Three Keys to Murder

by Gary Williams

  It was switched, Fawn thought. A tremor of excitement raced through her. And now she had a reasonably good idea of who had been responsible.

  “Neither of you seem surprised. Do you understand the ramifications?” Curt asked. He continued without waiting for their answer. “If Dr. Peck saw the true skull of Osceola, that means it was never sent to his son-in-law in New York. A substitute was sent in its place. Which means the skull placed in the New York Medical Museum and lost in the fire was not Osceola’s. The question becomes, what did Dr. Weedon do with the real one?”

  Ralston spoke. “Did Dr. Peck’s writings speculate as to why Weedon might have pulled such a switch?”

  “He gave some commentary,” Curt began, “but it was brief. Dr. Peck didn’t appear to be a man prone to open confrontation, so he never pressed Dr. Weedon about seeing Osceola’s skull in his office after he had supposedly sent it north. Dr. Peck wrote, in his opinion, Dr. Weedon was deceiving the locals and not purposely deceiving his son-in-law.”

  “You mean the local physicians and doctors who wanted to study the head in Florida?” Fawn asked.

  Curt nodded. “Correct.”

  “To get them off his back?” Ralston said.

  ”Yes.”

  Curt spoke. “But the real question is why? Why did Dr. Weedon so adamantly wish to retain the head, even possibly jeopardize his standing in the community by doing so?

  “The sad part of all this is Patty had no supporting evidence for her paper. At the time she initially read Dr. Peck’s papers, she hadn’t understood the significance; therefore, she hadn’t brought it to anyone’s attention. Several years later, reading an article on Osceola, she recalled Dr. Peck’s writing and attempted to find the boxes, to no avail. Even later, as she composed the paper for the assignment, using her photographic memory, she again attempted to find the document as a reference but never could get a fix on where the catalogued boxes ended up. Thus, there was no supporting documentation for her claim.

  “The professor kept the paper because he still found it interesting. He had shared it with me, but again, with no evidence to corroborate the story, it becomes just one of St. Augustine’s many legends.” Curt pulled the report out, holding up for them to see. “Patty got a grade of C-.”

  ****

  Fawn and Ralston strolled back to the car. A myriad of questions rolled through Fawn’s thoughts. She felt herself drifting back to one of her journalism courses.

  “I had a professor, Dr. Miles Storch,” Fawn began. “At one time he was a news journalist for the Atlanta Constitution. A lot of what he said was…well… common sense. The man knew how to attack, address, and present a story as well as anyone I have ever known. His meticulous research and fact-finding gained him admiration and respect among his peers.

  “I’ve never forgotten one of his lectures where he preached the value of a good story by comparing journalists to FBI agents. He told us that, contrary to popular belief, a story is not about who, what, when, and where. Who, what, when, and where fill space and give a story perspective. The real story behind the story, what every reader wants to understand about anything newsworthy, is why. Why did Sirhan Sirhan assassinate Robert Kennedy? Why did a tsunami strike countries bordering the Indian Ocean on Christmas Day 2004? Why did Osama Bin Laden order the attack on the Twin Towers on September 11, 2001? Any first-year journalist can get the who, what, when, and where, but only the most astute, through sweat, research, and endless questions can ascertain the true why behind a story.”

  As they drove along Anastasia Boulevard, Fawn realized the genius in his words. “If we can ascertain the why—Why did Dr. Weedon deceive everyone and keep Oceola’s head—the explanation as to what became of it might be within reach.”

  CHAPTER 35

  “Okay, we know Dr. Frederick Weedon was a man of science,” Fawn began, “we also know he was being pressured to give up Osceola’s skull for research by other doctors in town. If Dr. Weedon’s intent was not to study the skull—which from everything we’ve learned so far seems to indicate he had no interest in doing—why did he hold onto it and send a fake up north?”

  Ralston spoke. “Don’t know, but he succeeded in fooling everyone except Dr. Peck, who just happened to see it in Weedon’s office after he had supposedly sent it away.”

