Match Play (21 page)

H
e goes to the resort hotel where the players are staying and watches the maintenance personnel. They are dressed in blue coveralls, and there is a patch on the pocket that says “Pinnacle Country Club.”

He finds a store that sells work clothes and coveralls. He buys the closest pair he can find and also a blue baseball cap. Next, he goes to the laundry and washes the clothes in hot water and adds a small amount of bleach. The coveralls are a perfect match.

It is five p.m. and time is short.

Back in his room, he carefully checks his briefcase. He has his plastic protective gear, a Pinnacle scorecard, a local newspaper with the golf standings, a box of golf balls, green food coloring, a small box of sugar packets, the 6 pennant, a baby food jar full of alcohol and his beloved knives.

In his lapel pocket is an electronic device that will open the locks on hotel doors.

At the Pinnacle Country Club, he parks as far as he can from the hotel.

At the side entrance of the hotel, he uses the electronic device to open the door. He is in a first floor hall. He sees signs pointing to every amenity. He heads toward the lobby.

He takes a deep breath and approaches the front desk, glad to see three employees working. No matter who he asks, that person will assume someone else took the call from Monica Lopez’s room.

“Hi, I’m Carl and a Monica Lopez put a call in for TV maintenance. I forgot the room number.”

The attendant turned to the other attendants, but they were both busy. He looked at David and said, “What?”

David is getting nervous. “I’m from maintenance and I need a room number for Monica Lopez. She called for service but we didn’t get the room.”

“She’s one of the players, in 426, and don’t come to the front desk again. Call from maintenance!”

“Sorry.” He starts to move away. He heads for the elevators trying to look as casual as possible. He presses for the 4th floor and waits.

The doors open and he goes down the hall to Room 426. Fortunately, the hall is deserted. He knocks and announces that he’s from maintenance. No one answers. He uses his device to unlock the door and let himself in. If she’s in the shower, he will have to subdue her.

The shower isn’t running. He looks around, he is alone.
How much time does he have, and will she be alone when she comes back?



It is 9:46 p.m. and David is standing in the middle of the room, nude except for the plastic clothing, when he hears the key slide through the electronic latch. He quickly moves to position himself behind the door and readies himself.

Monica steps into the room and turns toward him, freezes, stares at him with wide eyes. Shock and fear hit her simultaneously and she opens her mouth to scream, but he hits her in the face as hard as he can.

She falls to the floor, dropping her bag and the flowers she was carrying. The fragrance of the flowers touches his nostrils. He kneels over the body and checks; she is unconscious. He must work quickly. He undresses her, hoping to get her to the tub before she awakens.

She has luscious skin and a very appealing body. He is sorry he had to hit her face because now it will be bruised and detract from the perfection of the sixth hole
.
He tosses her clothing and shoes aside and picks her up; she weighs more than he expected.

David carries her into the bathroom and lays her head first in the tub; his knives are neatly arranged on the adjacent counter. He kneels by the faucets and waits for her to wake up. When Monica opens her eyes and focuses on David, he smiles at her and cuts her throat.

Blood spurts and quickly settles into a steady stream. He curses; he forgot to close the drain. He hopes he can still save enough blood to fill the ice bucket. He grabs the bucket and a glass from the counter and rhythmically fills the glass again and again and empties it into the bucket. Her hair is already matted. The blood looks like a fine burgundy; he has an impulse to taste it.

When the bucket is half full he sets it on the counter and watches as the sixth hole of the match is drained of life.

He marks the number 7 ball with blood.

When the blood is barely oozing from the wound, he reaches for his large knife and begins the dissection. Then he closes the shower curtain and reaches through to turn on the warm water.

He reaches for his briefcase which he had earlier placed on the top shelf of a towel rack. Opening the case, he fetches the baby food jar. He places the jar in the briefcase and takes out the Pinnacle scorecard and the newspaper.

The scorecard is marked 4 up above the 15th hole and the score is 3;2. He places it on the counter and drops the newspaper on the floor. The newspaper standings are now transformed into a scramble of blocked out letters which are: one D, five E’s, one F, two H’s, one I, two L’s, two N’s, two O’s, one P, one S, one T, and one Y. Five of those letters, E, H, O, F, and T are circled.

He stops the water in the shower and dries the appendages. This hole is different and they cannot remain in the tub. He carries them to the bed and bends the arms to form a diamond, then does the same with the legs.

He goes back to the bathroom and dries the torso and centers it in the tub. He uses the green coloring to paint the green and opens the sugar packets into the breast cavities to represent the sand traps. Finally, he inserts a golf ball into the vagina and stabs the number 6 pennant into her navel.

