Three Keys to Murder

by Gary Williams

  They took a seat on a nearby bench.

  “You got a plan?” Ralston asked.

  Fawn leaned forward. “No, and I barely got any sleep.”

  “Fawn, we’re looking for a metal key in the wall, right? What about a metal detector?”

  “We couldn’t get a metal detector in the fort, Ralston. It’s a national monument. Rangers watch people go in and out. I figure we’ll have about an hour before tourist traffic is too thick for us to continue,” Fawn said. “Not to mention remaining in one room that long may raise suspicion with the park rangers.”

  Ralston nodded.

  Fawn dug into her pocket and pulled out the small, two-sided diagram. It brought to mind a conversation with Ralston in the cemetery last night.

  Placing Osceola’s skull back in the plot had taken some negotiation. Fawn’s focus had been, and still was, on her father. She cared nothing about the notoriety of solving the 170-year-old mystery surrounding the Seminole Indian’s skull. Ralston had temporarily resisted, wanting to expose the skull as their discovery; capture some glory. It was an uncharacteristic side of him Fawn had not seen before. It had quickly passed, though, and he relented to her logic. She reminded him that Osceola’s only wish was to be interred in Florida soil, and while the rest of his bones still remained in a decorated grave in Charleston, South Carolina, they could at least ensure Dr. Weedon’s efforts to assist his friend would not be challenged. Osceola, at least a part of him, would remain bound to the land that he had so loved.

  Fawn discarded the conversation from her memory and eyed the diagram of the storeroom. Once she understood the picture, it was obvious. True, it would have helped if Osceola had put an “X” on the spot in the room where the key was embedded, but that would be too easy, she thought glumly.

  She turned the diagram over to the top view of the entire fort. The only thing she and Ralston could not understand at this point was why the Roman Numeral II—as they now both agreed that it was—had a circle around the right I.

  She thought about how the glass eye had come to reside in Osceola’s skull. From a timing standpoint, it must have been close. Once Osceola donned red paint on his hand, his knife, and half his face and lay down to die on January 30, 1837, the room must have been cleared of everyone except the medicine man responsible for switching the glass eye for his real eye. He would have closed Osceola’s eyelid to hide the deception. Afterward, and prior to the coffin being sealed, Dr. Frederick Weedon had severed the head then returned to St. Augustine where he embalmed the head, never realizing that one eye was glass.

  Fawn pondered the Roman Numeral II, wondering what it had to do with Osceola.

  “That one’s a mystery,” Ralston said, pointing to the number as if he were in her thoughts.

  Fawn started. “It obviously has a purpose. The storerooms aren’t numbered, so it can’t be that easy. Besides, the castillo was Fort Marion at the time Osceola was held prisoner. The American military wouldn’t have used Roman Numerals. Maybe it’s a mark Osceola inscribed on the wall to designate where the key is hidden?”

  Ralston shrugged. “I guess in…” he lifted Fawn’s arm to read her watch, “…37 minutes, we’ll find out.”

  ****

  Fawn and Ralston were the first patrons inside the Castillo de San Marcos National Monument on Saturday, September 15th. They passed through the sally port where a park ranger smiled at them. They turned left, following the perimeter walkway around the large courtyard where Fawn led them toward the storeroom.

  “Are you sure you know which one it is?”

  “Positive,” she responded. “A good reporter does her, or his, homework.”

  When the two reached the open doorway to the storeroom, they stopped.

  Inside, the dim room stretched forth. With its flat stone floor and stark, lichen-covered walls, it would have looked like a giant firing pit if not for the stair-step shelf extending a half-dozen feet from the back wall. The side walls rose and rolled, forming an arched ceiling high above.

  The feature of the room they both focused upon was the open-air window high on the back wall.

  In the diagram, the window had been shown as a simple rectangular slot. True to form, that’s what it was, but what caught their attention was the feature that had been left out of the drawing.

  Stretched vertically in the opening were two iron bars secured from the top sill to the bottom and spaced evenly, leaving an identical gap between the wall on either side as well as between each bar.

