“Ms. Courtland, it’s Fawn,” she said loudly into the solid door.
Fawn waited for a response.
“Ms. Courtland? Is everything okay?” her voice escalated. Where could she be? Asleep?
“Ms. Courtland?!” Fawn’s voice tensed. She looked at the cell phone in her hand and dialed Elizabeth’s number again. She could hear a distant ring coming from somewhere inside, but it went unanswered.
Fawn backed off the stoop and was about to circle the house when a voice called through the door.
“Fawn, child, I’m here.” Elizabeth’s words sounded hollow, detached.
Fawn stepped to the front door. “Ms. Courtland, are you okay? I tried your phone and you didn’t answer.”
“I’m fine, dear. I wasn’t expecting you today.”
“Can I come in, Ms. Courtland? I want to discuss something with you.”
“Not today. I’m not feeling well. Just need some rest. Come back tomorrow.” Elizabeth spoke in uncharacteristic short, choppy sentences.
“Oh, okay,” Fawn conceded.
“Please let me be now.” There was a slight, unmistakable tremble in Elizabeth’s words. Fawn had often wondered about Elizabeth’s mental state. Being stricken at such a relatively young age with a debilitating disease; having no family and few close friends beyond Mike, she wondered if the woman had ever suffered from depression. Mike had never mentioned any problems.
Fawn momentarily placed her ear to the front door, trying to hear inside. Silence. Confused, Fawn strolled back to her house, contemplating Elizabeth’s bizarre behavior. She would mention it to Mike on the phone this evening to get his insight.
****
Ralston stared at Fawn with an accusatory smile as he walked into her house.
“What?” Fawn asked naïvely as she closed the door behind him.
“It took me a while, but I figured out what you did this morning. You prodded the old cop. You tarnished his ego.”
She smiled. “Ralston, information isn’t always found in the library, on the Internet, or even by asking someone a direct question. Many times, information is gained by nudging people into action, then allowing them to do the legwork.”
She led him into the living room where they took seats.
“Ms. Cortez, with all due respect, you suckered that man; played on his need as an ex-officer to be in-the-know.”
Fawn smiled. “Valuable thing to remember if you want to be a reporter, Ralston. Police are their own fraternity. They share information with their brethren even after they’ve left the force. Then they rely on an unwritten code of confidentiality. When an ex-officer is left out, especially when he or she feels they may have insight into a particular case, their feelings get hurt.”
“Did he make a call?”
Fawn gave Ralston a look of praise. “You did figure it out. Yes, he phoned someone at the police station named Bernie.” Fawn suddenly grew very serious. She took a deep breath. “What I heard was both frightening and bizarre.”
Fawn paused. “Remember, you’re bound by your confidentiality agreement.”
He nodded, interest rising in his eyes.
“The current victims have a name written underneath the red coloring on their faces.”
“What name? The name of the murderer?”
“It’s a different name each time, so it can’t be the murderer, and it’s not the victim’s name, either.”
“That is strange,” Ralston added.
“Not as strange as the last trait of the victims,” Fawn said, looking straight ahead. Her voice rattled as she spoke. “Each man had been scalped.”
****
Detective Mayes sat quietly at his desk. He had spent the last hour picking at a sandwich. He took a sip of his watered-down iced tea then stared at his scattered notes as he revisited every detail of each murder. Although the Callahan and A1A killings were technically out of his jurisdiction, he could not help but think of them as a whole based on the commonality of the mutilation and distinctive signatures left by the killer or killers.
The database search of the three names—Seederman, Lank, and Sizemore—had been a dismal failure. Even singly, searching each word individually, nothing of interest had turned up.
DNA tests positively confirmed that the skin and hair patch found on the beach last Friday belonged to the homeless man, Claude Agater.
With the discovery of the third murder victim, the FBI had arrived in force this morning, setting up a mobile command post in North Jacksonville. Jacksonville was a much larger metropolitan area than either Callahan or Amelia Island, and this equated to greater resource accessibility and local manpower deployment if needed. The FBI profilers had already drawn a picture of a psychopath living in a large, nearby city, where he/she/they could be lost among the crowds.
