Match Play (5 page)

Links Motel Restaurant, La Jolla, California, Wednesday, March 20

M
ore coffee,
hon?”

He shakes his head slightly at the waitress, not looking up from his paper. He had played the south course at Torrey Pines in La Jolla the day before and is planning to play again this morning. He is perturbed he didn’t make it to Steele Canyon Golf Course, but there is no time now; frankly after leaving the campground, he was too distressed to play.

The San Diego paper holds several ads offering golf packages in Carlsbad, California. He intends to be in Carlsbad to play the second hole during the Kia Classic held at the private Aviara Golf Club. He has decided to play a par 3 during the Kia Classic, and he needs time to find some courses in the area and select the second hole since he cannot do it at Aviara.

His mind drifts and he thinks about Joan, a correspondent for
Certain Swing
magazine, a small publication out of Chicago that covers the LPGA. She will be in Carlsbad and he must be sure he does not confront her.

The Carlsbad tournament will be finished on March 24 and he plans to be in Rancho Mirage in time to select the third hole and play it during the Kraft Nabisco Championship at Mission Hills Country Club. He is electing to play a par 5 at that location which will require some additional preparations.

Further plans include going to Texas and he hopes a stop in Chicago. He wants to add the trophies from the first three holes to his other prizes in the safe deposit box. He will have to leave his options open; there may only be time enough to prepare for the fourth hole.

Dr. Jensen had not encouraged him to take time off due to his enormous business responsibilities. Multiple sessions with her had been exhausting and provocative. She knew enough about him to surmise anything. He played a successful game with her. Her brutal death was the highlight of his sessions and the trigger for match play.

The day he left Chicago, he stopped taking the medications prescribed by the referred psychiatrist.

“Are you sure you don’t want some more coffee?” The waitress startles him back to the present.

It is a moment before he answers. “No, just the check.” She points to it on the counter and walks away. He leaves an appropriate tip, pays at the register and walks out into the sunshine.

It is a typical California coastal day. The ocean breeze tempers the warmth from the sun and caresses the palm trees. It is perfect. He actually feels happy. He removes a sterile wipe from his pocket and cleans his face and hands. He puts on his sunglasses and heads to his vehicle to retrieve his clubs. It is a day made to play the south course at Torrey Pines Public Golf Course; soon course management is his only thought.

He discovers it is Ladies’ Day and will be a couple of hours before the men can tee off. He decides to go to the driving range and hit some balls. After a rather long walk he arrives at the driving range. He notices several women hitting balls and realizes he could have played the second hole of the match here if only there had been time.

He purchases a large bucket of practice balls and surveys the open spaces of the driving area. Two women are hitting balls at the far end and he decides to position himself adjacent to them. They are both right-handers, so they are facing him as he approaches. He greets them and selects a short iron. His swing feels comfortable and balanced as he begins working the ball. His concentration is complete and he methodically continues to work through the bucket of balls. When he finally glances around, he realizes that mostly men are occupying the range. When the bucket is empty he rinses his clubs clean and heads back toward the clubhouse and the putting green.

He tees off at ten fifty-six a.m. on the first hole of the south course. His playing companions are men in their sixties. He expects a slow round and decides it is a good opportunity to work on his game and patience. His drive off the first tee is straight and long and elicits compliments from his playing companions. He decides to simply enjoy the day.

It is almost five p.m. when they finish the round; he is disappointed with his 1-over-par 73 and regrets the triple bogey on the 16th hole. He thanks his playing companions for allowing him to join their threesome, and after polishing his clubs, walks back to his car to stow them. He passes an attractive young woman in the parking lot who smiles and greets him, and again he wonders if he should have played the second hole.

He will travel to Carlsbad in the morning. There is a great deal of preparation between the second hole in Carlsbad and the third hole at Rancho Mirage. He is anticipating the challenge and pleasure of the second hole. He puts his clubs in the car and walks around to the back of the vehicle, opens the tailgate and starts to rearrange things to get access to the spare tire compartment. The cooler is still covered but empty. He has a small refrigerator in his room and earlier transferred the cold items, including the baby food jar, which he submerged in a jar of mayonnaise in case a stranger happened to get curious.

He removes the cooler from the back of the car and sets it in the bushes in front of the car next to him. He no longer needs it. He pushes everything forward and releases and raises the tire cover so he can reach the leather briefcase. He pulls it out. He then returns all the other items back to their proper places before closing up the car.

Heading back to his room, he grips the leather case and feels confident and secure with the weight of it in his hands. He takes the outside stairs to the second floor and in a few minutes is inside his room.

It is a typical hotel with a partial view of the Pacific Ocean. He walks to the patio door, opens it a couple of inches and stares at the water for a moment, then sets his briefcase on the nearby table. He is fatigued and decides to lay down for a nap. The soothing ocean breeze relaxes him and his head is filled with images of the second hole and how it will be played.

He awakens to a cool, dark room. As he adjusts his eyes, images of his father are drifting in and out of his awareness. His father has been dead now for almost four years and the memory of the man still dominates him.

