of a million hits returned.

  Fawn mumbled under her breath, now conscious of the volume.

  The teenager, who still had yet to touch the keyboard of his computer, turned to Fawn. “I couldn’t hear it, mon, but I think you cuss again.”

  She looked at the boy and forced a smile. “Sorry, I’m not finding what I’m looking for.”

  “Let me help. I am good at dis.”

  “Oh, thank you, but I—”

  The teenager moved before her computer, nudging Fawn to the side.

  “It’s okay, really,” she protested softly. The library was sparsely occupied, but she did not want to cause a scene.

  “Relax, mon, I show you.” The boy stared intently at the search words on the screen Fawn was using. “Too broad. What’re you lookin’ for?”

  Fawn started to object then stopped and thought: What the heck? “A man by the name of Lawrence Courtland.”

  “Whatchu need to know about dis Lawrence Courtland?”

  “He was convicted of murder in 1969.”

  “Ah, now we gettin’ somewhere,” the boy said, grinning widely. “Where was dis man, Courtland, caught and tried?”

  “Here on Amelia Island,” Fawn responded, growing ever more curious about the boy. He was asking logical, intelligent questions which, frankly, surprised her.

  “We got to go outside dee normal search engines. Google, Yahoo!, MSN…Dey good for most searches, but criminal records can be hidden. Searching for data is all a matter of making sure you start at dee right place.”

  Fawn watched the boy type authoritatively and, within seconds, he had accessed the Florida Department of Law Enforcement (FDLE) web site and found a page of information dated 1969 giving a brief summary of the Lawrence Courtland murders.

  The boy backed away from the computer, extending his arms toward it with his palms up. “There you go, mon.”

  Fawn looked at the boy with admiration. “I’m impressed, but did you just hack that site?”

  “No, mon,” the boy shook his head adamantly from side to side. “Dis public records. Besides, hacking getchu thrown in jail.” Then he gave Fawn a sly grin. “But I could have.”

  Fawn chuckled.

  “Ralston Gabeil, at your service,” he said, extending his hand. His Jamaican accent was gone, replaced with perfect English.

  Fawn looked at the boy with a crooked smile. “You faker.”

  “I like to give people what they are expecting, then show the real me. It’s interesting to expose misperceptions based on the dreads and clothes.”

  “Well, Ralston, you got me,” Fawn admitted, smiling.

  “It’s okay. No harm. What else can I help you find?”

  Less than four minutes later, Ralston Gabeil had found conclusive information regarding Sarah Courtland, a resident of South Carolina in the late 1850s and 1860s. She passed away on May 18, 1865 and was buried in a cemetery in Charleston. It certainly would have been possible for Coyle to have visited Sarah in early May of that year.

  As for Sarah and Osceola’s son, Ralston found a record of a Coyle Courtland who enlisted in the Confederate Army at Fort Clinch in 1861 with the 3rd Florida Volunteer Infantry, Company D. Ralston also found documentation that Company D was fighting in North Carolina in late April, well after General Lee’s surrender to General Grant at Appomattox in early April. Again, this tied nicely to Elizabeth’s story, but that was where the records stopped for Coyle Courtland. Ralston could find no account of his death, either fighting in the Civil War or afterward.

  Fawn read the police notes from the FDLE website regarding Lawrence Courtland. He had been charged and convicted of two murders, as Elizabeth had said, but there was no mention of the victims having half-red faces.

  After copying down several URLs so she could access the sites from home, Fawn closed her notepad and looked contently at Ralston.

  “So other than helping people find information at the library, what do you do, Mr. Gabeil? Shouldn’t you be in school?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I am. I’m a college student at the University of North Florida in Jacksonville.”

  “I hope you don’t mind me saying, but you look a little young to be in college.”

  “Let’s just say I’m ahead of others my age. I graduated high
school in Jamaica over a year ago when I was 16. I speak Spanish as well as English, and have been in America on a full scholarship. They refer to it as gifted, but the word embarrasses me.”

  “And you live on Amelia Island? You’ve got a bit of a drive into Jacksonville to attend classes.”

  “I have a sponsor family here. I’m used to the drive now.”

  “What’s your major?”

  “I’m undeclared, but I’m leaning toward journalism, like yourself.”

  “How’d you know I was a journalist?”

  “Because I read the paper. The online edition with your article about the murder yesterday has your picture on it. I’ve got a very good memory.”

  Fawn smiled. “So you stood beside me hoping to help me out.”

  “You caught me,” Ralston laughed softly. “I was hoping you could share some of your expertise with me. It never hurts to learn from a professional. I’d really appreciate the tutelage.”

  “Looks like you taught me a thing or two about web searches, so I guess I owe you,” Fawn responded.

  Ralston smiled and handed Fawn a card. She sensed from their brief conversation that the teenager had a good sense of humor. The business card confirmed it:

  Ralston Gabeil

  Yes I’m Jamaican. I can fix your computer, wash your car, walk your dog, get background information about a loved one, etc. If I don’t hold down 7 jobs while attending college full–time my mom thinks I’m slacking. So help me out!

  1-904-555-8736 – Cell

  1-904-555-8979 - Home

  Email: rgabeil@yahoo.com

  Fawn tucked the card in her pocketbook along with her notepad. She shook Ralston’s hand.

  “As I said, I owe you,” Fawn said. “I’ll be in touch. Maybe I can help get your career started.”

  CHAPTER 8

  On Sunday evening, Detective Mayes stood in a grocery store examining the fat content on a jar of peanut butter. It was an irritating trait he had picked up from Lyle prior to his brother’s death in California in 2006. The guy was a health nut…had been a health nut. Of course, this thought led to the painful memory of Lyle’s senseless death and the inevitable regret that always ensued. It was an emotional scar Mayes feared he could never vanquish.