Almost unconsciously, Fawn looked at her hand, amazed she still held her cell phone. 9-1-1 was locked in the display. She rolled to the side and sat up.
She took several deep breaths through her nose, exhaling through her mouth, and punched the call button.
****
Detective Mayes was in the station when the call came in. Dispatch confirmed the identifying half-red face of the victim.
On his way, Detective Mayes received more information from dispatch. He was amazed to discover the victim was none other than Elizabeth Courtland. A name he had only come to know the day before.
The unbelievable was starting to take on an air of possibility. The fact the murder victim was Elizabeth Courtland was an overwhelming tie to the evidence already uncovered. It seemed more and more plausible that the fingerprints found on the piece of wood on the rooftop where the homeless man had been murdered were genuine and belonged to the improbable suspect.
Detective Mayes arrived at the scene, surprised to find the reporter, Fawn Cortez, standing on the sidewalk talking to a uniformed officer. He joined the conversation.
“Ms. Cortez, you’re on the scene quickly. Police scanner in your car?” Mayes asked. She slowly looked up with sorrowful eyes, and he noticed the pale features of her face. His voice changed to one of surprise as he made the connection. “You discovered the body?”
Fawn nodded weakly.
Dispatch failed to say who had reported the crime. That it was Fawn Cortez raised immediate suspicion for Detective Mayes. He was torn between taking Fawn Cortez aside to ask a litany of questions or waiting to interrogate her at the station. Examining the crime scene was a priority, and since the woman before him appeared badly shaken, this was a non-decision. He would interview Cortez later.
Mayes stepped over the threshold of the doorway as police cordoned off the area. He retrieved a handkerchief from his pocket, covering his nose and mouth from the putrid smell originating from inside.
The detective had every intention of throwing this homicide into FBI Special Agent Ustes’ face. He blamed the FBI for their decision; the 67% probability that mentioning the specific characteristics of the murder victims and emphasizing the words underneath the red were illegible would somehow nudge the killer into a mistake. In Mayes’ eyes, this was an irresponsible risk gone horribly awry, evidenced by the death of Ms. Courtland. His fervor to confront Special Agent Ustes was deflated once the time of death had been determined. Elizabeth Courtland had died of strangulation 24 hours ago, long before the FBI’s news conference last evening, which meant a copycat killing could be virtually ruled out.
Ustes arrived within the hour. After an examination of the crime scene, Detective Mayes advised the FBI agent that the woman who discovered the body, Fawn Cortez, awaited questioning at the police station.
Three hours later, the body of Elizabeth Courtland was bagged and taken away in the coroner’s wagon. By now, throngs of neighbors had come and gone, although a small contingent of diehards still stood to the side talking in hushed tones. TV news crews and reporters had arrived, interviewing anybody and everybody.
****
At 1:38 p.m., Fawn sat dejectedly in a small conference room in the Fernandina police station. She had concluded her statement nearly two hours ago but had been required to remain until Detective Mayes and an FBI agent had an opportunity to speak with her. She was tired, sad, and growing ever more impatient.
The door to the conference room swung inward, and Detective Mayes and another man took seats at the table. The second man was an African American who looked to be in his early fifties, bald, with sharp features and pressed lips. Fawn recognized him from the press conference the night before.
“Ms. Cortez, I’m FBI Special Agent Kelvin Ustes,” he said, offering a handshake.
“Ustes?” Fawn asked. She had not paid attention to his name last night.
“I know. I don’t look like a Ustes. Father was Mexican. Mother was jet black. I’m a shade between.”
Fawn was not sure if this was meant as humor. Ustes had said it in a whimsical manner but maintained a stoic expression.
Detective Mayes continued. “Ms. Cortez, we’ve both read your statement and want to review a couple things. I’ve already notified Special Agent Ustes of your involvement in the discovery of Claude Agater’s body last Friday. We both agree the odds are overwhelming one person would discover two corpses within an eight-day period, which seem to be attributed to the same killer.”
Fawn looked at the detective with raised eyebrows. “Are you implying I’m under suspicion?”
“Not at all,” Ustes responded, “but you have to admit, it’s intriguing.”
Fawn’s emotions flared. “Intriguing? I discover a friend dead, and you consider this intriguing? Besides, I didn’t discover Claude Agater’s body.”
“You’re right, Ms. Cortez,” Ustes relented somewhat. “That was a poor choice of words, but please understand, we have to follow every lead.” Then his tone firmed. “The fact that you happened to be in the area where two of the killer’s victims were discovered, though, is something the FBI can’t and won’t overlook.”
“We’re not saying you’re involved,” Detective Mayes added, “not intentionally, anyway.”
“Not involved intentionally? What is it you are saying?” Fawn grew aggravated.
“Tell us again about your last contact with Elizabeth Courtland,” Ustes asked.
“I gave a statement,” Fawn said in an irritated tone.
“You occasionally checked in on Ms. Courtland, right?” Mayes prodded.
