Three Keys to Murder

by Gary Williams

  Ralston had been oddly reserved for most of the day, with the exception of his mild enthusiasm at the Amelia Island Lighthouse when they realized one of the keys might be hidden inside. Beyond that, Fawn was certain something was preoccupying the young man’s thoughts. She had opted not to pry.

  Finding the murderer was no longer her self-imposed priority, as it had been earlier in the week when the death of Elizabeth Courtland was fresh on her mind. Fawn had done her due diligence, uncovered imposing information that suggested Terrence Courtland was still alive; that he had not died in the World Trade Center attacks. Frankly, she knew the improbable motive, of a curse upon the male descendents of Osceola, would not have been considered by police, so she had left the premise out of her discussion with Detective Mayes, which had left her open to his “but what’s the motive?” sarcasm.

  Nonetheless, as a reporter, Fawn knew police protocol. In a case of this magnitude and publicity, with a killer scalping and painting half the face of the victims, Mayes would be forced to follow up on any lead. Then the timing of Terrence Courtland’s phone call to his sister would be exposed and proper suspicion would be raised.

  Fawn wondered if it was Terrence Courtland who had knocked her unconscious inside Fort Clinch and taken the head from her house last night. With the burden of finding Terrence Courtland squarely on the shoulders of the police, she and Ralston had taken up the hunt for the Zaile treasure. Their three sources of data—the message from the tortoise shell, the legend as described by Jonathan Pierce, and what she could recall about Sarah Courtland’s letter—had all meshed. While the sources themselves were nebulous, when combined, their similarities told a compelling story of greed, double-crosses, covert activities, survival, Indian involvement, pirates, and hidden treasure. It was everything a thriller novelist or screenwriter…or journalist…would need to create a tantalizing story.

  Ultimately, the information had led them in search of three keys, a secret message left in St. Augustine with instructions regarding how to use two of them, and an iron container said to hold Aztec treasure.

  Based on Jonathan Pierce’s dive, the massive iron container that lay on the ocean floor where Fawn’s father had died was a dud. She and Ralston had concluded there was a second iron container based on Osceola’s account in Sarah Courtland’s letter, and that container was apparently somewhere on shore.

  They had one key—the key her father took from the Gonzalez-Alvarez House in St. Augustine with MH inscribed in it. They suspected another key was hidden inside the Amelia Island Lighthouse, but, short of destroying property, there was no way to be certain.

  They had also found the inscription on the wall in Castillo de San Marcos National Monument with what appeared to be code, set within a poem. The last line, A payment will be earned, cemented the belief in Fawn’s mind it was, indeed, the message the U.S. Ambassador had left in St. Augustine to instruct the Spanish as to the keys to use and in what order to open the iron box and obtain the Zaile treasure when it arrived via the SS Pearsaw in 1820; an event that never occurred.

  The excitement of this knowledge, what they had obtained, was offset by the disillusionment of what they still lacked. For one thing, they did not have a clue as to where Osceola’s head could be found, embracing the assumption it had not burned in the New York Museum in 1865 and was hidden all these years. Osceola’s skull is where Sarah’s letter said a key would be found in his eye.

  Also, the writing on the Castillo wall—the poem—made no sense. It talked in rhymes and obvious metaphors. It was all so convoluted and frustrating.

  Lastly, if their postulation was right, and there had been a second large, iron container somewhere on shore as evidenced in Osceola’s encounter with Richard Simpkins and the pirates, they had no idea what had become of it. Osceola had gone to great lengths to leave a key for his illegitimate son, Coyle, embedded in his skull. The Indian obviously had no idea that more than one key was required. The only way for Osceola to ensure the treasure would be there for Coyle to claim was to bury it, but there was no way to know where.

  Suddenly Fawn thought of her father and the inner drive that had consumed him. With a well of emotion, she understood the forces that had pushed him; the passion that had cradled his soul for all those years. There was no denying it. She was aligned to the ghost of Juan Velarde Cortez. She shared his prolific desire to find the Zaile treasure, the same desire that had consumed him for all those years.