He’s growing tense as he thinks of the thousands of times he carried his father’s clubs as a boy, the hours he spent walking fairways to get exact yardages only to have his father hit the ball somewhere he hadn’t been or measured. Alongside him on the fairway knowing his father was counting every pace and that ultimately the distance would be incorrect. Even if the count was off by a pace, he would be blamed for a poor shot. After carrying his father’s clubs all afternoon, he would be humiliated in front of his father’s friends, and beaten in privacy, then sent out onto the fairways at dusk, told not to return until he got the yardages to the inch while his father was in the clubhouse lounge with his friends, drinking. He would return to an angry drunk. How many times had he been kicked out of the Rolls and left to find his own way home?

He shakes his thoughts out of the past and forces himself to stop ruminating.

He now possesses everything his father had cherished. He has the power to run the companies as he chooses. The supermarket chain is one of the most prosperous in Chicago, and he is CEO. He has a sixty-five percent share in the packinghouse which his father bought and revived years ago. More importantly, he has the power to say who works in the kill room.

As he lays quietly, Debbie Beatty’s face appears. He had liked her and approved of her golf game. She had a nice swing, similar to his mother’s. He had been fascinated by the way they had shared the day. She was cordial and friendly, never suspecting what he was planning. He is reminded of the little birds he had beheaded when he was very young. Debbie had the same pitiful plea in her eyes.

Recalling old memories naturally include his mother, who would accuse him of growing up just like his father; that he would be exactly the same type of man. He was very young, crying and screaming at her, “I will not! I will not!” It was her responsibility to be his ally during the most terrifying times, but when he depended on her, she betrayed him.

She is dead now, grown cold like his father, and he is relieved to be alone.

He sits up and is hungry. He goes to the patio door to close and lock it. He reaches for the briefcase and on a whim, enters the combination and opens the case. The presence of the sheath of knives reassures him as he gently caresses them. He smiles and closes the case, spinning the tumblers. His plan was to edge them tonight, but he is tired now and will be dissatisfied with any work he does on his knives. It is ok to change his mind. He is not a failure, he is only changing his mind. He decides to return his knives to the car so he can edge them when he arrives in Carlsbad.

He thinks of Dr. Jensen again and is rather sorry he cannot, at this moment, tell her he has permitted himself to change his mind. He tucks his hair into his cap and turns the doorknob. He locks his hotel room door and takes the stairs to the parking lot.

After he returns his briefcase to its proper place in the vehicle, he sees the hotel restaurant and is reminded of his hunger. He wants a tender succulent meat for dinner, prime rib or a choice steak will be perfect.

He enters the restaurant, mostly vacant, and picks an isolated booth. He places his order with the waitress: steak, baked potato and salad. He requests bottled water; he prefers not to drink water from a glass he has not washed. He completes his meal preparation routine by cleansing his hands with a sanitary wipe.

After eating a rather mediocre, disappointing meal, he stops in the hotel lobby and takes a complimentary map of California to study when he returns to his room. He asks for a six a.m. wake-up call and informs the clerk he will settle his bill and return his key in the morning at checkout.

In his room, he undresses and prepares for a shower. He turns the water to hot and sits on the toilet while he waits for the room to fill with steam. He steps in the shower after adjusting the temperature and begins to soap his body. His body hair is now more than stubble and has been itching during the day. He thinks about shaving his body, but it is really too soon; if he does it now he will only have to do it again before going to Rancho Mirage. He lathers himself and steps back from the shower, rubbing his body until his hand finds his way to his genitals.

After finishing in the bathroom, he lies on the bed and in a few minutes he is asleep.

His wake-up call brings him out of a restful sleep, and he jumps out of bed eager to start the day. He performs his compulsive morning routine, makes a careful count of everything, cleans up after himself and packs his bags.

It is a beautiful sunny morning and the ocean breeze is damp but invigorating. He carefully places his bags in his car, each tightly adjacent to the next. Entering the office he sees the clerk and informs him he is checking out and places his key on the counter, two inches from the front edge and perpendicular to the register. He reaches for his wallet. This will be a cash transaction; he left a large deposit upon checking in. He impatiently waits while the clerk scribbles on his papers and fusses with the calculator and finally opens the cash register.

“Thank you, Mr. Slocum. Here is the balance of your deposit.”

He takes the cash from the clerk and as he compulsively straightens each bill he winces at the filth and condition of the currency, wishing he had time to wash the bills. He turns up the corners and presses out the creases. He checks to make certain the presidents are upright and facing to the left. When he is satisfied they are in order, he slides them into his wallet and turns to leave.

Inside the car, he carefully arranges each item on the dash and front seat; each has its own place. When the car is sufficiently warmed up, he pulls out of the parking lot and heads for the highway.

FBI Regional Office, Los Angeles, California, Thursday, March 21

G
ood morning,
Director Bachman,” says Larry Burke as Tom Bachman rushes past his aide’s desk. “I’ve scanned your incoming mail and flagged one from Phoenix as important.”

