“Because my payment will be what you teach me about journalism. Think of me as an apprentice.”
Fawn looked at Ralston for a long moment.
“Well,” Ralston continued with a smile, “maybe give me some gas money now and then.”
“Deal,” Fawn said. Ralston took her proffered hand and gave it a brisk shake.
“Now let’s get down to business,” Fawn continued.
While Fawn had promised Elizabeth she would not expose the woman’s ancestry to the police or Mike, she did not consider telling Ralston to be a violation of trust; hence, one of the reasons she had made Ralston sign a non-disclosure agreement. This ensured that the secret was still being maintained.
Ralston spent the next 45 minutes listening intently to Fawn as she told Elizabeth’s story of Osceola, Sarah, and Coyle in the 1800s and of Elizabeth’s father, Lawrence, in the 1960s, and of the presumed connection to the current murders. She finished with the firsthand account of witnessing the body of the homeless man and her interaction with Detective Mayes earlier that morning.
At one o’clock, with pages of notes, Ralston laid his pen on the table. Fawn had requested anything he could find on the historic individuals or events, any information to validate Elizabeth’s story. He had explicit instructions to forward data as he uncovered it. Ralston departed with a big smile.
Fawn started to make the five-block walk home then detoured to visit Lisa Fortney at the flower shop. With everything going on the last four or five days, Fawn had been distracted from her wedding plans. She needed to hear Lisa’s friendly reassurance that everything was still on target for October 20th.
CHAPTER 14
“Hello?” Fawn answered her phone that evening.
“Fawn, this is Ralston. I’ve got something for you.”
“Well, you don’t waste any time, do you? Hold on a sec,” she said, retrieving a pad and pencil and taking a seat at her kitchen table. “OK, go ahead.”
“While I couldn’t find any more information online about Lawrence Courtland and his crimes in 1969, I found the next best thing. There were two policemen listed on Lawrence Courtland’s arrest report. One passed away in 1986. The second man, Hubert Rudley, retired from the force in 1997.”
“Any idea where he is now?” Fawn asked.
“He still lives on Amelia Island,” Ralston replied.
“Do you have an address or phone number? Maybe he’ll know about the murder victims—if they had the signature half-red face.”
“He lives at the southern end of the island. I’ve already made arrangements. He’s expecting us at his house tomorrow morning at 8:30. I have class at 11:00. I hope you don’t mind starting early.”
“I’m impressed, Ralston.” Fawn said.
****
Ralston arrived at Fawn’s house at 8:10 a.m. in a 1980 AMC Pacer. It was brown, colored not as much by paint as rust.
Ralston had seen fit to amend his normal attire. He came dressed in a collared, pullover shirt, long blue jeans, and red tennis shoes. Still not exactly professional, Fawn thought, but it was a start.
Fawn and Ralston reached Hubert Rudley’s home at the southern end of Amelia Island just before 8:30. Located inland, not far from the exclusive Ritz-Carlton Hotel and Amelia Island Plantation Resort, Rudley lived in a simple, stucco, ranch-style home in a quiet neighborhood.
As they strolled up the walkway, Ralston spoke. “I’ve come up short on information regarding Sarah Courtland and her son, Coyle. I e-mailed a friend at the university who has access to government records that go all the way back to the early 1800s. Maybe he can find something.”
Fawn nodded as they reached the door and she pressed the doorbell.
They were greeted by an elderly woman who ushered them in brusquely without introducing herself. “He’s waiting for you on the porch.”
Fawn and Ralston followed the woman to the back of the house, then through a sliding glass door onto a screened porch where a man sat in a heavily padded rocking chair reading a newspaper. He was wearing Bermuda shorts and a white tee shirt. He had gray, crew-cut hair and several days’ growth of beard, which covered his face like a thin veil of cotton. He quickly folded the newspaper, laid it on the outdoor table beside a handheld phone and rose to his feet with the help of a cane.