  Ahead, the blue, bulbous flashing lights of a police car came to life behind a white Ford Escort. Seconds later, it pulled off to the side taking the small car with it and the two vehicles drew to a stop as Fawn passed them.

  “You know, your police here seem to take great pleasure in pulling people over,” Ralston said with a hint of disgust. “I didn’t see that car doing anything wrong. He wasn’t speeding.”

  “How do you know?” Fawn replied, feeling an odd need to defend the policeman’s action. “We don’t know what that guy in the Ford might have done. I’m sure the cop has a sound reason.”

  Then, as if struck by a heavy dose of epiphany, Fawn spoke. “Ralston, our curiosity has been focused on Dr. Weedon’s motive for severing Osceola’s head and deceiving people to keep it in his possession, just like you only focused on the policeman. Why had the cop pulled the motorist over to give him a ticket? What we’ve overlooked is cause and effect.”

  Ralston stared at Fawn. Her point had not landed.

  “That interaction back there,” Fawn began.

  “Interaction?”

  “Yes, the interaction of the policeman stopping the motorist. You suggested the policeman had caused the interaction, when in actuality the driver of the Ford had done something to warrant being stopped. He was the cause. The policeman was simply following up on the effect.”

  “What does this have to do with Dr. Weedon?” Ralston asked.

  “We’ve been looking at the cause and effect as being isolated to Dr. Weedon, similar to how you viewed the policeman back there. Whether you realize it or not, you were suggesting the officer orchestrated both, just like we’ve been viewing Dr. Weedon as being fully responsible for the cause and effect of his action.”

  “But he was. Weedon was the one who—”

  “Osceola,” Fawn cut him off with a smile. “What we’ve been overlooking is the relationship between the Indian and Dr. Frederick Weedon. Osceola was the true cause of Dr. Weedon’s actions.”

  “Osceola told Dr. Weedon to cut his head off after he died?” Ralston said with a dash of sarcasm.

  Fawn continued. “Possibly, in a manner of speaking. Osceola and Dr. Weedon had started as patient and physician. Their relationship evolved into friendship, so much so, when Osceola discovered he was being moved to Fort Moultrie in Charleston, South Carolina, he asked Dr. Weedon to transfer with him. We’ll probably never know how willingly Dr. Weedon made the move. He was supporting the Army and may have been ordered there, but it appears he moved of his own volition, temporarily leaving his wife and children behind. Maybe Dr. Weedon felt he was the best one to care for the Indian, or maybe he did it out of friendship.”

  “Or some combination,” Ralston said.

  “In any event, I’m betting his friendship was the key,” Fawn said. “We know Osceola’s health deteriorated while at Fort Moultrie in Charleston. In early January 1838, Osceola shunned white medicine in favor of care from tribal medicine men. In doing so, Dr. Weedon was prevented from treating his friend, relegated to watching. We also know Dr. Weedon was there when Osceola eventually lay down and died on January 30th.”

  “So why did the doctor hang around?” Ralston said.

  “Exactly,” Fawn smiled. “Recall Osceola’s last request—that his remains be interred in Florida soil. This was not an option for the military. They had already prepared his plot in Charleston before his death. Dr. Weedon must have known this.”

  Clarity washed over Ralston’s face. “So Osceola asked Dr. Weedon to help him by moving his remains?”

  “Yes, but it wasn�
��t a practical request Dr. Weedon could have carried out. Sure, he and Osceola were friends, but if he had stolen Osceola’s corpse, it could have ended his military career; therefore, Dr. Weedon did the next best thing. He took Osceola’s head.”

  Ralston spoke. “But he obviously didn’t keep this information private. Why wasn’t he concerned that news of him stealing the head of Osceola would get back to the military—at either Fort Marion in St. Augustine or Fort Moultrie in South Carolina?”

  Fawn replied. “Maybe he received unofficial permission, struck a deal with the military. He took the head; they kept the rest for burial. It was the best alternative for both.”

  “And Dr. Weedon brought the head back down to Florida to bury it?”

