Match Play (10 page)

Carlsbad, California, Monday, March 25

S
teve Johnson
has just hit his tee shot on the 18th fairway, a long par 4, a fading low shot that followed the dogleg right. His playing companions acknowledge the shot and each hits their own fine tee shots.

He had enjoyed honors on the tee since the thirteenth hole when he had birdied and taken the skins for the tenth through the thirteenth. So far, he has won $480 less his own $20 for each of the four holes, but the winnings are a recovery from having lost a couple of holes on the front nine.

His riding partner, Brad, hits his 1 iron again; he can really blister it, straight and long, he isn’t very far back from any of the others who have all hit driver. They proceed down the fairway; everyone is enjoying the round, even though one of the players, Bill, hasn’t won a single skin. Unless he wins this hole he will lose $360 on the round.

“I’m really enjoying playing with you guys today, thank you for including me,” he says, sounding grateful.

“No problem, Steve, we’re enjoying it too. Well, maybe not Bill.” Brad laughs. “We regularly play on Monday mornings; will you be in town next Monday? We would like the chance to get our money back.”

“No, I’ve got to leave the middle of this week, probably Wednesday,” he says. “I have to get back to Sacramento and work.”

“Too bad!” Brad rolls the cart up beside his ball and jumps out.

It is late afternoon when they reach the clubhouse; settling up requires a round of beers and some careful math. Steadman tries to pay for the beer, but isn’t allowed since Bill, the loser of the round, has to pay. When the winnings are calculated and the first beers are empty, Steadman buys the next round for the three men, takes his winnings, excuses himself, and leaves.

He didn’t think about the time as he reached the end of the on ramp and had to merge with a river of cars going five miles an hour. He silently chastises himself…this is the wrong time of day to be on the freeway. He creeps along with the annoyance of traffic and after a few miles decides to exit.

He drives a short distance on the surface streets and realizes he is between Encinitas and Carlsbad. He remembers he has a pocketful of cash and decides to enjoy something French for dinner. He uses his voice activated GPS and asks for directions to a French restaurant.

David enters the restaurant and is pleased with his choice. It is small, intimate and clean. Edith Piaf’s soft voice is floating in the air mixing with the aroma of bread and spices. He is early and gets the full attention of an idle staff. He declines the escargot but orders the goat cheese salad and a bottle of wine.

His entrée is
cassoulet
with lamb and pork, cooked to perfection. He orders dessert,
banana flambéed au rum
and decides he better have some coffee. He is sleepy when he finishes his meal, after all day in the sun and now sitting in a cool quiet environment, not to mention an entire bottle of wine.

As he walks to his car, David Steadman is startled to find that night has fallen on his perfect day. He isn’t quite sure what part of town he’s in or how far it is to the I-5. He shouldn’t have had that last glass of wine, because he’s too impaired to manage the GPS and can’t get it to work.

He is westbound and within a few miles he is able to see the I-5 but can’t find the entrance from the street he is on. He turns right at the next intersection with the thought that he can follow the freeway until he can find a street with an on ramp.

Soon the condition of the buildings and the streets is deteriorating. The flow of traffic around him is decreasing to the point that he begins to feel apprehensive. He can still see the freeway but sees no signs indicating an on ramp. He spontaneously guides the Navigator into the outside lane and makes a U-turn across traffic.

Then he sees flashing lights in his rearview mirror.

“Dammit!” He thinks of the Glock and slows down, keeping his eyes on the mirror and hoping the police car will drive by. The patrol car stays behind him, so he pulls into an abandoned parking lot. They park behind him and two officers step from the vehicle. Each has a flashlight focused on him as they approach. He rolls down his window, unfastens his seatbelt and reaches for his wallet.

The police caution him to keep his hands on the steering wheel, which he does.

“Do you know why we stopped you, sir?”

“I’d guess it’s because my U-turn back there was illegal.”

The officer requests identification and when David hands it to him, he returns to the patrol car.

“What are you doing in San Diego, sir?” asks the other officer.

