Elizabeth shook her head. “Unfortunately, no. When I spoke to Father in jail, he never mentioned what became of the letter. I was so startled by what he told me that I never thought to ask. I’m afraid if it hasn’t turned up in the last 40 years, it didn’t survive.”
After Fawn left, Elizabeth returned to her den. In the still room she absently looked at the wall, at the black and white picture of her and her brother on the end table. Elizabeth had been second guessing her decision to tell Fawn about her heritage to Osceola and the association with the murders. It had been a calculated gamble that now seemed more like a desperate strategy. Nothing about the conversation, which just transpired, allayed her mounting concern. Worse, she had just lied to Fawn again. While it was true she did not know where the 1865 letter was, it was a certainty someone had already gotten their hands on it.
****
Fawn left Elizabeth’s house with an unsettled feeling. On Saturday, she had believed the story without question. Now she was not so sure. There was a different tone in Elizabeth’s voice today, which made her uneasy. This uneasiness was the sole reason she had decided not to share her hypothesis that Coyle Courtland had returned the head of Osceola to the gravesite in Charleston in 1865 prior to his death and that, subsequently, Lawrence Courtland had exhumed the skull in 1969.
****
Fawn promised Mike she would check on his place while he was out of town. She made the fifteen-minute drive to Mike’s house two blocks from Fernandina Beach. She used his spare key and proceeded inside.
Typical untidy bachelor pad, Fawn chuckled to herself. “This’ll have to change soon.”
She walked through the house, checking each room, making sure everything was in order—windows locked, refrigerator working, rotating the few lights that were left on to new ones so it appeared someone was home at night.
She checked the large safe Mike kept in his closet to ensure it was locked then went into the backyard where her father’s boat was locked and secured on its trailer.
She returned to the house and was about to leave when she had an urge to use the bathroom. Mike was in the process of redoing the hall bathroom and had pulled the plumbing fixtures out, rendering it inoperable. Fawn went to the master bathroom off Mike’s bedroom.
She shook her head, laughing. Combs, deodorant, hair gel, toothbrush, and a tube of toothpaste were strewn about the counter. For an instant, she thought Mike had forgotten to take vanity items on his trip but then recalled an inclusive gift set, complete with leather case, his boss had given him for Christmas. Mike must be finally getting a chance to use it.
Curiosity got the better of her, and she eased the medicine cabinet open. Just what she thought: It was virtually empty save for a bottle of Absorbine Junior, a thermometer, a few stray cotton balls, and a bottle of Motrin.
She looked to the floor, where a towel was stretched out. The bathmat was wadded into a ball near the tub, which, by the way, could stand a formal cleaning. She started to lift the toilet lid then stopped, fearful of the mold or stains she would find.
She decided to wait and use the facilities back at her house.
CHAPTER 11
Fawn sat at her table watching the morning sunlight stream through the kitchen window. Last night, the eleven o’clock news had reported that the body of a sailor based out of Mayport Naval Station had been discovered under an A1A bridge just south of Amelia Island. Police had quickly determined foul play, although they had not revealed what led them to this conclusion. The police detective interviewed on air was Michael Mayes, the same detective who had interviewed Fawn at the crime scene of the homeless man on Friday.
Fawn believed she knew why the police had already concluded foul play. More than that, she was certain.
She thought back to the homeless man, Claude Agater, and the image of the light red coloring on the visible side of his face, which contrasted with the dark red on top of his head. The latter, she concluded, was dried blood from a massive contusion suffered from the blows from the piece of wood discovered on the roof, but the light red coloring had been something else; something manmade.
Yesterday, she had refused to accept the mounting facts, but now she felt compelled to call the police and suggest the tie. It was ridiculous to propose that the soul of Osceola had returned to seek revenge on the white man, but someone was using Osceola as the motivation for their own psychotic actions. There was a chance her information could lead to an arrest. Fawn would not be able to live with herself if another innocent person died before she got to the authorities with what she knew.
She would keep the information regarding Elizabeth’s ancestral relationship to Osceola a secret as she had promised the woman. Besides, it had no possible bearing on the case. Whoever was committing the murders was obviously unaware of Elizabeth’s heritage.
Drinking her morning coffee, Fawn considered the possibility that it was not a single killer, but a group. She wondered if it could be some hostile Native Americans, or someone trying to frame them.
How was Osceola’s missing skull linked to all this? Perhaps it had resurfaced. She could not deny that it was probably in the possession of Coyle when he committed the murders in North Carolina on his return trip south in 1865, then subsequently removed from Osceola’s grave by Lawrence Courtland shortly before he murdered two innocent people in 1969. It was possible the current-day murderer also had the skull in his or her—or their—possession.
Elizabeth had said her father told her that only the male offspring of the Indian warrior were affected by the curse. Elizabeth was the last living descendent in Osceola’s line, nearly incapacitated, not to mention a female. She was no killer.
After finishing her cup of coffee, Fawn retrieved Detective Mayes’ business card and called the police station.
“Mayes,” the man answered. He sounded tired.
“Detective Mayes, this is Fawn Cortez. I found the body of Claude Agater on Friday, and you interviewed me.”