Fawn slumped, exhaled, and brushed a long tress out of her weary face. “Ms. Courtland is…was…an invalid. My fiancé, Mike Roberson, and his parents grew up on the same street as the Courtlands. Even with their age difference, Mike and Elizabeth remained close. Mike’s out of town in training, so he asked me to check on her from time to time. I went to her house yesterday morning. Thursday. I only talked to her through the door. She said she was tired and didn’t feel well, and to come back tomorrow. So I left.”
“What was her mood yesterday?” Ustes asked.
Fawn sighed. “Like I said, she told me she wasn’t feeling well and to come back in the morning. She sounded despondent. I never saw her face.”
“And you live four houses down from her, correct?” Mayes added.
Fawn nodded. She felt her anger ebb, wondering why he kept asking her for information that he already knew. She decided to turn the table on Detective Mayes. “So did you tell the FBI about the history I conveyed to you?”
Detective Mayes fidgeted in his seat, momentarily silent, as if choosing his next words with infinite care. “Ms. Cortez, we’re working in strict confidence with the FBI. I can’t divulge any matters discussed at this time.”
Fawn turned to Special Agent Ustes with a determined stare. “What your cohort here means is the murder victims bear a strikingly similar trait to the famous Seminole—”
“Indian, Osceola,” Ustes finished her sentence, “who painted the left half of his face red on January 30, 1838 before he lay down and died from illness while imprisoned in Fort Moultrie, on the outskirts of Charleston, South Carolina.”
Fawn did not even attempt to mask her surprise. She had been sure Detective Mayes had not passed on the information to the FBI. Obviously she was wrong.
Fawn’s combative anger subsided for the remainder of the questioning, even though they continued to rehash questions she already answered in her previous statement.
Fawn walked out of the police station at 4:12 that afternoon, mentally and emotionally exhausted. A patrolman gave her a ride home.
****
Ustes turned to Detective Mayes. They were alone in the conference room. “Ms. Cortez told you about the murder victims’ similarity to Osceola’s death mask?”
“Yes.”
/> “When?”
“Tuesday morning,” Detective Mayes replied.
“And you didn’t think it pertinent to relay that to the FBI?” Agent Ustes scolded.
The detective paused. “I was still in the process of doing some research and—”
“Anything else you care to share with me, Detective?” Ustes’ tone was now condescending.
“Look,” Mayes responded sharply, “you know everything I know; probably a lot more given you’re the F-B-I. You obviously knew about the Osceola resemblance anyway.”
“I knew because we had forty or fifty history majors and several professors call the hotline number after the broadcast last night. They all recognized the similarity.”
“Has it led to anything?” Detective Mayes asked diplomatically.
Ustes exhaled. “Between 6:50 last night and now, we’ve been running a myriad of data searches incorporating Osceola with the three words or names: Seederman, Sizemore, and Lank. So far nothing. I’ve got two agents…,” Ustes checked his watch, “who, as we speak, are at the Seminole reservation near Lake Okeechobee downstate talking to some contacts. The culprit could be of Native American descent carrying on Osceola’s memory in the modern world.
“I spoke to three professors at local universities this morning. None was able to draw any formidable conclusions between Osceola’s death rite and the manner that the current murder victims were marked. This doesn’t mean that the information won’t in some way assist with the murderer’s capture. If we can definitively link the killer to Osceola somehow, we should be able to leverage this information and possibly devise a trap.
“Now, I ask again,” Ustes’ tone was suppressed, but charged, “is there anything else you wish to share? Because if I find out you’re hiding any more secrets, I’ll hit you with an obstruction of justice charge.”
“There is one more thing,” Detective Mayes spoke. “For the record, I was not hiding this from you. I wanted absolute confirmation before I approached you.”
The FBI agent withdrew a notepad and pen from inside his suit jacket. He clicked the pen and waited patiently for Detective Mayes to continue.
Mayes continued. “Our lab guy came up with a fingerprint yesterday from the murder weapon used on the homeless man. A fluke really. We’ve run it against the national database.”
Ustes’ eyes widened marginally. “Get a match?”
“Yes.”
Ustes slammed the pen down on the pad. “Then why the hell didn’t you tell us?”
“Because you’re not going to like the answer.”
****
That evening, FBI specialists working in concert with Fernandina Beach forensics identified four distinctive sets of fingerprints from inside the Courtland house. The first three sets belonged to Elizabeth Courtland, Fawn Cortez, and Mike Roberson, but the fourth set matched the prints found on the piece of wood known to be the murder instrument used on the homeless man, Claude Agater.
FBI Special Agent Kelvin Ustes was sitting with Fernandina Police Detective Michael Mayes when they got the report.
“This is definitive,” Ustes said. “Now we know who we’re after.”
“Aren’t you being a bit hasty?” Mayes asked. “It’s not beyond the realm of possibility his prints were in the house prior to yesterday when the murder took place.”
Ustes maintained an impassive demeanor. “Only if Ms. Courtland was the worst housekeeper alive. It’s been too long.”
“She was an invalid. It’s possible she hadn’t cleaned for some time.”