In any event, Mayes was thankful the FBI had chosen to take up residence in Jacksonville. He had worked with them before, and he was not a fan, even though they got the positive press, or maybe because of it. He had already been forced to turn over copies of his files to the Feds. Their detached proximity might help keep them off his butt. It would only be a matter of time before his involvement was relegated to little more than an informant to the Feds, but that did not mean he would stop working it from a local angle.
The epiphany that the victims had been scalped was more disturbing than Mayes would even admit to himself. Mayes thought of the one piece of evidence, just a theory really, that he had failed to turn over to the FBI: notes from his conversation with Fawn Cortez about the Seminole Indian, Osceola. That the Seminole warrior had conducted a death ritual by painting half his face red just before passing away in captivity in 1838 was fact. That someone was mimicking this act in modern-day Florida after committing heinous murders could be coincidence.
The phone on Detective Mayes’ desk rang, stirring him from his thoughts, and he answered.
“This is Special Agent Kelvin Ustes with the FBI. Is this the same Detective Michael Mayes from Simi Valley, California, who, three years ago—”
“Yes,” Mayes cut him off, “what can I do for you, Agent Ustes?”
“We’re notifying police departments in the surrounding areas, particularly those in locales where victims were discovered, that there will be a televised press conference at 1800 hours with details regarding the serial killer and the murder victims.”
“What details? We don’t know the first thing about the killer.”
“We’ve got a psychological profile we feel strongly about. In addition, we’re going to list the traits of the murder victims—the removal of the skin from the crown of the head, the half-red faces, and the words written underneath on the skin.”
Mayes was confused. “I understand giving out the profile information of the murderer, but why expose the killer’s signature traits? You might bring out a copycat killer, not to mention you’re giving the killer a reason to change his pattern to throw you off track.”
“Normally, I’d agree with you, but we’re going to release the information hoping to evoke a reaction.”
Mayes was incensed. “A reaction? With the public? You’ll get a reaction, all right. You’ll get panic.”
There was a brooding laugh on the other end of the line. “Detective Mayes, we know what we’re doing. We’re not going to give the names found on the faces. We’ll only say that illegible words were discovered. Obviously, our murderer has some agenda in using these particular names. If he believes we have no idea what the words are, he’ll be roused. We feel there’s a 67% chance he’ll make direct contact with the press or police to ensure we get whatever message he’s trying to convey. It’s part of his motive. Our profiler is certain the killer wants—no, needs—an audience. The words—those names—have some deep meaning to him, and if he thinks the message isn’t getting out, he might get sloppy and send it in to a newspaper
on a piece of paper, leave prints, or make a phone call that can be traced. We’re looking for him to give us a lead; something tangible so we can find him.”
Detective Mayes gritted his teeth. “Yeah, or maybe when he kills the next guy, he’ll write four names: the first three plus a new one. Got any Vegas odds on that one?” Mayes’ thoughts momentarily swirled off-topic, and he wondered what the odds would have been of saving his younger brother if he had responded to the call with Carlisle so many years ago.
There was a long moment of silence. “It’s a very low probability. In any event, we need you local guys, including the Fernandina Beach PD, not to disclose the words found on the victims. If you do, you’ll blow our whole strategy.”
After Mayes hung up, he began pacing beside his desk. Ustes was playing with fire. Something was not right about the murders, and even though the evidence suggested it, these did not feel like pattern killings.
The phone rang, and Mayes answered without looking at the caller ID.
“Detective Mayes,” he grumbled, still resentful of the FBI’s pending plan. Ustes’ ostentatious behavior had turned his afternoon to shit.
“Detective, this is Lucas.” Mayes recognized the name of one of the lab technicians at the murder scene last Friday.
“Yeah, Lucas,” his voice softened.