There was a brief pause. “Yes, I remember. What can I do for you, Ms. Cortez?”
“I have some information that may be related to this case, the hunter murdered in Callahan, and the sailor found yesterday.”
“Go on,” Mayes urged, his voice more engaged now.
“First, I want to preface my statement by saying I don’t have answers, but I think you’ll find the information too coincidental to overlook.” Fawn felt herself tap dancing. Just spit it out.
“Ms. Cortez, I’m listening.”
Fawn paused, knowing her next statement would be presumptuous. “Detective, you have three bodies, including the sailor from yesterday. Each was found with their faces painted half red, and I’m guessing you have no idea why.”
There was no hesitation in Mayes’ response. “Ms. Cortez, I’m not sure where you get your facts, but I have no idea what you’re talking about. Yes, the homeless victim’s face was discolored on one side, but that’s all. This was not a trait of the other victims.”
Fawn knew why he was being so defensive. “Detective, I’m not calling you as a journalist. Nothing we discuss will end up in print. You have my word. I think you need to know that the half-red face has a strong similarity to an historical event.”
Mayes spoke tersely. “Ms. Cortez, I’m not sure where you got—”
“Detective, don’t ask how, but I know.”
Fawn knew she was out on a limb. She had never validated that the Callahan hunter had a half-red face. She had gone strictly on Elizabeth’s word. She suddenly felt very unsure with her information. “I know, at least I’ve heard talk—”
Detective Mayes cut Fawn off. “Ms. Cortez, I’ll humor you. Maybe I’m just humoring myself. Tell me what historical event you’re talking about.” His tone had softened marginally.
Fawn’s reporter instinct kicked in. She seized the opportunity, spending the next few minutes explaining the
history of Osceola, specifically his capture south of St. Augustine, his imprisonment in Fort Marion, and his relocation to Fort Moultrie in Charleston. She went into detail regarding his self-administered death ritual—how on January 30, 1838, the great Indian warrior painted half his face red, lay down, and died.
There was a pause on the phone when she had finished. “You there?” Fawn asked.
“Yes, Ms. Cortez. It’s an interesting story, but I assure you it has no bearing on these murders. Only one victim, the one you witnessed, had any facial discoloration. It was epidermal, caused from external bruises.”
External bruises my ass, Fawn thought, thinking back to the red smudges on her hand. Detective Mayes was not telling the truth. For a brief moment, Fawn considered mentioning the Lawrence Courtland murders in 1969. Since she had been unable to confirm the red face markings of his victims, though, she let it go and ended the conversation abruptly.
****
After Mayes hung up from talking with Fawn Cortez, he propped his feet on the top of his desk and leaned back in his chair, locking his fingers behind his head. He stared at the ceiling.
Then he turned back down to his desk, picked up the autopsy report for Thomas Shane, the Navy man found yesterday afternoon underneath the A1A bridge. Traces of red marker had been discovered on the left side of the victim’s face, most of it washed away from the saltwater submersion. The ink lettering beneath, however, had remained distinct and legible. It was a word that appeared to be a name, but once again, not the name of the victim.
Sizemore.
Since the discovery of this third name—for that is what the police were now convinced they were—Sizemore was joined with Seederman and Lank from the other bodies, and extensive data searches had been conducted. So far, no connection between the three names had been discovered. This morning’s call had brought the first light of hope. It was all he could do not to choke surprise when Fawn Cortez mentioned all three victims had half-red faces.
Then to hear the history of Osceola and his death had his adrenaline flowing. He could not admit it to Fawn Cortez, but she was definitely onto something. Some psycho had formed a kindred relationship with a famous Florida Indian who lived in the 1800s. It was what profilers referred to as an “unrelated revenge murderer.” In this case, the murderer had no real connection to the purported figure who was wronged, but still assumed vigilante justice on behalf of the historical figure. While rare, he had heard of several cases over the years.
Mayes’ mind drifted momentarily. So the half-red coloration suggested Osceola’s death ritual, but he had no idea what the names underneath the red faces had to do with the infamous Indian. There was still the problem of the third inherent trait of each victim. What was the murderer’s justification for the focused mutilation in such a specific manner?
Like a bolt of lightning, it suddenly made perfect sense. The answer was chillingly obvious.
CHAPTER 12
That evening, Tony Liáng stood in the living room of the small, rented house on 1st Street in Cedar Key, Florida. The 56-year-old oriental man was of average height and build, with dark, shoulder-length hair and tufts of gray layered among his long bangs. His John-Lennon-type glasses with photochromic lenses not only hid his poor vision but also assured that he never had to worry about changing to sunglasses when emerging into sunlight. His dark, scaly skin—although faded somewhat recently—was proof the man had spent considerable time outside.
The furnished house had been a nice, tidy residence when he had moved in last April, but Tony was not much of a housekeeper, and it had quickly deteriorated. Cellophane cigarette wrappers, used paper towels, old newspapers and magazines, frozen food trays, and pizza boxes were scattered on every surface. Dust had formed in layers, except around those places where dirty bowls, plates, full ashtrays, or empty beer cans lay. A stench had seeped into the carpet after the first month and now permeated the entire house.