“Detective, you saw the place. It had probably been cleaned within the last two weeks. Those prints were fresh.”
Detective Mayes sat quietly for a moment. Ustes was right, and Mayes knew it, but how was it possible? “So what next? We put out a bulletin to arrest a dead man?”
Ustes spoke. “No, we can’t do that. The reason is obvious. If there’s the smallest chance we’re wrong, the public outcry would be tremendous. I’m not willing to take the risk right now, but we sure as hell can start looking for him.”
The phone on the table rang, and Mayes answered. For nearly 90 seconds, he listened without saying a word. Then he hung up.
“That was our coroner, Tommy Jones. We may be dealing with a copycat killer after all.”
Ustes cocked his head, and Mayes continued. “As we had noticed, the crown of Elizabeth Courtland’s head was not mutilated like the other victims, and now we have another disparity. When the red paint was cleared from her face, there was nothing beneath.”
“No word? No name?” Ustes asked.
“Your forensic buddies are on site and just confirmed. They even ran a test with the red compound to make sure there were no traces of ink or graphite in it, in case the writing had come off.”
“Also,” Mayes continued, “the method of death was strangulation, a departure from the other three, who were bludgeoned.”
“Note also that the first three murder victims were found outside, yet Ms. Courtland was killed in her den. By itself, that doesn’t necessarily mean we have a copycat, but the murderer’s pattern may be changing, which is not altogether uncommon.”
Yeah, but it sure as hell makes you wonder, Mayes thought.
For a few seconds, the room was silent. Then Ustes spoke, his tone suddenly consolatory. “By the way, for what it’s worth, I would have done the same thing.”
Mayes was confused. “What?”
“In Simi Valley. You had no reason to be suspicious. The crimes had occurred in the victims’ homes, and it was a routine call. You were leading a task force and had no business responding.”
Mayes turned and swallowed hard out of Ustes’ view. “I appreciate the words, Ustes, but I’d rather not talk about it.”
CHAPTER 17
Fawn could not shake the morbid image of Elizabeth propped sedately in her recliner, looking more like a hideous painted wax figure than a human. Only after hearing the six o’clock news did she realize, based on the time of death, the woman was killed sometime shortly after she had spoken to her behind the door Thursday morning. Fawn had gone over these events and her last conversation with Elizabeth in detail with the detective and the FBI agent. She had mentioned how Elizabeth did not sound like herself. Her tone had been preoccupied, distant, possibly frightened; however, it had not occurred to her until now, upon realizing Elizabeth’s death had occurred yesterday morning, that the killer must have been in the house with Elizabeth when she had knocked on the door.
Fawn broke into tears. Just as she gained her composure, Mike called on his cell from Connecticut to see how things were going. Fawn had never been one to master the art of breaking bad news and stammered awkwardly through tears describing what had happened.
In bed later that evening, Fawn contemplating the harsh effect the news had had on Mike. He had wept upon hearing of Elizabeth’s death. Fawn considered Mike an emotional rock, and his somber, tearful reaction was frankly somewhat surprising. It was the first time she had heard her fiancé cry and, of course, it had rekindled her own emotions.
****
Not far away, a man in a hotel room pushed the play button on a recording device. The transmitter was hidden in the table lamp in Elizabeth Courtland’s den and had recorded a most interesting conversation Thursday morning. This would be the sixth time the man had listened to it.
On it, a man who referred to himself as “R.B.” was in Elizabeth Courtland’s house yelling at the woman. The two were obviously very familiar with each other. She asked R.B. about the murder victims, the half-red face trait, and whether he was responsible. She questioned him about the skull and whether he had it, telling him, if he did, he should get rid of it because it was cursed. Then Elizabeth had broken into tears.
All the questioning only caused R.B.’s anger to erupt. He told Elizabeth that he wanted her to listen as he rea
d a letter he had acquired from inside the guitar when he had broken into Elizabeth’s house in July looking for money. Then he began reading:
“April 7, 1865. Dearest Coyle, by the time you read this I will have…”
Seven minutes later, R.B. stopped reading and declared that this is what had driven him. When Elizabeth asked if there was more to the letter, R.B. confirmed that Sarah Courtland had instructed Coyle where to place the bones of Osceola on Amelia Island and had mentioned she had sketched him directions, but the map had not been with the letter. The text description in the letter had been precise enough that R.B. had located the skull several weeks ago anyway.
The man turned off the playback with a click. The rest of the conversation and the subsequent violence was inconsequential. He was now certain that the seemingly unrelated stories, the one he had first heard last March and the one yesterday morning when R.B. read the letter, were ultimately connected.
Now, with Elizabeth Courtland dead, it was imperative he find R.B.
CHAPTER 18
The weekend was a blur for Fawn. Mike had offered to abandon his training and return home from Connecticut, but Fawn had ultimately dissuaded him from doing so. A possible promotion and pay increase waited in the wings upon completion. While the small community of Fernandina Beach had been rocked by this most recent death, police were patrolling the neighborhoods with increased manpower, supported by volunteer officers. Fawn assured Mike she was safe.
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