“I came to play golf in sunny southern California.”

“And what are you doing in this part of town?”

“I went out to dinner after playing golf at La Costa and got turned around on my directions. I couldn’t find the I-5,” David responds.

The other officer returns with David’s papers and tells his partner they’re clear.

“You’re good to go, Mr. Steadman. The next street is Faraday. Take it south, it’s about a half mile to Cannon, then west to the I-5. You can enter going either way.”

“Thank you very much. I certainly didn’t intend to break any laws,” he says, trying his best to control his anxiety.

The officers say goodnight and return to their patrol car.

David places the papers on the seat, waits for the police to turn off the flashing lights, then signals and pulls into the inside lane following the officer’s directions. He reaches the freeway and merges with northbound traffic.

He releases a sigh of relief. This type of anxiety evokes memories of the past when he thought he might be caught.

When he was ten, a policeman stopped him in Oak Park riding home on his bike. He had a butcher knife in a paper bag in the front basket of his bicycle. He had traveled to an adjacent neighborhood looking for stray dogs and sped through a stop sign on the way home.

It was lucky he had already thrown away the bait. He had just started collecting dog’s eyes at that time and he hadn’t really refined his technique, so all the bag contained was the bands used to restrain the dogs, tightly holding their mouths, paws and bodies so he could remove his trophy.

The officer noticed the handle of the knife and asked what he was doing with such a large knife. He said he used it to cut up an old inner tube to make the large rubber bands that were in the bag, to make a slingshot when he got home. The officer cautioned him about riding through stop signs and about the use of a slingshot and told him to make certain that he returned the knife to an adult when he got home.

Thinking back, he wonders why he always took the left one. He can’t remember ever removing a dog’s right eye.

He had been lucky that day he hadn’t gotten a trophy.

Los Angeles FBI Office, Tuesday, March 26

L
ou Schein
paces around the table in the conference room, pivots and turns his attention to the papers and photos on the table and the crime board. Roger Payne had spent most of Monday night coordinating the evidence; he walks into the room. “Good morning, sir.”

“Hello, Roger. Thanks for putting in the time last night to get this together. We should have the autopsies within the hour. Dr. Cochran is in the lab.” He motions to a chair for Payne.

Lou returns his attention to the crime board. The crime scene is extraordinarily similar to that in Phoenix, except the murderer has left his golf ball in the house, presumably because there was no door from which to hit it.

He glances back and forth between the headshots of Deborah Beatty and Emily Cho; they have the same eyes…lifeless orbs that once filled innocent brains with a thousand images. They are now staring from two faces drained of all their warmth, each suspended over a pool of cold blood.

He studies the photos of the torsos, which remarkably resemble golf greens if one suspends their knowledge of what they actually are. The depressions from the removed breasts are carefully filled with white powder. The food coloring is evenly spread over the abdomen. The pennants, stuck in the navels, are standing still, lifelessly hovering over the holes, the women’s vaginas which have been violated with the maniacal insertion of a golf ball.

Lou loses his train of thought.
How could someone dismember these young women? How can a man who has ever loved a woman, hold a breast in his hand and carve it from a woman’s body?

Phillips and Gibson enter the conference room. “We’ve impounded the victim’s LPGA car,” Gibson says. “The keys were in the ignition. It’s being delivered to the crime lab for the forensic team to work on. The victim’s golf clubs and shoes were in the trunk. No one at the golf course had paid much attention to it until one of the employees who knew the victim thought it shouldn’t be there.” Gibson glances at the crime board and sits at the table. She smells strongly of cigarettes.

Lou directs his attention to Phillips. “How did you do on deciphering that scramble from the
LA Times
left in the living room?”

“The scramble was not difficult to decipher. I used a program designed to find solutions to word puzzles. The circled letters are the first letter of each word in the phrase and the program determined the possible combinations, most of which were nonsense. It finally settled on “An Eagle Disappears in the Desert.” I think he’s telling us he is going to Rancho Mirage. Or it could be a reference to golf. Usually an eagle is made on a par 5, and ‘disappears’ can be a reference to the word mirage.”