  “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Fawn asked, never breaking her eyes from the high window.

  “The key is inside the bar on the right!” Ralston replied excitedly.

  “What we thought was a Roman Numeral II was really a picture of those two bars. It makes sense. When Osceola was imprisoned in this room, his other cellmates escaped through that opening, before the bars were installed. He stayed behind because he was too weak, having already become ill. Then the bars were subsequently installed, and Osceola must have taken the opportunity to hide the key there. There’s only one slight problem. How are we going to get up there? And how are we going to remove the bar?”

  There was a moment of silence before Ralston’s face blossomed into a smile. “I’ve got an idea, but it’s radical.”

  “I’m open to radical,” Fawn said.

  “We obviously can’t manhandle that bar loose. I’m sure it’s well wedged into the coquina at either end. We’re going to need some leverage.”

  Ralston explained his plan. More than once, he fended off Fawn’s objections. Ultimately, based on the scant time they had left and the practicality of the force needed to remove the bar, Fawn realized his option was their only choice.

  She also knew it had about a 90 percent chance of landing them both in jail.

  Standing in the storeroom, speaking in hushed tones, they finalized their plan. When each knew their role and what they had to gather, they went their separate ways.

  The plan would commence at 10:30, less than one hour from now.

  Fifty minutes later, Ralston watched as Fawn pulled into the castillo’s parking lot. With the engine still running, Fawn casually handed Ralston a screwdriver through the window. He discreetly walked to the rear of the vehicle and removed the license plate before climbing in the car, where he put on a long overcoat. They knew it would make him look terribly suspicious, but there was no way around it. Fawn handed Ralston the 100-foot lightweight anchor chain. Ralston wadded the chain inside one of the deep coat pockets. Lastly, Fawn handed him an admission ticket she pre-purchased so he would not have to stand in line.

  “Were you able to find a ladder or something you can stand on inside?” Fawn asked.

  “Kind of,” Ralston said with a twisted look.

  “I’m not going to ask.”

  They entered the castillo for the second time that morning, accompanying a throng of tourists who had arrived as part of a tour group. It was fortuitous timing. Shuffling in with the masses helped cloak Ralston’s odd attire on a day when the temperature would soon be sweltering.

  Once again through the sally port and into the courtyard, Fawn and Ralston were thankful there were no rangers in sight. Before them, a crowd of tourists had already invaded the fort and were walking at the edges of the courtyard, moving from room to room.

  They broke from the pack and reached the storeroom. All the while, Ralston attempted to mute the clanking inside the overcoat.

  Earlier the room had been cool and comfortable. Now it had the feel of a sauna.

  There was an older couple standing on the right, near the wall. The man looked thoroughly disinterested. Another man lingered across the way. He was tall—not just tall, large—in his early twenties, with long blonde hair and a goofy grin. He stared at Fawn to the extent it made her uncomfortable.

  Fawn anxiously looked to the bac
k wall then to each side. She leaned against Ralston and whispered, “I thought you got something to climb on?”

  “I did…as long as you have fifty dollars cash.” Ralston turned, his eyes meeting the large, blonde-haired man who displayed another absurd grin. The older couple departed as Fawn dragged Ralston by the arm into the corner. “You’ve got to be kidding. We’re using a man as a ladder? Where’d you find him?”

  “I looked for a ladder, I swear, but it wasn’t feasible to sneak anything through the courtyard without being seen. I found him wandering around by himself.”

  “What if he tells on us?”

  “That’s what the fifty dollars is for,” Ralston said. “He knows not to ask any questions. We’re running out of time, Fawn, and the room’s clear at the moment.”

  Fawn was incredulous but also knew Ralston was right. She withdrew money from her pocket, at least what she had left after buying the overcoat and chain.

  “Will you settle for $46?” she asked the large man.

  “Yep.” He responded with a widening smile. Even with a single word, his northern accent was apparent. Boston perhaps.

  “Okay, $46 it is.” Then she faced Ralston. “How do we do this?”