“He’s hard of hearing, so you’ll have to speak up,” the old woman snarled and left the porch in a hurry, disappearing back inside the house.
“It’s hard to get good help,” Hubert Rudley scoffed, glancing toward where the woman had been. Then he extended a handshake to Fawn and Ralston.
“Your nurse?” Fawn asked.
“Wife,” Rudley returned.
Fawn stifled a smile.
“That time of the month,” Rudley said with an annoying chuckle.
The two guests did not know how to respond. The woman was a good quarter-century beyond menopause, so obviously Rudley was being humorous or sarcastic, or both.
“Please have a seat,” Rudley said, offering the couch. He laid the cane to the side and retook his seat, keeping his feet anchored on the ground. It was a humid morning, and Fawn was thankful she had chosen to wear a white silk blouse and tan linen pants.
“You must be new to the island,” Rudley stated. “I haven’t seen either of you before. Not that I blame you for coming here. It’s a beautiful slice of paradise. Did you know Amelia Island is named after the daughter of the British King George II? It’s the only U.S. community to have been under eight different flags during its history: French, Spanish, British, Patriots, Green Cross of Florida, Mexican, Confederate, and U.S.”
“I just moved here at the start of the summer,” Fawn replied.
“And you’re reporters, right?” Rudley asked, giving the two a sidelong look.
Fawn realized what a bizarre pair they made. She gave Ralston a furtive glance as she removed a notepad and pen from her pocketbook. “Yes, freelance,” she responded.
“And you’re interested in a case from the late 60s that I was involved in?”
“That’s right.” Fawn responded in an elevated tone, recalling the woman’s directive to talk loud. Ralston remained quiet but diligent. She had asked on the way over that he limit his questions until she got the conversation rolling. “We’re researching some murders for an article.”
“Will you be using my name?”
“With your permission,” Fawn said, leaning forward.
“Good. I’m 78 and don’t mind seeing my name in the paper.”
“We understand from police records that you were one of two arresting officers who apprehended Lawrence Courtland.”
Hubert Rudley gave them a blank stare before shaking his head back and forth. “Sorry, Missy. I’ll need more than that to jog my memory.”
“1969. Lawrence Courtland was a resident of Amelia Island. Murdered several men in cold blood. No apparent motive,” Fawn said.
Rudley lifted his head briefly and stared at the ceiling. All hope Fawn had of getting answers was quickly diminishing. Then Rudley snapped his head forward. “I remember now. Courtland. Died in prison. Psycho ward, I think.”
“That’s right,” Fawn encouraged.
“Okay, okay. Now I’m with you. Just had to knock the cobwebs off. It’s been a few years.”
Fawn gave him a pleasant smile. This was going to require the utmost in patience. She continued slowly. “As I said, we’ve read the police record from public files found on the Internet, but it did not go into detail. Can you tell us anything about the murders? Were there any distinguishing traits on the victims?”
“Yeah, both victims ended up dead.” Rudley released a grating chuckle.
Fawn smiled politely. Ralston sat expressionless next to her.
“Any distinguishing characteristics when the bodies were found?” Fawn rephrased the question.
“Missy, not sure what you’re getting at. The thing I remember the most about Lawrence Courtland was where Pete and I captured him.” Rudley rubbed his hands together, one palm pressing over the other in a circular motion.
“Please go on,” Fawn urged.
“Sergeant Pete Baldock, god rest his soul, and I got a call one evening that someone was trespassing at Fort Clinch State Park at the northern end of the island. We got into the gate and drove the one-and-a-half miles up to the fort. Searching the grounds, we saw a flashlight beam and chased a figure inside the fort where we apprehended Lawrence Courtland in one of the long bastion galleries that points toward the bay. The north bastion, I believe.”
Rudley continued. “Strange thing was, when we caught him, he was carrying a small block of wood and a hammer, but we never did find out why. He offered no resistance, and when we got him back to the police station and fingerprinted him, they matched prints found at the scene of one of the two murders.