He stands and admires his work which is near perfect except for the lake that surrounds the green. He closes the tub drain and starts the cold water. He watches carefully as the water inches up the sides of the torso, turning it off when it is getting near the green.

He turns the head toward the tub and sets the scorecard on the lid of the toilet.

He takes the breasts back to the room and flanks the patio door.
Dammit!
He forgot that the caddy would have the clubs. He opens the doors and throws a tee on the carpet and throws the 7 ball as hard as he can out the door.

He laughs to himself; they will think he hit it with a putter.

He stops in his tracks and thinks he hears knocking, but realizes it is the bed in the adjacent room bumping against the wall.

He returns his tools and gear to the briefcase, takes out one of his own caps, puts it on to hide his hair and pulls it low to hide his eyes and face. It’s too late to be wearing sunglasses.

Holding a tissue to his nose, to further shield him from identification, he opens the door a crack, makes sure no one is in the hall, and leaves the room walking briskly toward the stairs. In a few minutes he is driving away.

He is as full of life as he’s ever been. He played the sixth hole, made birdie, and has collected another precious trophy.

D
avid Steadman is sitting in his car after stopping to get gas and to use the restroom. He is frantically de-germing his hands. He detests using public restrooms but sometimes there’s no other choice.

The Navigator’s GPS informs him his next exit will be I-44, about twenty miles north. He shifts his car into drive and merges into traffic. It is a pleasant day, perfect for traveling and he is looking forward to the drive to New York.

The next play is already in his head. When he locates the 7 ball, nothing will keep him from playing, not even Agent Lou Schein.

Lying on the passenger seat is a copy of the
Arkansas Gazette
folded to the second page. The AP article includes some of the photos he took while in Irving and a photo of Agent Schein. The article contains rather graphic descriptions of the crimes, and the speculation by the reporter is enticing. The by-line is Joseph Cameron, and David feels certain this reporter will follow the story to the LPGA Open in New York. The only thing that makes David nervous is that the FBI artist sketch is also included. Even though it looks nothing like him, it gives him a foreboding.

The Open is the perfect venue. It always receives national coverage, and now that the match is public, everyone will be interested.

When he reaches Southampton, he will check in at the Jacobson House, a bed and breakfast where he has previously stayed. He and Mildred Boxer, the owner of the B&B, have become friends over the past four years when he attends business meetings.

He likes her, she reminds him of Sarah, at least until she speaks. She is small, very neat and meticulous about her B&B. She is a fine chef, and she has a generous laugh and a sense of humor he finds intriguing.

He begins to plan the seventh hole. It is his intention to play while in Southampton.

D
avid takes his briefcase and walks toward the entrance of Jacobsen House. The trees form a canopy over the walkway and dapple the concrete with sunlight. He is almost certain he smells camellias. The entrance is a classical style portico with columns and cornices painted bright white.

The front desk attendant greets him as he approaches. “How can I help you?”

“I’m David Steadman. I have a reservation, but I’m a day early. By the way, where’s Mildred? I’d like to say hello.”

“Mildred passed away last spring. It was very sudden.”

“How did she die?” David begins to feel anxious and starts rocking back and forth on his heels.

“I don’t know. There are new owners now. I’m new myself.”

“I shall miss her very much. She was a special person.” David is getting angry in spite of his sadness. He collects himself and says, “I have the suite on the fifth floor reserved for a week. All my payment information is on file. I’ll need help with my bags…keys?”

The desk clerk hands the keys across the gumwood counter and presses a nearby button for the porter. “Scooter will meet you at the door, sir.”

Scooter, indeed.
David turns abruptly and waits at the entrance.

A young man, not yet twenty, comes out from another door, pushing a luggage cart. David motions with his hand toward the car. Between the two of them, they move the baggage and golf clubs to the cart and return to the lobby. David keeps hold of his briefcase.

The old elevator, the restored original of the building, is ornate and rather small, but the luggage cart and the two men fit comfortably into it. They reach the fifth floor and David, knowing his way, walks ahead of the porter until they reach the suite. He unlocks the door himself and goes directly to the bedroom, where he lets himself out onto the covered balcony. The pleasant breeze is inviting, but he returns to supervise the porter.

He tips the porter and follows him to the door, hangs the “do not disturb” sign and double locks the door. He cleans his hands while walking back to the balcony.

David intends to play golf the next day and must start looking for the seventh hole.

After enjoying the breeze for a few more minutes, he steps back inside, undresses and showers. Dressed in the robe supplied by Jacobson House, he pulls down the bed covers and lies down to rest up for tomorrow’s game.