  “Either I get on skyscraper’s shoulders and you get on mine, or you get on his shoulders and I get on yours. Whoever is on top is responsible for tying the chain.”

  “I’ll do it,” Fawn said.

  The tall man seemed disappointed to know he would be supporting Ralston instead of Fawn. Nonetheless, he moved into place, hopping onto the broad ledge along the back wall directly underneath the high window. Then he squatted down. Fawn and Ralston followed onto the ledge.

  “I’m going to sit on his shoulders, then you sit on mine,” Ralston said to Fawn.

  Ralston climbed atop the large man’s shoulders, and Fawn climbed on Ralston’s. Then, slowly, the large man rose to his full height, bracing his hands against the wall and leaning inward for support.

  Even so, Fawn was two-and-a-half feet from reaching the barred opening. She stretched her arms in vain. “I can’t reach it. I’m going to have to stand up.”

  “Be careful.”

  “Yep, be careful,” the large blonde man echoed.

  Slowly, Fawn pushed up, bracing against the wall, rising to her feet. Ralston secured her ankles with his hands as she steadied her feet on his shoulders.

  “I’m there,” Fawn said, nervously.

  “Good.” Ralston looked down. “You doing okay, big boy?”

  “Yep.”

  “Hand me the end of the chain,” Fawn said.

  Ralston let go of Fawn’s right ankle, slowly reaching into his coat pocket. He pulled one end of the chain out by the clasp, and lifted it to her, allowing a section of chain to unravel.

  “Got it,” Fawn said, grabbing the end. She felt a brief tinge of vertigo as she looked down. Ralston regripped her right ankle and she steadied.

  It was hot at the window; much warmer than at ground level, as the trapped heat was rising. Fawn’s face was flushed with perspiration as she looked out through the separated bars. If not for the tentative nature by which she was experiencing the view, she might have enjoyed seeing the wide, barren field with lush green grass that rolled down to San Marco Boulevard 120 yards away.

  Fawn carefully wove the chain around the right bar until it was looped nine times. She staggered each revolution, starting at the top of the bar, spiraling downward, then rising again and finally ending in the middle. There, she secured the clasp back to the chain.

  “I need the rest of the chain,” Fawn notified Ralston. “Everybody okay below?”

  “Yep,” she heard from far below.

  “You’re getting heavy. No offense,” Ralston said.

  Fawn began to extract the chain from Ralston’s coat pocket and sending the excess outside. It fell through, draping along the outside wall of the fort. Fawn continued to feed the chain through the window and, for the most part, it unspooled from Ralston’s coat pocket without incident.

  Tourists suddenly entered the store room. It was a large group. Fawn turned to look. Middle-aged to elderly patrons were being led by a tour guide. The mass formed just inside the doorway and quickly quieted, eyeing the human ladder propped against the back wall.

  Fawn spotted the orange sticker on each shirt signifying an organized tour group. The guide was a gray-haired gentleman in khakis and a Polo shirt, wearing deck shoes. It was apparent he was not officially associated with the fort’s operation, but with a tour guide service.

  A hush fell over the room. Fawn knew she had to do something quickly. Ralston whispered something but it was inaudible. Fawn strained to turn and face the tour group, leaning against the window to hide the chain with her body.

  “May I ask what you’re doing up there?” The guide questioned.

  Fawn spoke authoritatively. “On the night of November 29, 1837, six weeks after U.S. Army General Jesup captured a large contingent of Seminole Indians who had agreed to meet under the white flag of truce, John Horse and other Seminole captives staged an escape from what was considered the strongest fort in Florida.

  “John Horse shared a cell with Coacoochee, Osceola, King Phillip, and sixteen other Seminole prisoners. Considered escape-proof, this cell, the storeroom you’re standing in today, was unguarded after sundown. There was only one opening, this sliver of a window, 15 feet above the main floor.