“I’ve got good news and bad news,” the tech started. “In reexamining the wood plank from the top of the building that was used to kill Claude Agater, we found the head of a nail embedded just below the surface. We believe the nail head had originally been flush with the surface then driven below the surface, probably upon impact with the victim’s head. Interestingly, the wood fibers caved in around the nail head effectively masking it, hence the reason we didn’t see it before. Think of it like a hole that’s been covered with surrounding dirt.”
Mayes cut in. “Are we going to get to the good news and the bad news?”
“The good news is that the blow that sunk the nail must have only struck a small area of the head.”
“And why is this good news?” Mayes could feel his patience draining.
“Because the rest of the nail head, even though covered with wood fibers, was pristine. On it, we found a very clear fingerprint, and it’s not Claude Agater’s.”
This was phenomenal news. Then he remembered there was a downside. “Let me guess: the print’s not registered.”
“Oh no, we found it in the database almost immediately,” the technician replied.
Detective Mayes could feel adrenaline surge. “What’s the bad news? Don’t tell me it’s from some 200-year-old Indian.”
“Well, not exactly…”
CHAPTER 16
Fawn was surprised when she saw the six o’clock news. There was a live cutover to an FBI command post in North Jacksonville. A tall, lean, well-dressed African American man stood at a podium.
“The Federal Bureau of Investigation has been called in to oversee the apprehension of the person or persons responsible for a string of murders in Northeast Florida.
“The murder victims—Russell Doyle, visiting family from Buffalo and killed in Callahan, Claude Agater of Amelia Island, and Thomas Shane of Lexington Park, Maryland, stationed at Mayport Naval Station in Jacksonville—had similar post-death characteristics.
“In each case, the murderer removed the top section of the skin and hair of the head and painted the left half of the victim’s face red. Also, a word or words was inscribed underneath the red coloring, but in each case, the writing was illegible.
“If you have any information regarding these crimes, please contact the FBI at 1-800-555-8376.”
That is not what she heard from eavesdropping on Rudley’s conversation to police that morning. The local police had already concluded they were names, and surely the FBI knew this also. Fawn could not imagine why they would purposely lie about one of the facts of the case.
Fawn spoke to Ralston to confirm he had heard the report before retiring to bed later that evening. For a long time, she sat on the edge of the mattress, considering her father’s cigar box beneath the bed.
As usual, a mix of emotions pushed through her mind; emotions she had yet to comprehend fully. She eventually rolled to the side, shut the table lamp off, and pulled the covers up. Focusing on the murders, she quietly washed the cigar box—and the memory of her father—from her thoughts.
Several hours later, Fawn woke up crying. She had no idea why.
****
Fawn rapped on Elizabeth’s door with the hope of finally questioning the woman about the circumstances surrounding Lawrence Courtland’s arrest: specifically, his apprehension at Fort Clinch in one of the bastion galleries while carrying a hammer and a block of wood.
Fawn waited patiently on the front porch, but after several minutes had passed with no answer, Fawn knocked again, this time with force.
“Ms. Courtland? It’s Fawn.”
Thirty seconds passed. It felt like déjà vu.
Fawn knocked for an exaggerated time. “Ms. Courtland, are you okay?”
It was possible she was still asleep. Fawn pulled her cell phone from her pocket and began dialing. Seconds later, she heard the muffled chirp of Ms. Courtland’s phone coming from somewhere inside. Still on the porch, Fawn moved to the side, trying to see through the front window, but as usual, Ms. Courtland had the drapes drawn tightly.
Fawn let the phone ring six times then moved to the front door and knocked hard, continuing to call out. She put her ear to the door, hopeful of hearing some movement.
All was quiet. Concern blossomed.
Instinctively, she tried the door handle. To her surprise, it gave, and the door creaked, opening slowly inward.
Ms. Courtland never left the front door unlocked.
Fawn leaned in. The house was dark, and there was an unusually pungent aroma. “Ms. Courtland? It’s Fawn. Are you okay?”