  Fawn stood, lips quivering, and made her way to the living room couch. She plopped down, hugged a throw pillow and began to sob.

  When several long minutes had passed, she rose and went into the master bathroom in search of a tissue. Wiping her eyes and blowing her nose, she looked about. As expected, it was in the same decrepit state as when she had come over last week. Mike was not the neatest person in the world, and this proved it. Again she noticed the items on the bathroom counter, the towel strewn on the floor. Somewhere, in the back of her mind, a red flag rose. She took a second lingering look at the counter before leaving the bathroom. Something was not right. Several long seconds passed, and she shook off the feeling. Get a hold of yourself, Fawn.

  Later that evening before turning in for bed, Fawn called Mike’s cell phone. His earlier disposition had been such a relief. She felt reconnected to him, and she wanted to hear his voice again before sleep, but the ringing eventually rolled to voice mail, and she hung up without leaving a message.

  She had decided to try him again in the morning and was nestled in bed at 11:20 p.m. when she changed her mind. He had told her where he was staying, but she could not remember the name of the hotel. She had always called him on his cell phone. She knew Mike kept business papers in his dining room, oddly enough, tucked in a china cabinet drawer. She got out of bed and found his itinerary. The Hilton. She dialed the main number listed.

  “Hilton in Danbury. This is Carmen. How may I help you?”

  “Can you please ring Mike Roberson’s room?”

  “Hold for a minute, please.”

  Fawn waited, pacing into the living room. The house was eerily quiet, and a shiver rolled over her. She desperately wanted to hear Mike’s voice.

  Carmen returned. “I’m sorry; we have no one by that name at this hotel.”

  Fawn creased her eyebrows. “Are you sure? Mike Roberson? R-o-b-e-r-s-o-n?”

  “No ma’am. I’m sorry.”

  “Is there another Hilton in Danbury?”

  “Yes, two, but I checked the region. There’s no Mike Roberson booked in Danbury.”

  “Oh…okay,” Fawn found herself nearly stammering. “Thank you.”

  Fawn hung up confused. Why wouldn’t Mike be there? She considered calling his cell phone again. If he didn’t answer this time, she would leave him a message. She stopped herself. Something told her not to do it. She decided to call Mike in the morning. He is probably out with some of the other guys from training having a beer.

  Fawn retired to bed with a plethora of thoughts whizzing through her mind, not the least of which was her upcoming wedding plans. She could use Lisa Fortney’s calming voice right now, but the hour was late. She would talk to her friend sometime tomorrow, after a good night’s sleep.

  CHAPTER 33

  Detective Michael Mayes awoke at 5:38 a.m. Friday morning to a god-awful ringing sound. Once, twice, three times. He reached to the nightstand and inadvertently grabbed a pad of paper containing the words Seederman, Lank, Sizemore, and the latest word discovered on the victim found at Guana Lake south of Jacksonville Beach on Tuesday: Mattson. He let go, then fumbled the handset to the ground. The pad tumbled to the floor along with it.

  He loosed a few choice expletives before retrieving the phone.

  Twenty minutes later, pressing down his wet hair and adjusting his tie, he departed Amelia Island, taking the Shave Bridge west toward I-95. The drive to the fringe of St. Augustine would take jus
t over an hour to where FBI Special Agent Ustes awaited his arrival.

  There had been another murder. Number six. With a slight shiver, he realized the last time he received a call that woke him from sleep had been to inform him that Lyle had been killed.

  Oddly, now he was being summoned to a city 70 miles south of Amelia Island, far beyond his jurisdiction, and Ustes had not elaborated on the phone, only saying he was to get there as soon as possible. Pulled from sleep, he had been too groggy to argue the issue. If the FBI wanted him, he suspected there was a damn good reason.

  Mayes was approaching St. Augustine on U.S. 1 when he spotted the horde of flashing blue lights, news trucks, and snarled traffic filling the southbound lane.

