Three Keys to Murder

by Gary Williams

  “I’m not one to accept the supernatural,” Fawn commented, “but the facts are chilling. Something drove two normal men, descendants of Osceola, to commit these murders. It appears both came into possession of Osceola’s skull before they committed their crimes.”

  “So following that line of reasoning,” Ralston began, “the current-day murderer must also have Osceola’s skull in his or her possession.”

  “It would follow the pattern,” Fawn added.

  “A pretty bizarre one.”

  Ralston’s words loaded the harsh image of Elizabeth Courtland’s grotesquely painted face to the forefront of Fawn’s mind. She shivered to discard a chill.

  Fawn thought back to Hubert Rudley’s story of how Lawrence Courtland was caught inside Fort Clinch State Park in 1969, in one of the long galleries leading to the North Bastion with a hammer and a small block of wood. Again, she wondered what the purpose of those might be.

  Fawn idly walked to the desk. She picked up the printed e-mail that Ralston had forwarded to her Thursday morning.

  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

  “Ralston, your e-mail from Dr. Castleman. I don’t know what tie, if any, exists between Sarah Courtland working in Fort Clinch in 1856 and Lawrence Courtland’s capture there in 1969, but I think it’s worth exploring. You up for a field trip tomorrow?”

  “Absolutely,” he responded. “My first class was canceled tomorrow, so I don’t have to be at school until the afternoon.”

  “I’ll pick you up at 9:00 a.m.”

  ****

  “I conducted an Internet search looking for the historical blueprints of Fort Clinch, but I came up empty,” Ralston said as they paid park admission at the guard station. It was a bright, clear day as they drove the one-and-a-half-mile, winding road through the woodlands toward Fort Clinch at the northern end of the park.

  “What were you looking for?” Fawn asked.

  “We know Lawrence Courtland was carrying a hammer and block of wood when he was captured. From all appearances, they weren’t intended as weapons.”

  “Are you suggesting he was building something inside the fort?”

  “It’s possible, but if so, what? Hubert Rudley said the police never did find out why Courtland had those items.”

  “Maybe he needed the tools for destructive purposes?”

  “I’m leaning toward an entirely different theory,” Ralston said. “You ever watch those movies where people are in old houses, and they discover a secret room by accidentally pulling down a wall-mounted candleholder or tipping a book from a shelf? Well, I once wrote a paper on hidden rooms. Fact is, the people who generally engineer secret rooms, or hidden spaces, in houses or buildings, want entry to be more difficult. The last thing they want is for secretive places to be found accidentally. Therefore, to prevent a lucky discovery, the builders make them only accessible by using specific tools. It’s the same concept for online gaming. To get to a secret place, to pass through a secret door, you have to acquire certain items in the game.”

  Fawn nodded. “You’re proposing the hammer and wood were used to access a hidden room?” She slowed the vehicle as they approached the parking lot.

  “I think it’s possible.”

  “You thought with original blueprints of the fort’s construction, you might find a secret room. Ralston, don’t you think engineers would have long since discovered a secret room if, in fact, one existed? I think you’ve seen too many Indiana Jones movies,” Fawn said with a smile.

  “Only the first one, and it was edited for TV.”

  Fawn parked and withdrew the key. “I keep forgetting how young you are.”

  They stepped from Fawn’s vehicle and moved through the parking lot toward a single-story brick structure with a six-foot-high wooden fence running along either side and merging into the woods beyond the parking lot. It was another warm day as sunshine beat down on the pavement. Several visitors meandered slowly toward the small building. A thick congestion of trees lined the walk on the right, and behind the fence, more low trees filled the horizon.

  Fawn and Ralston made their way inside the building—a combination gift shop/museum—and paid admission. They departed to the side of the building with a guide map. Ahead, a wide, shaded trail curved and broke into an expansive grassy clearing.

  One hundred fifty feet beyond, the white sandy trail banked left toward the sally port of Fort Clinch. The structure reached far to the right and left across the horizon, its red brick façade etched with worn patches of black, dulled against the brilliant blue sky.

  Fawn reflected on her research and bits of history she had heard about the fort from others. She knew that construction on the fort started in 1847 after the United States bought land to build a military installation to guard the waterway at the northern end of Amelia Island. With the onset of the Civil War in 1861 and no Federal garrison in place, Confederate soldiers assumed control of Fort Clinch, but it fell into Union hands shortly thereafter. In 1935, the State of Florida acquired the fort and surrounding property for preservation, developing the site into Fort Clinch State Park a few years later.

  Ralston read aloud from the guidebook as they proceeded. “The fort was named after General Duncan Lamont Clinch, a U.S. officer whose valor was considered legendary in Florida’s Second Seminole War.”

  “Ever been here?” Fawn asked.

  “First time.”

  “For me, too.”

  The hard, flat dirt path widened to the width of an army tank and straightened toward the sally port as they approached the southeastern side. Four dark cannons were perched on top of the rampart to the right of the entrance. The two-story brick curtain wall held a level row of rectangular windows along its reach in both directions. The far ends of the walls, which Fawn estimated were 300 feet apart, were capped by large square structures known as bastions.

