Three Keys to Murder

by Gary Williams

  “She needs you in there! Hurry!” Ralston shouted.

  OversizedGlasses hesitated, stopped, locked the terminal with a few keystrokes, then ambled to the bathroom, where she pushed through the door. Ralston raced behind the desk, hoping Fawn could detain the woman long enough for him to do what he needed to do.

  An internal clock in Ralston’s mind began winding down. OversizedGlasses had called for assistance. He knew a doctor, orderly, or security guard would be on the way. At best, Ralston reasoned he had three minutes tops, and thirty seconds had already passed.

  He sat down at the terminal, praying no one approached the desk. OversizedGlasses had indeed locked the terminal. Ralston began sliding top drawers open looking for any clue; any documentation of passwords. It appeared to be a standard screen, probably unlocked by a password combination of letters and numbers, although dumb terminals such as this frequently allowed the use of letters only. These terminals were dated and might not have protocol to force periodic password changes, which would work in Ralston’s favor.

  Ralston found nothing. The drawers seemed to hold mostly personal items. He knew he was running out of time and had maybe two minutes or less.

  He glanced at the terminal itself. At the top-left and right-hand edges were baby pictures. At the lower left was a picture of OversizedGlasses.

  ‘Been here 20 years,’ she had said.

  These were probably pictures of her grandchildren, but what the heck did he know about the woman beyond the fact she looked like an owl with those glasses?

  More muted noise emanated from the bathroom. An elderly man with a teenage boy passed through the entry. The hiss of the pneumatic doors startled Ralston, and perspiration formed across his brow. Fortunately, the two didn’t look to the women’s bathroom, and they turned down a hallway and moved out of sight.

  He frantically typed in common passwords: love, god, family, sex. No good. He looked at the pictures of the grandchildren taped to the monitor: a baby boy on the left and a girl on the right. He reached for the left picture and gently pulled it off. On the back, a name was printed: Tyler Martin Lovejoy. He typed in several variations using the first name, first and middle, first and last, then the entire name. Nothing. He removed the second picture. It bore the name ‘Serena.’ This, too, proved to be fruitless.

  He could feel the first dribble of sweat slide down his cheek. The phone rang, but he ignored it. Time was running out. He glanced at the bathroom door. All had gone strangely quiet.

  Think, think, think! She’s been working at this hospital forever. It was virtually the only thing Ralston knew about the woman. Forever. What was it OversizedGlasses had said? The woman calls herself a ‘Lifer’?

  Ralston looked at the keyboard and typed: L-I-F-E-R.

  The screen glowed to life. He quickly accessed patient history and searched for Mike Roberson. A white screen blazed before him, filling with words. He scanned, finding data associated with 2002. He punched the print button and a LaserJet behind roared to life, kicking out a single page within seconds. He locked the computer screen, turned and snatched the paper, and came around the desk.

  Down a long, white hallway, a man in a white coat and a uniformed officer were moving briskly toward him. Ralston glanced in their direction then dashed to the women’s bathroom. He burst inside, and grabbed Fawn’s hand. OversizedGlasses was so surprised she nearly backed into an open stall. Ralston and Fawn rushed from the bathroom and through the hospital doors just as OversizedGlasses emerged yelling for help. With Ralston leading the way, practically dragging Fawn, they raced down the sidewalk and into the parking lot, where they slowed to a fast walk so as not to draw attention. Ralston looked over his shoulder just as the security officer emerged from the building. The officer spotted Ralston and started toward them at a trot.

  “Go!” Ralston said. They quickly ran into the lower level of the parking garage toward Fawn’s car. They jumped in, and Fawn started the engine. They hurriedly exited at the rear of the parking garage, taking a side street that led to the main thoroughfare. Nearly five minutes later and several miles away, certain they had not been pursued, Fawn pulled into a church parking lot.

  “I have to know,” Ralston started, “how did you fend off the blue-hair?”