  He parked to the side in the grass that bordered a line of trees then crossed the highway. The last few miles of road leading here had been sprinkled with housing developments and businesses separated by healthy patches of woods, but now there was not a manmade structure in view.

  Mayes looked up as he threaded his way between the lethargic cars stacked in the southbound lane, the result of rubberneckers.

  Ahead, a maelstrom of activity ensued. Throngs of reporters and cameramen were being held back by a procession of uniformed officers. Crime scene investigators, plain clothes detectives, a man in a white lab coat, and a K-9 Unit consisting of a shapely blonde female officer with a German Shepherd, busied themselves. Beyond, in front of the woods, yellow police tape was draped across a long expanse of trees and underbrush. The Forensic Unit van was sitting unoccupied in the middle of the fray. There was no sign of FBI involvement, no marked cars. Wherever the victim was located, Ustes was obviously there, awaiting Mayes’s arrival.

  Mayes approached the bustle of reporters and journalists and flashed credentials. He half expected the uniformed officers to offer some protest once they noticed his territorial affiliation. Instead they allowed him to pass with ease. FBI Special Agent Ustes had obviously cleared the way.

  Before Mayes could inquire with anyone, he was aimed in the direction of the woods where a bald man in a charcoal gray suit with a yellow silk tie stood calmly. He gave Mayes a curt nod then motioned for the detective to follow. The man escorted Mayes under the yellow police tape and into the thicket. The two men proceeded silently around trees and over brush, slowing only when necessary to ensure footing.

  In time, the trees became less dense. Mayes spotted flashes of movement and heard voices. People soon came into view, mulling about. Detective Mayes and the bald man—an FBI agent for sure—broke into the clearing. Here, ground vegetation rose in pockets with low palmetto limbs dominating the immediate landscape. Technicians in white coats toiled about as several plainclothes detectives stood together talking in hushed tones, scribbling notes incessantly. A man in dark slacks and a short-sleeve white shirt had his back to Mayes. His hands were raised to his face and his head cocked slightly downward.

  Only when Mayes heard a series of snaps in quick succession did he realize the man was photographing something close to the ground. To the side, Special Agent Ustes looked on intently. The agent was wearing latex gloves and rubbing his hands together as if he were chilled.

  The bald FBI escort turned and proceeded back into the woods the way he had come without saying a word.

  Mayes glanced about, searching for the corpse, realizing it must be the focus of the photographer’s attention, but the body was still blocked from view by the man’s position. He approached, and Ustes lifted his head, giving Mayes a wan nod just as the photographer pivoted to the side for a new camera angle. When he did, a horrendous sight came into view.

  Amid a sea of palmetto leaves, a contorted face with features in disarray appeared, suspended in the air just above ground level. The left half, sickly pale with dark blotches; the right side caked in glossy red so thick that the eye and half of the mouth were hidden from view. On the left, the eye was misshapen and bulging, inexplicably positioned at the bottom of the face near the deeply rounded and bloody, red chin. The eyelid was partially open, and a milky white pupil stared disinterestedly at Mayes’s shoes. The nose was mashed upward with two liberal puncture wounds at the swelled top.

  The image was like a macabre Picasso painting.

  Above it, several layers of palmetto fronds gave way to a bulky mass of dirty flesh that reached a pinnacle at approximately three feet off the ground then seemed to stop abruptly. The scene made no sense.

  Ustes waved the photographer to the side with a dismissive hand. The man quickly complied, moving off, adjusting his camera. Mayes took several tentative steps forward.

  He could now see more skin, more mass, between the palmetto leaves, connecting to the head hovering above the ground. Cut marks ran deep across the flesh. At the apex was an indention where the rest of the body folded back upon itself and ran down the other side, away from him. Dirty gray stone draped to either side.

  Only then did Detective Mayes finally put the body into perspective. He cringed uncontrollably. He straightened, hoping Ustes had not noticed.

  The corpse had been hinged backward on top of a squat stone marker, possibly a headstone. The top of the headstone supported the victim about the small of the back, but the body had been horribly bent; the chest and torso pushed down flush against the headstone on one side, and the pelvis and legs folded over backward, braced against the backside.