Thankfully, though, the days sequestered here seemed to be nearing an end. This was a job that, with any luck, would be over soon. Afterward, he would head down state and across to Miami where whores would be begging for his attention, wanting a piece of his soon-to-be newfound wealth.
In the meantime, Tony kept his boat in the fenced yard behind the house underneath a large blue tarp. His beat up, rust-stained, light-green Toyota Tacoma was backed into the driveway inside the carport. He kept it pinned against the back wall so that the license plate was hidden.
Across the road, the waters of the Gulf of Mexico captured the last hints of sunlight as the sun dipped below the horizon. Not far away, the Cedar Key Lighthouse sat on a jutting body of land, which curled back toward shore. The area was a wildlife refuge, and Tony had spent many hours staring out the window watching aquatic birds fly inland from the sea and back again. During daylight hours, there was not much else for him to do once the TV shows lost their interest. He had practically memorized every page of printed material in the house. Each night he had fallen asleep on the couch after knocking back a 12-pack of beer.
Tony had seldom ventured outside, save for food runs that consisted primarily of beer, cigarettes, and frozen dinners. He had always gone on foot and was never away from the house for more than 20 minutes at a time.
His instructions had been explicit, and he had been promised a generous payment if everything went as planned. The most recent interaction with his contact, information that originated from Amelia Island on the other side of the state, was promising. Headway was being made.
Tony drew the blinds shut and fell on the couch, landing on an empty cookie box. Aggravated, he cursed and pulled it free, tossing it against the far wall.
He turned and glanced down the abbreviated hallway at the first bedroom where the door remained closed. All was quiet. Content, he turned back, retrieved a pack of cigarettes and lighter from the end table, and found the crumb-covered TV controls on the floor beside the couch. He tapped out a cigarette and lit it. Shaking the controls clean, he hit the ‘on’ button. The TV blared to life, and he lifted his feet across a tangled pile of magazines and debris on the coffee table.
It would not be long before he cracked open that first beer. It was going to be another long, boring night.
CHAPTER 13
Mike called Fawn from his cell phone Wednesday morning. They talked briefly, keeping the conversation light. Fawn continued to honor Elizabeth Courtland’s request not to divulge the information shared with her. Likewise, the phone call with Detective Mayes the day before went unmentioned.
After, Fawn visited Elizabeth, bringing the strawberry ice cream as promised, and told her of the conversation with Detective Mayes. Elizabeth seemed nonplussed Fawn would go to the police with no tangible data to back up her claims. Fawn explained that even though Detective Mayes had dismissed Fawn’s connection of Osceola’s half-red face paint death ritual to the current murders, she sensed he had quietly welcomed the information. The pressure to resolve the murders would certainly escalate with each passing day.
Once again, Fawn got the distinct impression Elizabeth was troubled by something.
By the time Fawn left Elizabeth’s house, she had made a decision. Her research into Osceola’s lover, Sarah Courtland, and their illegitimate son, Coyle, had gone nowhere. The most pertinent details she had acquired were based on the few minutes of searching by the Jamaican teenager, Ralston Gabeil, at the public library on Sunday.
It was time to enlist his services.
She found his business card in her purse, chuckled again after reading his script, then called the cell number. After formalities, Fawn stated her intent to hire him for his research skills. Ralston seemed genuinely enthused and readily accepted. His classes were all scheduled for Tuesdays and Thursdays this term, so with today being an off day, he agreed to meet Fawn at noon at a coffee shop on Centre Street to discuss strategy.
When Fawn arrived on foot, Ralsto
n was already waiting inside Lark’s Coffee. He remained quintessentially casual, wearing a black tee shirt, baggy blue jean shorts, and black sneakers with no socks. His dreadlocks were secured in a ponytail. A notepad was on the small table before him.
“I guess I could have offered to buy you lunch,” Fawn said with a smile.
“No need. I was up late studying and slept in. I had leftover pizza for breakfast before you called.”
“Ah, the breakfast food of college students everywhere,” Fawn smiled. “Three things before we begin. First, call me Fawn. Second, I don’t want you to do anything that will interfere with your schooling. Don’t let this cut into your study or class time. Third, I need you to sign this.” Fawn removed a sheet from her purse and placed it on the table before Ralston, handing him a pen at the same time. “It’s a non-disclosure agreement. It simply states that anything I tell you is considered confidential. You won’t be able to discuss it with anyone but me.”
Ralston seemed to wear a pained expression, as if his feelings were hurt.
“It’s not that I don’t trust you. It’s just a formality all journalists use to protect information shared with external research assistants. If you want to be a journalist someday, it’s good for you to learn how this works. Take a minute to read it.”
Ralston did, his eyes racing from side to side, flowing down the page. Then he took the pen and signed it.
“So now I’m officially an external research assistant?” he asked with a grin, seemingly pleased with the title.
“You’re hired.” Fawn extended her hand as a gesture of congratulations, but Ralston kept his hand by his side. Fawn gave him a curious stare.
Ralston spoke. “One stipulation: you don’t pay me.”
“Why not?” Fawn asked, her empty hand still extended on the table.
Three Keys to Murder Page 8