  As anxious as Fawn was, she couldn’t help but laugh. “Blue-hair? I was playing mental, like I’d gone crazy, blocking the bathroom door so she couldn’t get out. She was a sly one, though, and she looked like she was about to rush me right before you came in. Another few seconds, and I swear she might have taken me down.”

  “Did you find out anything?” She asked in a tone of anticipation, thick with caution.

  Ralston withdrew the folded paper from his pocket. “I barely got it printed before security showed up.”

  He unfolded the paper and held it up for both to read.

  Donor: Mike B. Roberson

  Donor Organ: Kidney

  Date Donated: February 20, 2002

  Recipient: Elizabeth T. Courtland

  Relationship: Y / N

  Genealogy: Positive

  Relationship to Recipient: Son

  ****

  Fawn was momentarily speechless, before words came flooding forth. “Son?! Impossible! Mike can’t be Elizabeth Courtland’s son. His parents owned the house where I’m staying. They willed the house to Mike when they died. Elizabeth Courtland never had children. Besides, she and Mike were too close in age…How many years separated them?” Fawn tried to recall, her mind a torrent of thoughts. “Thirteen. That’s it, thirteen. Elizabeth used to babysit Mike. This must be wrong,” she said, shaking her head in denial.

  Ralston spoke in an even, soothing tone. “Fawn, what do you recall about Elizabeth telling you about her father’s discovery of Sarah’s 1865 letter to Coyle?”

  Fawn turned to Ralston with a screwed face. “What?! What does this have to do with Mike?”

  “Please, Fawn. What did Elizabeth tell you?”

  Fawn placed her hand to her head. She was about to object again, but something told her to allow Ralston his question. She drew in a long inhale, trying to gather her wits. “She said Lawrence was up in the attic in 1969. He opened an old book and found Sarah’s letter to Coyle unopened.” Fawn waited for Ralston to make his point.

  “Anything else?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When was Mike born?”

  “What are you getting at? I told you. This information can’t be right!” She hammered a finger on the paper.

  Ralston slowed for emphasis. “When…was…Mike…born?”

  “1969. What does that have to do with Lawrence Courtland finding Sarah’s letter to Coyle? Or the fallacy of suggesting Mike is Elizabeth Courtland’s son?” Fawn ripped the keys from the ignition and left the car, slamming the door. Ralston caught up to her around the side of the church.

  Ralston put a hand on Fawn’s shoulder and gently turned her. “Fawn,” he spoke calmly. “I’m trying to help.”

  Fawn’s expression hardened. “Not with inane questions, you’re not.”

  “Please.” He removed his hand. His eyes bore into Fawn with undeniable compassion. She began to soften under his gaze. “What else did Elizabeth Courtland tell you about her father when he found the letter in the attic? What was his mood?”

  Fawn shook her head from side to side. Her anger had evaporated into frustration. “His mood? I don’t know. I don’t think—”

  A snippet of the conversation echoed in her mind. It was one of the first things Elizabeth Courtland had said to her that morning when she told the story of her father and of the ancestry to Osceola.

  “In 1969, when I was 13 years old, my father fell into depression.”

  “He was depressed,” Fawn said softly. “But she never explained why.”

  There was a knowing look on Ralston’s face; not a look o
f satisfaction but of emotional pain drawn from understanding a dark secret.

  “Fawn, Lawrence was depressed because his 13-year-old daughter, Elizabeth, was pregnant. Late that year, she gave birth to Mike.”

  “No! That would mean Mike is a descendent of Osceola. It’s imposs—” Fawn silenced herself. An image of Mike’s bathroom suddenly appeared in her mind. Items strewn across the sink counter: toothbrush, toothpaste, deodorant, soap, towels, shampoo, combs, hair gel. She pictured the inside of his medicine cabinet. It had been practically empty except for over-the-counter medicines, a thermometer, and cotton balls.

  There had been something missing. Something every man of each nationality and heritage needed in some form or another to remain as well groomed as Mike. There were no razors or shave cream. Not even an electric razor. As a matter of fact, Fawn could never recall having seen Mike shave. Ever. She had frequently kidded him about his baby face, but he always laughed it off.