  “Yes, although Dr. Weedon didn’t bury it immediately. Maybe he was looking for the right time and place. As pressure built from the medically minded citizens clamoring that the skull should be scrutinized and examined for science, Dr. Weedon decided to divert attention by sending a fake to New York. This would give him time to inter the real skull.”

  “Okay, I understand, but we still have no idea where to start looking for Osceola’s skull in St. Augustine—if it’s even in this city,” Ralston remarked.

  Fawn pulled to the side of the road and reached into the back seat, retrieving the folder Ralston had given her. She thumbed through it momentarily before arriving at the proper page. She read it for nearly a minute then turned and gave Ralston a knowing smile.

  “What?” Ralston asked.

  “Did you look at the search you performed for me?”

  “Briefly. I didn’t have much time before you picked me up.”

  Fawn smiled. “As you could probably tell from the keywords I gave you, I was looking for property owned by Dr. Frederick Weedon.”

  Ralston nodded.

  “This mentions a cemetery plot Dr. Weedon bought in 1837.”

  “Right. The family plot in the old cemetery on the edge of town,” Ralston said. “You think Osceola’s skull is buried with Weedon?”

  “No, the listing here is for a single grave in a different location. The cemetery with the Shrine of Nuestra Senora de la Leche, a quarter mile from the castillo.”

  “You think Osceola’s skull is there? Even so, wouldn’t it be an unmarked grave?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Fawn said, thumbing several pages deep then pointing. “We’ve got a map to the exact plot.”

  ****

  It was nearly 10:30 when Fawn and Ralston stepped from the car and walked across the asphalt parking lot. Across the way, the cemetery and shrine came into view. They reached the footbridge, which arched over a small saltwater pond, and strolled across.

  Yesterday, they were here searching for writing left by the U.S. Ambassador in 1820 that would tell the sequence of keys to unlock the Zaile treasure. This time they were in search of Osceola’s skull and the key that was said to be within it.

  To the right, the pond stretched toward the bay. Across the bridge the hallowed ground of the ancient cemetery was shielded by the mass of trees, mostly oaks, whose canvassing limbs cloaked the area.

  The sidewalk split at the far side of the bridge, sending one path winding to the left, and a second, turning right, meandering over a bulkhead and ending at the point where the Beacon of Faith Cross stood majestically. Rising 208 feet in the air, its massive stainless-steel structure towered over the landscape. Sunlight beamed eloquently off its towering metallic trunk.

  A short distance away sat a tiny chapel, Nombre de Dios Mission, overgrown with ivy that enveloped a large section of the wall. Farther beyond, Matanzas Bay gleamed back at them in the distance. There was an earthy smell here, tinged with salt blowing in from the bay. Aged statues, markers, and tombstones rose from the grounds in seemingly random fashion.

  Fawn opened the folder and consulted the map. She looked up, using the small chapel to orient herself, then again reexamined the diagram. She took the left fork where the sidewalk ran alongside the chapel. All the headstones they passed were weathered, dating to the 1800s.

  Fawn continued to eye the map as Ralston trailed silently. She soon left the sidewalk and moved onto the grass. Ralston followed somewhat hesitantly. She stopped before a headstone and pointed, then read the inscription aloud:

  THE REMAINS OF 17TH-CENTURY CATHOLIC NATIVE AMERICANS WERE REINTERRED AT THIS SITE

  “Dr. Frederick Weedon owned this plot?”

  Fawn referenced the paper again. “The good doctor left the plot to the city. See,” she pointed to a page. “Your search even turned up an article stating officials had added more remains here in 1997.”

  “Then this may very well be the place the skull of Osceola is buried along with another key!” Ralston said excitedly.

  Fawn nodded stoically. “Yeah, and just like we can’t tear into the Amelia Island Lighthouse, we can’t dig up this plot. Unfortunately, we’ll never have more than one key, Ralston.” She smirked. “If you think about it, it doesn’t matter. We don’t know where the treasure is anyway, not to mention the sequence to use the keys. I think we’ve reached the end of our treasure hunt.”