Lou explodes out of his chair, beaming a smile. “Great work, Phillips! We might just be one step ahead of him now.”

Phillips, flipping through the requested reports from the golf courses, looks up. “Hey! Here’s a response from the La Costa Golf Club. They actually had a player sign in as Steve Johnson yesterday. Surely, it can’t be our guy?”

Schein spins around and points his finger at Phillips. “I want you out there as quick as you can. Question everyone, the staff and players. Find out who this guy played with and follow up on every lead. If he was at La Costa yesterday, he may still be in Carlsbad. If we’re lucky, someone may have seen what he was driving.”

After Gibson and Phillips gather their paperwork and leave, Lou stands in front of the screen monitor and the crime board, trying to absorb every detail, contemplating the mindset of the killer.
Why golf? Is he a golfer, caddy, sportscaster, or sports writer? What drives him to kill? What emotion or need does this ritual satisfy?
Is it possible this monster will kill at least eight more women?

Lou’s eyes fixate on the scramble Phillips deciphered. An Eagle Disappears in the Desert….Will he stop killing and vanish if he scores the third hole as eagle? The team believes he will play a par 5 at Rancho Mirage but do not yet know how he determines his score. The man will be hard to stop.

D
o you
have to drive so fast?” asks Phillips. “We should have plenty of time to interview everyone. If not, we might get back late or we can spend the night if we don’t get done.”

“I’m not spending the night.” Gibson reaches for a cigarette.

“You aren’t going to light that are you?”

“Why are you such a wuss?” She sticks the cigarette in her mouth but doesn’t light it.

“You’ve heard of secondary smoke? I don’t want to get cancer from partnering with you,” Phillips says.

“Don’t you have any vices?” Gibson smirks, cigarette hanging from her mouth with a relaxed casualness.

“I’m addicted to computers and all kinds of computer technology.”

“What about a girlfriend? What do you do on the weekends? Do you have interests beyond work?”

“I like to read and I like puzzles; mathematical and perceptual types. And I like to go to the park and feed the birds.”

“Oh, great!” Gibson sneers. “While you’re at the park feeding the little birdies, I’m at the shooting range perfecting head shots.”

Agents Phillips and Gibson arrive at La Costa Golf Course a little after eleven a.m. The starter shows them the tee time sheets, indicating that Steve Johnson teed off at ten-thirty the previous morning with Brad Billingsly, Bill Stevens and Jerry Maag. The starter and the staff know all of them. The men play every Monday morning with another guy, Ken Mosley. Ken hadn’t made it this time, so the starter put Mr. Johnson out with the other three. He’d seen them when they came in after the round and everyone appeared jovial.

Talking to the pro, Gibson gives the briefest explanation about why they are trying to find Steve Johnson. The pro said Mr. Johnson paid cash and seemed pleasant. Gibson asks if he and his staff would look at the sketch and agree to meet with the sketch artist if they have anything to add.

No one saw Mr. Johnson leave or saw his car.

Phillips and Gibson are eating lunch in the course cafeteria. Phillips calls in the names of the three players to the Wilshire office. He stresses the urgency of locating these individuals, specifies a fifty-mile radius from the golf course to start; it is San Diego County, after all. He expects to hear back from the office before they finish their lunch.

In the course cafeteria, Gibson is stabbing at her salad, too impatient to eat; what she wants is to find this threesome of men. It is possible they played golf with the killer less than twenty-four hours before. She keeps glancing at Phillips who seems completely engrossed in his Ruben sandwich and his notes.

“How long, Phillips?”

“What?” He looks up from his sandwich.

“How long until we get those names and addresses?” She is tapping her fingers on the table.

“If I were doing it, I’d already have them; but I don’t know who they assigned it to. We’re just going to get a long list of phone numbers anyway after all the different directories are scanned. You can bet there are a lot of people with those names. Well, maybe not so many Maag’s, but Stevens and Billingsly are common.” He takes a bite of his sandwich. “If it’s too many, we’ll go back to the office and call from there. They may not be home anyway during the day. We’ll be lucky to talk to any of them before this evening.”