New York Bureau, FBI Violent Crimes Unit, Tuesday, June 25

L
ou Schein, Dr. Cochran and the rest of the task force spend a solid forty-eight hours trying to piece the murder and mutilation of Monica Lopez into some sort of comprehensible logic.

She was found by the maid on Sunday morning, the last day of the Walmart tournament. The crime scene had some deviations but there was no doubt that it was another hole in the match, and all the talent the FBI could muster in that part of the country was brought in to investigate.

They agree this must have been a disturbing hole for the killer since the crime scene was not consistent with the last five murders. Cochran suspects that, although the killer is continuing to maintain a pristine crime scene, the fact he has deviated from his routine means he is spinning out of control.

One of the attendants at the front desk remembers giving the room number to an employee from maintenance but did not pay attention to him. The man kept his head down and had stooped shoulders, and the attendant just wanted him to leave the front desk.

The coveralls are traced to the store where they were purchased and the salesperson says she remembers the man who bought them. He was average height and weight, wore slacks and a colored shirt, a hat and sunglasses. He said his size was a thirty-two long, and the hat was large. He paid cash, and the salesperson doesn’t remember anything else.

In fact, the FBI could find no one who saw anything, remembered anything or could identify anyone to the sketch. The security tapes from the hotel show a man carrying a briefcase getting on the elevator at 12:37 a.m. Sunday morning, and every effort is made to find him.

Lou and his team, with the exception of Dr. Cochran and the CSU team, move their investigation to New York. Dr. Cochran and her team, plus some FBI ground investigators, are left in Rogers to gather more evidence.

Now at the New York City bureau’s offices, Special Agent Lou Schein and agents Gibson, Phillips, and Payne are sitting around a large table covered with documents and photos. Payne has set up another monitor to patch in Dr. Cochran when she can join the conversation. The crime board is set up on the long wall next to a large video monitor, and both the wall and the monitor display profiles of the seven victims: the six women of the match, and the accidental intruder from the San Diego murder.

The office space is on the fourth floor of an administrative building. The space was vacant, and when the request for temporary facilities was made, the bureau was only too happy to accommodate the LA branch. It is a typical bureaucratic space: strip windows, minimalist gray walls interrupted only by phone, computer and video outlets, and gray industrial-style desks.

Lou doesn’t appreciate seeing his picture in the newspapers, let alone details of his investigation. There is already speculation about the possibility of a murder at the LPGA Open. Although the publicity will alarm people, it’s a plus if it causes people, women in particular, to be more aware of strangers.

Schein is a calm and methodical investigator, and no one knows better than him this type of case needs publicity, but the recent exposure has unsettled him. He is becoming impatient.

After studying the crime boards with his back to the group, Lou turns and addresses them.

“All right, this is the best opportunity we have to catch our guy. The killer left two clues in Rogers: the golf tee with Sebonack impressed on it and the scramble, OPEN EYES FIND THE HOLE. There will be a murder in the vicinity of the Sebonack Golf Club in Southampton, New York this week. The U.S. Women’s Open runs from Thursday, June 27, through Sunday, June 30. The victim will be anywhere between thirty-one and fifty-five. These are things we can be sure of. You have a copy of Nancy’s autopsy on victim seven, Monica Lopez. Does anything stand out?” He pauses while his eyes challenge his colleagues sitting at the table.

Dead silence.

Schein smiles wryly. “I’d like to stand here and say there’s something exceptional about the last two murders, but I can’t. Without a motive, we continue to be nothing but inept observers. At present, we can follow this trail of murders forever and with the little we know, there isn’t any way to stop him, unless he makes a major error.

“All we have is our composite, an average guy who’s committing murders while following the LPGA Tour. The victims are left mutilated in an unusual way but without the why, it’s meaningless to us. We need a motive.”

Lou can feel his face and neck getting red with anger and he stops himself from pacing. His voice is getting louder.

“Never have I been this down in the dumps after seven murders. There is no definitive pattern, no particular type of woman, and he’s all over the place on day and time of murder. Each victim only has golf in common. The forensic evidence is inconclusive, and the physical evidence is ambiguous. The only thing we do know is that age and par coincide.”

Phillips adds, “We did track his clothing to a uniform store in Rogers.”

“As I said, more useless physical evidence.” Lou’s voice is filled with frustration.

Dr. Cochran’s face and voice appear on a monitor. After greeting the team, she adds, “We have to focus on the pathology. What is the origin of these crimes? Why does this man want to turn women into golf greens? And why set the victim’s heads up so they can observe their own mutilated bodies? What does he want them to see? What is the message, and who is it directed to?”