  They returned to the car. Fawn was surprised with herself at how easily she had given up.

  CHAPTER 36

  Leaving St. Augustine, a news report came across the radio. Another victim of the serial killer, now known as the “Half-Red Skull Murderer,” had been discovered early that morning in St. Augustine at the Osceola capture marker on U.S. 1. The woman was the second victim in succession leading away from the Fernandina Beach area.

  For Fawn, that did it. She pulled into a convenience store parking lot on the outskirts of St. Augustine and turned to Ralston.

  She looked sternly at the young man. “You mentioned Mike donated a kidney in 2002. Where did you get your information?”

  Ralston looked at her timidly. “Online. He was a chosen donor.”

  “Who was the recipient?”

  “It’s protected hospital information, stored locally in the hospital, behind a firewall.”

  “What hospital?”

  “Reynolds Memorial in Gainesville. The transplant took place there.”

  Fawn took a deep breath. “Could you find out who the recipient was if you were on the inside?”

  Ralston wore a startled expression. “Well…yes.”

  “Then that’s where we’re going,” Fawn said, resolutely, guiding the car onto the interstate.

  This time they headed west.

  ****

  At 12:35 p.m., Fawn and Ralston entered Reynolds Memorial Hospital, pausing inside the first set of pneumatic doors.

  “You got a plan to get me behind a terminal?” Ralston asked.

  “Work in progress. Can you access the information from any workstation?”

  “Most likely.”

  “Then follow my lead,” Fawn responded. She turned, untucked her blouse from her jeans, and ruffled her hair slightly. “Let’s go.”

  Fawn moved forward sluggishly, and the second set of pneumatic doors swished open. Ralston followed a half step behind. An elderly woman with short, gray hair and oversized glasses sat at the front desk, a single computer monitor perched in front of her.

  Fawn practically fell onto the counter. “I don’t feel good. Where’s the Emeeergency roooooom?” she slurred, keeping her head down. Ralston came to her side as if comforting her.

  “Oh dear,” The woman said. “It’s that way. Shall I call for assistance?” She looked at Ralston with his swinging dreadlocks and all.

  “No, I got her,” Ralston replied.

  “It’s no problem,” the woman said.

  “Where’s…where’s the bathroom?” Fawn asked.

  The elderly woman pointed to the side wall.

  Without another word, Fawn stumbled toward the bathroom with Ralston in tow. “Come inside
with me,” she whispered to him.

  They reached the bathroom door and pushed inside, thankful to find it empty. “I’m going in a stall. Get her to come in here. Tell her it’s a woman problem, and don’t let her call for other assistance. As soon as she’s in here, you get to that terminal behind the desk.”

  Ralston nodded.

  He left the bathroom hurriedly and approached the desk where the woman looked at him intently. “Is she okay?” OversizedGlasses asked.

  “She needs assistance. It’s a woman thing,” Ralston said, feigning immense concern.

  OversizedGlasses remained at her post looking unsure. Just then, a couple entered the hospital and approached the desk, asking for patient room information. She typed on the terminal and gave the information as Ralston waited impatiently to the side.

  This was not working as Fawn had planned. They needed for this woman to leave the desk and go into the bathroom.

  “You might want to go check on her,” Ralston suggested to the woman as the couple walked away.

  “Sorry, I can’t leave the desk. I’ve been here 20 years now. A volunteer ‘Lifer,’ as they call me, and I don’t break the rules.”

  Just then, a succession of high-pitched, inaudible words came from the women’s bathroom, followed by a low-pitched drumming sound. Ralston looked at OversizedGlasses and ran to the bathroom door, quickly entering. Fawn’s expression was anxious. “Get her in here,” she whispered.

  Ralston turned and departed. He could see OversizedGlasses on the phone at the desk, and his adrenaline notched up.

  “Yes, we need help at the front desk. Tommy’s on break, and a woman is ill in the bathroom at the entrance,” Ralston heard the woman say into the phone.