Still no answer.
Fawn pushed through the doorway and closed the door behind her, continuing to call for the woman. The house was still, and the smell remained. The entryway led to the living room, where everything was immaculate.
“Ms. Courtland?” Fawn yelled. Nothing. Fawn was committed now. Even if the woman was asleep, she would wake her up at least to be sure she was safe. Ms. Courtland would understand.
Fawn moved purposefully, walking from the living room to the hallway leading to the back den. The house remained ghostly quiet, and Fawn felt an uncharacteristic shiver creep up her back. Before she could discard it, a second one overtook her.
She paused to steel her nerves. She would check the den and then go to Ms. Courtland’s connecting bedroom, if necessary.
“Ms. Courtland?” she lowered her voice, speaking tentatively now. Everything about the place— the ever pungent smell, the stagnant air, the banal hallway, the silence—had Fawn on guard. Concern swelled in her. She paused in the middle of the hallway to listen, hearing only her own hard swallow and shallow breathing.
Fawn started to call out again but felt very uncomfortable as a renewed smell struck her. This time it was vile.
Her heart raced. She looked down at the cell phone in her hand and dialed 9-1-1 but stopped short of hitting the call button. Practically against her will, Fawn forced herself forward, continuing down the hallway and into the den.
Suffused light spilled through the thin veil of curtains across the back wall.
Then she saw it. Saw her.
The sight was otherworldly. For a moment, Fawn’s mind refused to accept that the figure perched in the recliner before her could ever have been Elizabeth Courtland.
Clothed in a long gray dress, the feet on the ground were turned inward and the knees spread apart like a shy child, stretching the paisley material. Her arms were positioned on the hand rests, right arm facing up, left arm down as if playing some macabre gam
e. The material around the top two buttons of the dress was crumpled and bathed in splotched red. Her neck was riddled with thin vertical lines of red, black, and blue marks.
The epitome of the morbid display, though, was Elizabeth Courtland’s face. Like a ghastly marionette, her head lay back at an irregular angle on the headrest, and her eyes were slit open, revealing only thin, pallid orbs of white. The face was perfectly segmented, with vibrant red on the left, powdered white on the right. Her hair was pulled in its usual tight bun, but the roots that framed her face were no longer gray, instead streaked with red and white.
Fawn felt herself go dizzy. She took a labored step forward then paused, realizing the killer might still be in the house. She nervously glanced to each side. The den was sparsely furnished and otherwise empty. Fawn moved left and turned so that the hallway was in her peripheral vision to her right. Cautiously she refocused on Elizabeth’s body to her left.
Fawn stared at the horror, frozen in place. A second look did not make the scene more palatable. As the room remained deathly quiet, she felt her chest tighten, and she struggled for breath. Her entire body began to shake. Out of self-preservation, she broke her gaze from the grotesque body sitting in the chair.
Her next thought was to run; to get the hell out of there, but an inner strength willed her to stay. She had to know if Ms. Courtland was alive, even if the inevitability seemed a foregone conclusion.
Fawn moved toward Elizabeth, looking indirectly at the figure slumped to her side. She might have to touch the woman’s wrist, but she could not stand the thought of looking into those void, vacant eyes framed within the two-colored face again.
Suddenly, a new wave of fetid smell struck her, and she involuntarily turned, then faltered, nearly falling into the wall. The room swirled. Bracing herself, her vision cleared somewhat, and she stumbled up the hallway, as the odor clung to her mercilessly.
Fawn reached the front door, swung it open and thrust herself outside, falling hard to her knees on the porch. For the second consecutive Friday, she barely suppressed the bile that tried to escape after seeing a corpse. The bright outdoors clouded before her, and rivulets of sweat erupted across her face. Fawn struggled diligently to remain conscious as gray and purple popped in her field of view. The swell of nausea might pass if she could just hold on. Moments later, the world came back together.
Three Keys to Murder Page 10