“I guess you could say Pete and I stumbled onto the culprit. Not exactly textbook police work, but what the hay.”
“We can’t find any information that suggests Lawrence Courtland had a criminal record before his arrest,” Fawn remarked.
“That’s right. He’d been clean as a whistle. Respectable man, family right here on the island.”
“You say he had a small block of wood and a hammer?” Ralston asked. “Can you describe it?”
“The block of wood or the hammer?”
“Both.”
“The wood was about yea big,” Rudley connected the thumb and middle fingers of each hand forming a square. “The hammer was a typical iron claw with a wood handle.”
Fawn was silent for a moment as she thought.
Rudley wrinkled his face. “I know you said you’re writin’ an article, but what’s your angle? What’s your interest in a forty-year-old murder case?”
“The article will focus on the history of local crimes on Amelia Island,” Fawn lied. Then she opened her notepad. “Mr. Rudley, have you heard of the recent murders in the area? The hunter in Callahan, the homeless man in an alley by Centre Street, and then, on Monday, the Navy man under the A1A bridge?”
“I did hear of the local killings,” Rudley replied. “Tragedy. Some real sicko, I tell ya.”
“Don’t you find it unusual how, like Lawrence Courtland’s victims in 1969, the recent victims had their faces painted half red?”
Rudley appeared dumbstruck. “I’d forgotten about that! I never saw the bodies personally, but one of the detectives working the case mentioned it to me back then. How did you find—” he paused. “That was never released to the press. It was only in the trial proceedings.”
“It was in the documentation from the file we found,” Fawn bluffed.
Rudley looked puzzled. “It was?” Growing suspicion creased his brow. Then he spoke with renewed surprise. “You’re saying the current murder victims had their faces painted red?”
Before Fawn could answer, Rudley’s expression turned to doubt. “Wait, how could you know that?”
Fawn did not miss a beat. “Because I was there when the homeless man’s body was discovered. When I confronted police, they admitted the others had the same trademark pattern,” she continued her fabrication.
The porch temporarily fell quiet. Fawn casually looked to the backyard, the side, noticing it was open property with no fence. A row of head-high Ligustrum bushes lined the back of the house to either side of the porch.
“Frankly, we’re a little surprised the police haven’t contacted you to get your insight,” Fawn resumed. “You arrested the man. You’re the only one with firsthand knowledge of the Lawrence Courtland murders and, obviously, they’re somehow connected to this new string of killings.”
“Yes,” Rudley said stroking his chin, a shadow of concern flashing over his face. “I still know a few folks on the force, but I haven’t heard from anyone.”
“I would think that a man with so many years of dedicated service…” She stopped abruptly then said, “We should be going. Thank you for your time, Mr. Rudley.”
Fawn rose, but Ralston lagged, still seated. He gave Fawn a serendipitous look. Fawn could sense he had questions he wanted to ask Mr. Rudley, but now was not the time.
Ralston must have read Fawn’s body language, saw her guarded expression, and lifted from the couch somewhat begrudgingly. Rudley grabbed his cane and rose.
“We’ll see ourselves out. Thank you again, Mr. Rudley,” Fawn said with a smile.
“Well, I don’t think I gave you much,” Rudley said, retaking his rocking chair. “But you know where I am if you have more questions.” There was a noticeable discontent in Rudley’s voice now. The jovial, sarcastic man they had met upon arrival had slipped into the distance. His words now carried a hint of bitterness, not aimed at Fawn or Ralston per se, but somewhere else.
Fawn and Ralston passed through the house and out the front door without seeing Mrs. Rudley. Once outside, she turned to Ralston. “What time do you have to be at school?” Fawn asked.
“11:00. It’s an hour drive to the campus from here.”
“Let’s go.” Her voice was firm, guiding.
They got into the vehicle, and Fawn turned to Ralston. “Take the car.”