  “On a moonless night, the prisoners set their plan in motion. Leading up to the escape, the Indians had feigned illness for days, starving themselves so they could squeeze through the window. Most scraped the skin off their backs as they slid through the narrow stone opening. Eventually, all the prisoners—with the exception of Osceola and King Philip, who were too weak from sickness—escaped, climbing down the outer walls of the fort and into the moat using rope fashioned from burlap feed bags used as bedding.

  “With the return of their leaders, Seminole warriors on the verge of surrender continued with their fight. As a direct result of their daring escape from this storeroom, the Seminole Indian Wars continued another five years until 1842.

  “Thank you. This concludes our presentation. Oh, and if you wonder what we’re doing up here, the park director thought you might appreciate a first-hand demonstration of how the Seminoles reached the window. Any questions?”

  “King Philip?” a portly woman with bifocals began, “The King of Spain was held here?”

  “No ma’am,” Fawn said, brushing her moist bangs away from her eyes. “King Philip was the name of a Seminole Indian.”

  The guide continued to look at Fawn suspiciously as the room quieted. Then his face slowly gave into a broad smile. “And this is why you should all embrace St. Augustine and its history…and the dedicated people who bring it to you,” he said, acknowledging the human ladder with a wave of his hand.

  The guide turned and motioned the tour group out of the room. When he reached the door, he turned toward Fawn and gave her a slippery wink before departing. The room was again empty.

  “You’re amazing,” Ralston struggled to comment.

  “Let’s hurry. I don’t want to go through that again,” Fawn said, with an audible exhale. She pulled the chain from Ralston’s coat and fed it through the window.

  “We’ll be lucky if someone hasn’t already spotted it from outside,” Ralston said. His words were strained.

  “You okay?” Fawn called down, concerned that if Ralston was wearing out, the large man below him might be as well.

  “Yep,” he responded. “But I am gettin’ tired.”

  The chain streamed out through the window, assisted now by gravity, until finally the other end pulled free from Ralston’s coat pocket and was lost from sight. The entire length now stretched from the window bar where it was tied to the moat below.

  “That’s it,” she s
aid. Fawn lowered herself back to a sitting position on Ralston’s shoulders.

  “Take us down, big guy,” Ralston said.

  The human ensemble began to lower, but the center of their collective weight pushed left. Fawn grimaced, hoping the big man would steady, but it was too late. The lean became more pronounced and Fawn gasped, bracing for the inevitable. The three crumpled upon the shelf, Ralston and Fawn landing upon the large man, who broke their fall. They rose, slightly dazed. Ralston’s dreadlocks were in utter disarray.

  “Are you okay?” Fawn asked the big man with concern.

  “Yep,” the large man said, hopping off the ledge onto the floor. “And I’m $46 richer.”

  “That you are, sir.” Fawn followed Ralston off the ledge and handed the big man his money. He fanned the bills, turned, and departed without another word.

  Ralston looked at Fawn and shrugged. “The man likes his money.”

  Fawn wiped sweat from her eyes as she checked her watch: 10:52. They had little more than an hour to obtain the last key. “Let’s go. It’s a miracle we haven’t been found out.”

  Eight minutes later, with her pulse pounding, Fawn angled her car from the southbound lane of San Marco Boulevard, jumped the curb, then cut across the open green field on the west side of the Castillo de San Marcos. She was careful to avoid the handful of people lounging on the grass. Behind, on the main thoroughfare, her off-road exploits were drawing considerable attention from passing motorists and pedestrians. She only prayed none of the onlookers were law enforcement officers.

  Fawn gunned the engine and climbed the embankment leading to the moat. Before her, she could see the window with the chain leading outward. It had been pulled away from the base of the wall to a point somewhere underneath the front lip of the moat. As she approached, she whipped the car around, threw it in reverse, and backed to within a few feet of the moat’s edge.

  Ralston appeared, climbing over the edge of the moat holding the end of the chain. He quickly secured the clasp onto the undercarriage at the rear of Fawn’s car. The loose chain led away from the back of the car, disappearing into the moat before reappearing as it climbed to the storeroom window where it fastened to the bar.