  The fort was shaped as an irregular pentagon. They were approaching the longest wall. The adjoining walls, which connected at the south bastion on the left, and the east bastion on the right, cut away at ninety-degree angles stopping near the Cumberland Sound at the southwest and north bastions, respectively, as if the fort’s designer intended to construct a perfect square. Instead, the bastions facing Cumberland Sound were connected by two outward-angled walls and formed a point at the fifth bastion, the northwest bastion, thus giving the structure its five sides. This design, which placed the majority of the bastions at the water’s edge, significantly enhanced the fort’s defense at the sound.

  They reached the short drawbridge that spanned the glacis—the upward sweeping earth built to make it easier to defend the fort from ground attacks—and passed through the sally port and breezeway, entering a large grass parade area where a sparse number of visitors were scattered. A lone cannon sat in the middle of the courtyard behind a flagpole with the U.S. flag waving in the subtle breeze.

  Nearby was a large, unfinished, two-story brick barracks, and directly ahead was another two-story brick building housing a hospital on the top floor and quartermaster and sutler below. Behind, the sloping earth, which formed the five inner walls, was covered in vegetation and growth, while beyond, the ramparts abutted the back of the outer curtain walls.

  The dark arched openings to the three visible corners before them—the southwest, northwest, and north bastion galleries—were lined on either side with rising gray steps that reached the wall, then turned outward, continuing to the top deck.

  “That one. That’s the north bastion where Lawrence Court
land was apprehended.” Fawn pointed to the black opening as they crossed the parade ground. She took a moment to admire the unique architecture and ambiance of the aged structure. To her recollection, there had never been any sordid historical accounts associated with Fort Clinch, unlike so many other forts. No stories of prisoner brutality, soldier suicides, or any other carnal misgivings, which give rise to old wives’ tales. Fort Clinch had, quite frankly, been very much understated, even in the times when it saw military activity.

  They neared the entry to the north bastion gallery, which intersected underneath the earthen rampart, and passed through the eight-and-a-half-foot arched opening. Two steps down led them into a solid, barrel-vaulted tunnel that went off into the distance. The long, narrow gallery was bathed in blackness, and they were forced to walk in single file, with Fawn taking the lead.

  The air inside the gallery smelled damp and dusty. It was distinctly less humid here. In the open-air parade ground, Fawn had felt at ease. Here the shadowy darkness unnerved her. Only the sunlight at the far end offered the least bit of comfort. She had an eerie, claustrophobic feeling as the confines closed in around her.

  Fawn picked up her pace, occasionally running a hand along the wall, fingers skipping over the precisely layered red bricks. The dampness thickened. There was a clammy feel to the air, yet the red brick walls and curved ceiling were perfectly dry.

  They reached the end, and the gallery opened to a small courtyard. Crossbeams overhead partially obscured the sunlight. They were now standing between the outer side of the earthen rampart and the entrance to the north bastion at the curtain wall. Faint trails ran off in either direction, wedged in a ravine between the base of the rampart’s slope and the brick wall.

  Taking a deep breath, Fawn continued through an archway. Ralston followed.

  Fawn took stock of the place. Inside, the brick ceiling swelled to form a perpendicular transition high above. The grotto ahead held a series of slitted openings on either side. Suffused light spilled in from both the entryway and windowed openings. To the side was a doorway where a narrow, enclosed staircase with steep steps spiraled upward, lost from sight. Fawn consulted the guide map, “That leads to the top of the curtain wall.”

  Ralston nodded, strolling forward, examining the nearest red-bricked wall. He pushed against it as if testing the structure’s mettle.

  Fawn gave him an amused stare. “You didn’t really expect it to move, did you?”

  He continued touching the walls, edging clockwise around the enclosure.

  Fawn soon found herself doing the same. They eventually took the enclosed, spiral staircase up to the bastion roof.

  On top, the sunlight beat down on them. Surrounded by a five-foot border wall was a large, two-tiered, circular structure with metal webbing rising from the center: the seat for a Howitzer during World War II that had never been put in place. Fawn and Ralston spent several minutes examining the walls and center structure. When they returned to ground level, several tourists were inside the bastion. As the morning progressed, crowds would soon grow thick.

  She and Ralston continued examining the bastion—the walls, the floor, the high ceiling—as other visitors came and went. Nearly 30 minutes later, when they heard the approach of a tour group led by a park ranger, they made their departure through the long gallery. Although they had no idea what they had been looking for, there was a distinct sense of disappointment that nothing had presented itself as a clue as to what Lawrence Courtland had been doing here in 1969.

  They reached the gift shop en route to the parking lot when Fawn paused at the counter. “Excuse me,” she asked the clerk, a middle-aged woman with short blonde hair and an effervescent smile. “Do you have replicas of the original fort blueprints for sale?”

  “Original? Well, depends how you define original,” she said with a smile. “We have the version the Union troops drew up in 1862 after they took over. It’s in that rack behind you.”

  “What I’m interested in are the original plans, prior to the start of construction,” Fawn stated.