“What? Why?”
“You get to school. I’ll catch a taxi home and call you later.”
“But—” Ralston started to protest but saw the look in Fawn’s eyes. “Yes, ma’am.”
As Ralston drove away, Fawn moved casually along the side of the house, watchful of any neighbors who might see her. She quickly reached the corner and stole between the back wall and the line of Ligustrum bushes. With her back to the wall, she moved slowly, catching her silk shirt several times on the rough exterior and branches. She could hear Hubert Rudley, but it was several more feet before his words were distinguishable. She crouched a dozen feet from the porch and listened intently. Beads of sweat formed on her face. She could barely make out the figure of the man through the branches. He was still seated on the porch, now talking on the phone, partially hidden by latticework.
“Bernie, she said she saw it on the homeless guy and then someone there confirmed the others were painted red as well.”
Pause.
“Well, that’s what she said. If you guys didn’t tell her, I have no idea how she came by the information.”
Pause.
“All I know is I would have thought you guys would talk to me once you realized the similarity with the Courtland murders. I was the arresting officer back in ‘69, you know.”
Pause.
“The Courtland murders. Lawrence Courtland.” Rudley was becoming agitated. “This reporter brought up the similarity between how he painted the faces of his victims half red like this new psycho is doing.”
Pause.
“Shit,” Rudley released his annoying chuckle. A realization seemed to sweep through him. “You guys hadn’t made the connection. This reporter woman is doing laps around you.”
Long pause.
“Did she ask?…about what? Did you say they had names under the red faces? No. She didn’t say anything about that. What are the names?”
Pause.
“Oh Christ, Bernie,” Rudley was incensed. “I’m not going to tell her or anyone else. I’m an ex-officer, remember?”
Pause.
“Uh huh. Yeah. Bizarre. Single-word names, except they’re not the names of the victims. No, never saw anything like that with the Courtland murders. You guys really do have a psycho on your hands. Funny how the murders are the same and yet different, 40 years apart.”
Pause.
“The victims also had what done to them? Are you kidding me?”
CHAPTER 15
Fawn walked the half mile to the seaside Ritz-Carlton where she caught a cab. The ta
xi driver stared at Fawn in the mirror, probably curious as to why his passenger was wearing a dirt-stained silk shirt. She pulled at her clothes, examining small tears, when she noticed the man looking. “Tough business meeting,” she remarked, wiping the perspiration from her brow.
The driver raised his eyebrows.
As a matter of habit, Fawn logged into her e-mail when she arrived home. She was surprised to find a message from Ralston. He had obviously stopped by his house before heading to school. The subject line read: “fwd: Sarah Courtland.”
Fawn opened the e-mail.
Fawn—This arrived while we were with Rudley. Take a look. Very interesting. I’ll talk to you later—R
Below Ralston’s note, a forwarded e-mail.
Ralston,
I got lucky on some information regarding a Sarah Courtland. I found work records indicating she was employed by the U.S. Government for eight months in 1856 in Fort Clinch as a cook for the crews doing construction. It mentions she also did some work as a bricklayer. Quite an unconventional job for a woman back then.
It’s not much. I’ll continue looking.
Dr. Castleman
Fort Clinch: the fort-turned-state-park was within several minutes’ driving distance on the island. That was the same fort where ex-police officer Hubert Rudley said he and his partner captured Lawrence Courtland.
Coincidence?
Fawn picked up the phone and dialed Elizabeth. She would confirm Rudley’s account that her father was indeed captured in one of the fort’s bastion galleries. She also hoped Elizabeth knew why Lawrence Courtland was carrying a small block of wood and a hammer at the time he was apprehended.
The phone rang endlessly. Fawn felt a twinge of concern. She dialed again. Still there was no answer.
Fawn hurriedly left the house carrying her cell phone, continuing to dial Elizabeth’s number. Moments later, she arrived at Elizabeth’s front stoop where she rang the doorbell.
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