  Only now did she understand why. Native American Indians have no facial hair. Now, an even more chilling thought struck Fawn.

  CHAPTER 37

  Detective Mayes sat at his desk. A partially eaten hamburger lay on the desktop, turning cold.

  After returning from the crime scene outside St. Augustine, he had arrived in the office around 10:00 a.m. Ever since, he had tried to contact FBI Special Agent Ustes. He left multiple voice mails, but Ustes had yet to return his calls.

  His own name appearing so prominently in the killer’s message had been a shock, although Mayes had hidden his reaction from Ustes. This was a first for Mayes; something he could have never imagined in his wildest dreams of yearning to be a detective. It was both unnerving and surreal.

  Now Mayes was anxious to know two things: One, had the bloody prints on Osceola’s marker turned up a match? And two, was there a name discovered underneath the red face as was the case with the other victims?

  It was mid-afternoon when Mayes’ desk phone rang. The originating number was unfamiliar.

  “Detective Mayes,” he answered.

  “It’s Ustes. What do you need?” He sounded rushed.

  “Info,” Mayes said.

  “I’m not your informant, detective.”

  “My name was on that marker, Special Agent, which ties me in pretty close to whoever is doing this,” he responded sternly.

  “We think it was your name. There’s nothing definitive at this point.”

  “Well humor me and pretend like it is.” Mayes could feel his anger rising. Ustes knew how to press his button.

  There was a pause. “I’ll tell you what we’re releasing to the press. The prints came back with a match. It’s Terrence Courtland, alright. Obviously the bastard didn’t die in the 9/11 events. He’s the killer. We’ve just issued an APB.”

  “Motive?”

  “Working on it. We’re following up on his involvement with gambling. The man owed a considerable debt to a loan shark. None of the murder victims were more than casual cruise ship gamblers as far as we can tell, so Courtland is not making any financial gains by the deaths. None of the victims were robbed.”

  “Any name on the face of the latest victim?” Mayes asked.

  “Yes: Warren.”

  There was something in Ustes’s voice; no hesitancy to acknowledge it as a “name.” It also sounded like Warren was the name Ustes had expected to find, as if it confirmed some theory the FBI was working to validate.

  “You know what the names mean,” Mayes said.

  “Yes, we do.”

  Mayes waited. “Are you going to tell me?”

  “This bit of information is not being released to the press—at least not yet. So help me God, if you repeat what I’m about to say to anyone, I’ll have your badge. I’m only telling you this because, if that was your name on the marker, the killer has some interest in you. Or maybe someone you personally know.”

  “You’ve got my word,” Mayes responded.

  “The names: Seederman, Lank, Sizemore, Mattson, and now Warren…were all last names of soldiers listed at Fort Peyton.”

  “Fort Peyton?”

  “A U.S. Army fort, south of St. Augustine in the early half of the 1800s. The soldiers all served there between June 1837 and March 1838.”

  “What’s the relevance?” Mayes asked, although he had already aligned historical significance.

  “When Osceola was tricked into captivity under the white flag of truce on October 21, 1837, soldiers from nearby Fort Peyton were deployed to assist in the Indian’s arrest.”

  Mayes spoke. “So the names on the victims correlate to the names of the soldiers who may have been engaged in the deception to capture Osceola in 1837.”

  “There’s no listing of which soldiers participated in the capture, but someone is scribbling the names on the faces of the victims.”

  Mayes thought for a moment. “If someone is truly seeking 170-year-old revenge…why murder innocent people and then scribble the guilty names on their faces? Is it possible the victims are descendents of the soldiers from Fort Peyton?”

  “We checked,” Ustes responded, smugly. “There’s no association.”

  After finishing the call, Detective Mayes leaned forward, tenting his fingers on his desk and stared at nothing. Now, more than ever, it appeared someone was exacting revenge for Osceola over a century and a half after the Indian’s capture. The clues leading to this conclusion had been there all along.