  The face, which had appeared so distorted, now made perfect sense. The killer had instilled the distinctive half-red face with a thick coating of paint. The eye, which had looked like it was barely above the chin, was in place. The chin turned out to be the top of the head—nothing more than a mass of red where the hair and a good deal of scalp had been neatly cut away. The mangled nose now appeared intact once Mayes considered the upside down perspective. What he had thought to be two puncture wounds were, in fact, nothing more than the nasal cavities.

  For the briefest of moments, Detective Mayes wondered if this poor soul had been alive when its body was creased backward over the headstone.

  Somewhere behind him, a branch cracked sharply underfoot, then a voice startled him.

  “Gruesome sight.” It was Ustes.

  “I’ll say,” Mayes exhaled.

  “Pattern matches the others,” Ustes said holding a handkerchief to his mouth and nose. He knelt before the multicolored face and pushed a palmetto leaf away for an unobstructed view. “But the killer went farther, this time.”

  Mayes saw a generous coating of red, presumably blood, near the base of the stone structure, like a giant racing stripe. “It wraps around all sides.”

  Above the red, to the side of the face, there were three small red blotches in close proximity on the stone surface.

  “Are those what I think they are?” Mayes asked.

  Ustes offered a rare smile. “You’re damn right, they are. Three nearly perfect fingerprints. The techs are already running them.”

  Ustes continued. “We found the scalp just over there.” He pointed to the side where the two detectives were chatting in low voices. “Taking into account the last body found at Guana Lake south of Ponte Vedra, this makes the second corpse in a row leading away from your jurisdiction, due south.”

  A slight gust of wind blew from the other side of the clearing and an awful smell rushed at Mayes. Even through the handkerchief, it struck Ustes as well. The FBI agent quickly rose, fighting off the stench. Mayes covered his nose with his hand. In unspoken agreement, the two men took several steps away to clear themselves from the smell.

  “Time of death?” Mayes asked.

  “Around midnight, but we don’t believe it occurred here.”

  “Why?”

  “Evidence around the body suggests otherwise. No murder weapon, no sign of struggle. The actual cause of death won’t be known until an autopsy is performed. Her husband, who was out of town, spoke to her late last night. The victim called him from h
er home phone.”

  “That doesn’t guarantee she wasn’t kidnapped, taken here, and killed. I assume she’s a local?”

  “Local to Northeast Florida, but not from St. Augustine,” Ustes paused.

  Detective Mayes gave the FBI agent a long look. “Exactly why did you call me out here? I’m out of my jurisdiction, and I don’t get the sense you and I have formed a strong personal relationship.”

  FBI Special Agent Ustes exhaled. “The victim is from Fernandina Beach. Her husband said they spoke just before midnight. As I said, she called him from her home phone, so we know she was there. If time of death was 12 o’clock, this seems to imply she was killed on Amelia Island and then brought to the marker.”

  “Marker? I thought it was a headstone?”

  “Marker. An historical marker,” Ustes confirmed.

  Mayes gave the agent a sidelong look.

  Ustes continued. “This three-foot coquina marker the body is propped upon was put here in 1916. This is the spot where, in 1837, U.S. General Jesup captured Osceola under the white flag of truce.”

  Mayes shook his head. The murder’s tie to the history of Osceola had just been strengthened tenfold.

  “Have you checked the victim’s residence on the island?” Mayes asked.

  “Her husband arrived home this morning before you got here. He’s reported there were no signs of forced entry or anything out of place.”

  Mayes thought for a minute. “I get that the victim is from Fernandina Beach, but I’m still not sure why you called me here with such urgency. You guys seem to have everything under control. What did you expect from me?”

  Ustes stared hard at Mayes for a long moment, returned the handkerchief to his nose and mouth, and moved before the vertical body. He bent down, adjusting slightly to the side, and pulled the same palmetto leaf away as he had previously. “Look.”