Lou glances around the table. “Is the motive just the game, this match? If it is, he is definitely beating us. After all, he’s 5 up and if he’s playing nine holes, the match is over. And don’t forget, an extra victim in San Diego. We have little more to go on than we did when we started this investigation three months ago.”

Lou crosses his arms over his chest.

“He’s flaunted it right in our faces, at the Dallas FBI building. Is it arrogance or does he want to get caught? Will he play 18 holes?” Lou pauses. “He only needs ten holes to win the match. Will he kill ten and then disappear? Or will there be match after match until we catch him? I’d appreciate some input from you people!”

He stops when he realizes he is ranting. He changes his tone.

“Perhaps we need to work backwards. Do we know anyone who did
not
commit these murders?”

“Well, I’m fairly certain it was none of us,” Bruce Phillips winks and smiles, “and we can eliminate everyone who isn’t the least bit interested in golf. Our killer plays golf very well, and he plays often. He must play regularly when he’s not traveling and committing murders; a club or resort course.”

Bruce continues, “It would be beneficial if I create a golf profile of him. We know he’s an excellent player, often scoring par or below, and considering his age range it should make for a fairly specific profile of players. If he isn’t recording his scores now, maybe he did last year. We could ask the USGA to give us the name and the home club of every player who has a three or better handicap and is age thirty to forty.

“Once we’ve obtained the list, we get local agencies to do the phone work in their area, the follow-up, and we condense the list to possible suspects. I’m uncertain how long the low handicap lists might be, but at least it’s a viable approach that could produce some results.”

Lou Schein’s face shows some actual enthusiasm for the first time in a while.

“I like it, Bruce. At least it gives us a definable field to investigate. He’s here. I know there will be a murder during the Open. If we find a scratch player who’s at the Open Tournament but isn’t a pro, we…”

Phillips interrupts, “This isn’t going to be anything we can accomplish this week. I’ve done some preliminary research and find that the USGA has over 800,000 members at 9,000 golf clubs around the country. The number of people maintaining their handicap through the USGA is 4.5 million. Scratch or better players in the age range of thirty to forty years will statistically amount to thousands. And don’t forget the list will also include every member of the PGA between the age of thirty and forty. We haven’t completely eliminated any of them. In addition, the PGA is not that cooperative.”

Agent Schein’s look of optimism fades.

Nancy Cochran offers, “We have the DNA from the San Diego and Irving cases. If Bruce can condense this list to a manageable number, all it will take to identify the killer is a blood test, if they’re willing.”

Bruce finalizes his comments. “I estimate it will take approximately forty-five days to two months just to refine the list for reasonable suspects, and that’s if we get priority access across the nation, which is unlikely. We could be looking at August before this produces anything tangible, and if our guy doesn’t maintain a USGA handicap, the whole endeavor will be for nothing.”

“I want you to proceed, I’ll get the authorization,” Agent Schein says with determination.

Everyone begins gathering notes with the intention of finding the nearest computer.

“Let’s not adjourn yet,” says Schein. “I want to know that everyone is up to date on the case.” He picks up his notes.

“We have the videotape from Dallas, and regardless of the missing details, I think the composite sketch of the killer, though not perfect at present, is improved. We found male skin cells on the piece of latex glove, and the FBI lab in LA will determine if the DNA matches the blood stains from the San Diego scene. And thanks to an observant golf partner, we know our killer has scratches on his arm; we can only hope they have scarred. We assume the scratches come from the intruder in the Emily Cho case since we never found her hand.

“We have the evidence we need to convict this maniac. The chronology of the crimes and their correlation in execution, along with the scrambles, make them irrefutably related. We just need to catch him.”

“So how will we proceed here in New York?” asks Mary Gibson.

Lou points to the bundles of paper stacked against an adjacent wall. “Those are the flyers with the sketch and profile of the suspect and our contact information. We set up a 1-800 tip line to make it easier for people to call in. I want those flyers distributed to every hotel, golf course and law enforcement agency in the area and I want it done by Wednesday night. It’s our best hope for a break in the case while he’s here on Long Island. I’ll get you the help you need. And let’s hope he makes a mistake.”

He looks around the table. “If anyone has anything else that needs attention, let’s hear it now.”

No response.

“I’m in meetings for the rest of the day and I’m not coming in tomorrow. If you need me I’ll be at the Timber Point Golf Course here on Long Island. I’m not sure I even like golf anymore, but I have an old friend, retired from the Bureau, who I agreed to join for a round. Perhaps I’ll have an epiphany on the course.

“If anything breaks, I want to know immediately. My cell will be on.” With that, Agent Lou Schein leaves the room.