  Several facts in the killing of Elizabeth Courtland had continued to dog him: why was there no name underneath the red paint on her face and why her scalp had been left intact on her head?

  Then there was the morbid discovery this morning when his name was brazenly singled out:

  A MAN CAN DO

  A-MAYES-ING

  THINGS BEYOND

  THE GRAVE

  It was arrogance, not the musings of a psycho. This was a calculated message; an indication that Terrence Courtland was killing in premeditated fashion. What was Courtland hoping to achieve?

  ****

  Fawn took Ralston home then returned to Mike’s house. She had a raging headache and stretched out fully clothed on the living room couch.

  She felt as if she were in a state of shock.

  It all seemed so unreal, although one thing now made perfect sense: Mike’s bizarre behavior at Elizabeth Courtland’s funeral. The deep impact of the woman’s death had been puzzling until she understood their relationship, which explained why he had been so emotionally invested. Why had he not told Fawn? Told anyone for that matter? Conversely, why had Elizabeth kept it a secret? Obviously, they had struck an agreement of silence. What was to be gained by keeping the mother-son relationship a guarded secret? Had Mike’s parents, the man and woman who had raised him known? That was a stupid question. Of course they would have known.

  Fawn felt her eyes water over. Tears began to stream down the sides of her cheeks, and she wiped them away with the back of her hand. The man she loved, who she was going to marry, was somehow a part of all this. He had blatantly lied to her, cementing his involvement.

  She continued to weep, eventually folding into a ball and falling into a light sleep.

  A little before 5 p.m., Fawn was startled awake by the ringing of her cell phone on the coffee table.

  “Hello?” she said, rubbing her eyes.

  “Fawn? This is Lucy. Lucy Sonhill. I work with…with…” The woman’s voice broke. Fawn could hear light sobbing.

  Fawn knew the name but could not place it.

  The woman regained partial composure. “I work part-time at the flower shop with…Lisa. Lisa Fortney. Worked...”

  A sinking feeling overwhelmed Fawn. She swallowed hard. “What is it, Lucy?”

  “Fawn…Lisa’s dead. Murdered,” the words quivered out.

  “Oh my God,” Fawn said instinctive
ly. She suddenly felt disconnected with reality. Coldness, then a flash of heat, seared through her bosom. She felt lightheaded, hanging onto consciousness by a thread, barely comprehending the words that followed.

  “It’s so terrible, Fawn. Her husband was out of town for the night.” Lucy was again crying, sniffling each sentence out. “Somebody took her; that madman, the serial killer. He killed her and left her in the woods outside St. Augustine.”

  Fawn was too dazed to speak. A knot formed in her stomach. Her chest felt compressed. She could not respond.

  “I’m so sorry, Lucy,” Fawn finally choked out. It was an automatic response. She did not know what else to say. It came out in robotic fashion. Then Fawn hung up, placed her head in her hands, and wept.

  Even at her mother’s funeral, at her father’s funeral, when she had suffered the emotional pangs of death, she could not remember ever feeling so low. Her parents had at least lived into their senior years. Lisa, however, was a woman in the prime of her life; a caring soul and a loving wife. She was Fawn’s friend.

  Fawn cried uncontrollably. She found tissues on the side table and soon created a cluster on the coffee table before her. When she finally felt like she was in control, she broke down again.

  She was not thinking, only reacting. She picked up her cell phone, wiped her nose dry, and began searching for Detective Mayes’ number.

  She would turn Mike in. Whatever spell he was under, whatever genetic flaw existed in his being, she was not going to allow another soul to die at his hands. Just as she found the number, though, she considered the strange déjà vu she felt any time she thought of Detective Mayes. She put the phone down and walked into the den to boot up Mike’s computer.

  Within minutes, Fawn found a series of articles and realized why the detective was so familiar. Three years ago, while working and living in Simi Valley, California, Detective Michael Mayes had led a task force to apprehend the “Managerial Killer.” Someone had committed six premeditated homicides within a two-month window, each time killing the manager of a small business or corporation inside the victim’s home.