Frustration crinkles her eyes. “Damn! I need a cigarette. I’ll be outside.” She jumps up and walks quickly to the door.

Phillips continues working the statistical problem that has captured his attention. If they don’t hear back with some phone numbers in the next few minutes, he’ll suggest they return to the office. Either the information will be compiled when they get there or he will do it himself.

He is finishing his lunch when one of the staff from the pro shop enters the cafeteria.

“Hey, Agent Phillips?”

“Yes sir, I’m Agent Phillips.”

“Gill Vargas. I work in the pro shop and I think I can help you out. Brad Billingsley left a notice on the bulletin board yesterday. He’s looking for a special breed of putter and I suggested he post an ad. Here it is, with his phone number.”

Agent Phillips takes the paper and immediately recognizes the La Jolla prefix. “Thanks a lot.” He shakes the man’s hand.

Before Gill Vargas has left the room, Phillips is dialing the number from the ad. As he walks to the exit of the cafeteria, the phone is ringing. He sees Gibson and motions to her to meet him at the car.

“Softcom, Mr. Billingsly’s office, this is Sarah,” a pleasant voice answers.

Phillips identifies himself and asks to speak to Brad Billingsly, who very soon is on the line.

“Mr. Billingsley, I’m Agent Bruce Phillips with the FBI. We have an urgent matter regarding Mr. Steve Johnson and we understand that you played golf with him yesterday at La Costa Golf Course. My partner and I are at La Costa now and we’d like to drive out to your office as soon as possible. Can you spare a few minutes? We’d also like to speak with your playing partners and would appreciate any contact information you might have for them.”

“Sure, I’ll be here all afternoon. Just have me paged when you arrive. I don’t know what I can tell you. Mr. Johnson was an average guy, one heck of a golfer, said he was from Sacramento and that he was leaving town the middle of the week. I don’t know what else I can tell you. He rode with me in my cart, seemed like a nice enough guy.”

“Thank you and we’ll be there within the hour,” Phillips says.

Gibson has started the car and Phillips steps in and fastens his seatbelt. “We got a break! I just got off a call with Brad Billingsley. We’re going to La Jolla.”



Billingsly said they had mostly talked about golf and the LPGA tournament. Johnson had said he was in town on business. Billingsly studied the artist’s sketch of Johnson and felt he could provide more detail. Gibson arranged for the sketch artist to meet with Brad.

Billingsly described Johnson as medium build, light hair and nicely dressed. He played with very expensive golf clubs and equipment. He was “one heck of a good player”. Brad remembered he wore a Rolex and a diamond ring that he took off when they began playing. He thought Johnson didn’t have much of a tan for someone from Sacramento; he was sort of pasty looking, more like a northwesterner.

Johnson never removed his cap or sunglasses, even when they were having a beer after the round. It wasn’t until Gibson asked again about distinguishing features that Mr. Billingsly remembered the scratches.

When Johnson took his jacket off on the fifteenth hole, he noticed the long scratches on the inside of his right arm. Three of them, nearly the length of his forearm, and they looked quite deep. Johnson said something about having visited friends who had a large Great Dane who had jumped on him.

The answer had puzzled Billingsley because the scratches were deeper near his wrist. They should have gone the other way if it was a dog; down the arm, not up.

Billingsley had not seen what Johnson was driving because when he’d offered to take him to his car so he could drop off his clubs, Johnson had declined. After they settled up the debts on their skins game, Johnson left. The three men had lost almost a thousand dollars to him.

Before Gibson and Phillips leave Brad Billingsly’s office, he gives them the addresses and phone numbers of his two playing partners.

In the car, Phillips calls the other two men and arranges meetings for later this evening. They live about a hundred miles from each other, so Phillips and Gibson decide to split the task. Phillips will get a car from the pool and go to San Bernardino. Gibson will go to Laguna Beach.