  “Oh no, I’m sorry. None exist. Fort Clinch was considered a work in progress and never did reach completion as a finished military structure. The original plans were guidelines and not completely adhered to as construction continued over the years between the late 1840s and the mid 1860s. Ad hoc modifications were made as technology evolved and weaponry enhancements came about.”

  “I see,” Fawn nodded, “so nothing older than 1862?” Fawn realized she was asking a rhetorical question but it was the reporter coming out in her.

  The clerk had an unexpected answer. “Actually the Amelia Island Museum has a diagram of Fort Clinch that dates to the late 1850s. Nothing official, mind you. It’s hand drawn, but supposedly it’s real.” The clerk continued. “Can I ask your interest?”

  “Purely historical,” Fawn said, brushing away the question. “Thank you for your help.” She grabbed Ralston by the hand and the two scurried out the door.

  CHAPTER 21

  The two-story Amelia Island Museum, located on South Third Street, shared space with a local community theater and a large parking lot. Fawn parked among a smattering of cars, and she and Ralston walked to the entrance on the far side of the building. The admissions desk stood before them. Open rooms connected on the right and left. Behind the counter sat a squat, balding man who looked to be in his sixties. He looked up and smiled as they approached.

  “Good afternoon,” he greeted them in a light, friendly voice.

  “Good afternoon,” Fawn responded.

  “Two?” the man asked, preparing to charge admission.

  Fawn spotted his nametag: George Tate.

  “Mr. Tate,” Fawn started, “we’re looking for some information.”

  “I’ll do my best,” Tate responded cordially.

  “I’m Fawn Cortez, and this is Ralston Gabeil. A clerk at Fort Clinch said this museum has a sketch of the original specs of the fort. She said it’s the only one known to exist from the time of the fort’s primary construction in the 1850s.”

  Tate chuckled. “Yes and no.”

  Fawn shot Tate a sidelong glance.

  “It’s quite strange. The museum does have a diagram of the fort that dates to the 1850s, but it’s not a formal, architectural drawing. It’s hand drawn.”

  “Hand drawn?” Fawn asked. “Not to be cynical, but wouldn’t that be the case for any diagram from 1856?”

  Tate grinned. “Yes, but when I say hand drawn, I literally mean a rough drawing with no scale.”

  He continued. “As you may be aware, the fort was never completed and went through many structural iterations. The diagram we have happens to capture a certain year of Fort Clinch’s creation: 1856 to be exact.”

  “If no other plans survived, how do you know the year?” Ralston asked.

  “Quite simple, young man,” Tate responded with a knowing smile. “The picture is dated.”

  Ralston spoke. “You mentioned it was strange. Why is that?”

  “The drawing itself is not unusual. What’s unusual is where it came from.” Tate paused as he rose from his seat behind the desk. “This building we’re standing in was built in 1878 as a jail. It continued to serve as a jail for exactly one hundred years, until 1978. The diagram of Fort Clinch was found on a prisoner brought here in the late-60s, folded in his shoe when he was being processed. Protocol was to store all prisoner personal effects in a box. We know from a log sheet the diagram was intended to be in the box, but when trial preparation began, the drawing couldn’t be located. It wasn’t pertinent to either the prosecution or the defense, so little effort was given to locate it.

  “The drawing was only discovered much later, after the prisoner had passed away, when the jail was converted to a museum in the late ‘70s. Dating of the paper and ink proved its authenticity to the 1850s.”

  “Do you know
the name of the prisoner it belonged to?” Fawn asked.

  “A vicious man named Lawrence Courtland. In 1969, he killed several people.”

  Ralston gave Fawn a slight smile. She quickly stifled him with a determined stare. Fawn hoped her silent message to Ralston had gone unnoticed.

  “Did authorities ever find out why he had the diagram on him?” Fawn asked.

  Tate’s expression hardened. “What’s your interest? Are you with law enforcement? Is this one of the cold case files those TV shows do? I sure don’t want some negative publicity toward our ex-jail here because we lost some insignificant paperwork. Lawrence Courtland was convicted of his crimes.”

  Tate had obviously picked up on Fawn’s unspoken suppression of Ralston’s excitement.

  “No, sir. It’s purely for historical research. I’m a freelance reporter working out story details for some of the historical places and events of Amelia Island. We visited Fort Clinch this morning and became intrigued with the possibility of a map of the fort dating prior to any other. Use of information obtained here at the museum would only be disclosed with either your or the director’s approval.”

  Tate’s expression relaxed. “Oh, I see.” The smile returned. “Would you like to see the drawing? I could make you a copy.”

  “That would be great,” Fawn replied.

  “It’s kept in a room upstairs. Just give me a minute.”

  With that, Tate turned and disappeared down the hallway to the right. Seconds later, a woman in her late fifties entered the foyer and took position behind the desk giving Fawn and Ralston an affable smile. “He’ll be right back,” she said.

  Fawn signaled Ralston to the side, out of earshot, where she spoke in a low voice. “Did you catch the date? 1856: the same year Sarah Courtland worked at Fort Clinch as a cook.”

  Ralston nodded with a smile. “The drawing must have been in Sarah Courtland’s letter to Coyle that Lawrence found unopened in his attic in ‘69. That’s why he had it. This is mind-blowing.”