“Yes, thank you Larry, I’m aware of the email. I’ve been on the phone with John Cunningham this morning.” The Deputy Director, Tom Bachman is middle-aged, trim and handsome, well-dressed and respected. He pours a cup of coffee, sits down and opens his laptop.

The email outlines the case. Since the tour is now in Carlsbad and will be moving north, the local authorities should be advised, etc.,
etc.
Bachman quickly grasps the concerns and how it relates to golf and the LPGA tour. He opens the attached files and starts reading, studies the photos and begins to put the crime together in his head.

Bachman knows the LPGA tour is in Carlsbad today, March 21, through Sunday the 24th and he decides to assign a follow up agent to intervene if the suspect is headed to Carlsbad. He presses the extension number of Agent Louis Schein and gets his voice mail. “Lou, this is Tom. Stop by my office ASAP, I’ve got a file I want you to take a look at. I’m forwarding it to you now.”

Thirty minutes later, Lou Schein taps on Bachman’s door and steps in. Lou is a rather serious man, dark eyes, and blonde hair cut close to the scalp. He wears tailored suits and pastel shirts with conservative ties. He is above average in height, one of the few in the office, and in great shape for a guy his age; most guess mid-forties but he is fifty-one. He and Tom Bachman have an ongoing office chess game and both love to win.

Bachman is on the phone, and raises his eyebrows in acknowledgment when he sees Lou. He motions him inside and points to the coffee pot on the cabinet beside the window. Lou shakes his head no and sits down in one of the leather chairs facing the desk, occupying his time retrieving the files on his handheld.

When Bachman concludes the call, he closes his phone and turns his attention to Lou Schein. “Thank you for coming so quickly, Lou. Have you had a chance to review the files I sent?”

Lou pulls up a photo of the torso and stares at it. He is a serious character, having been with the bureau since he was fresh out of college. He has handled many cases during his career, including an unusual number of serial murder cases. He has a wife and two children, both in college, and neglects them when work takes priority.

“Phoenix thinks it’s a serial and may be headed our way.” says Bachman. “I’ll give you full authority on this one. The killer is possibly a professional golfer, wouldn’t that make some press? The LPGA tour is in California for most of the month, so we need to get on this immediately. I’ve read through it, but when you have it laid out, let me know. Trouble is we have very little to go on here. I don’t want this guy playing his game in California. When you read the coroner’s report you will see the strong involvement with golf. In my opinion, that is our starting point. Take what people you need, get the word out.”

“I’ll get back to you within the next few hours. Bishop to H5.” Schein heads out the door. Tom Bachman studies his chess board and moves Schein’s bishop.

Lou Schein is a Section Chief, giving him supervisory status over cases in the hands of agents with lower ratings. As he walks back to his office, he is already assembling a team to assist him with this case. Serial murder cases have always intrigued him; he is superb at interpreting the machinations of a twisted brain. He is already troubled with the notion this particular killer might be traveling; it will make it harder to catch him. He might strike in Carlsbad, but then the LPGA tour is playing in Rancho Mirage. He and his agents might have to follow the tour until they apprehend the killer. Lou is an avid golfer; his understanding of the game will be helpful, in fact essential, if he is to unravel the mind of this madman.

At his desk, Schein accesses the Phoenix files from his PC. One push of a button from a computer sends vital files and photos to cellphone, notebooks and PC’s. Even though Lou enjoys the quick electronic availability of data, he still likes the feel of the files, the smell of the photos, the ability to turn pages; he is stuck between the world of old school paperwork and the ever changing computer age.

He carefully studies the crime scene photos and begins to read the files. It doesn’t take long to see the characteristic traits of the serial murderer. The thoroughness of the crime, the lack of evidence, the elaborate construction of the scene, a motive vivid to the killer but obscure to anyone else. It is all there.

He reads Dr. Cochran’s statement three times and then delves into the autopsy report. He is impressed with her insight and expertise and wishes for some way she can continue to work the case.

Totally engrossed, Schein already has a sense for the killer. He takes particular note of the newspaper clipping. The letters in the names of the players are not recklessly scribbled over; each is neatly blocked out. In fact, it is startling how uniformly each letter has been covered. This killer is compulsive, but of course most of them are.

He examines the photos of the scorecard and notes that he himself would have entered his own score much the same in a game of match play. In his experience, he believes there should be a taunt in the evidence somewhere, the glimpse of a clue. Every serial killer wants to believe he is outsmarting his competition, so much so that he will provide assistance. The arrogance is genuine; serials have moved outside the boundaries of normalcy, morality and the law. He rereads the files, looking for the clue. Perhaps a reference to the tournament, a name? Schein is confident he will see the sign.

His computer clock informs him it’s lunchtime and he is beginning to feel the pangs of hunger. He raises his head, stares out the window and rubs his face and eyes, leaning back in his chair. As he spins around to face his desk, he sees Special Agent Roger Payne. SA Payne is standing hesitantly on the other side, clearly wondering if he should enter or knock. Schein motions to him to come in.

“Roger, you and I should have lunch. I have a new case here and I’d like you to join my team. I’m sending the files to you now.”

“That would be great, sir.”

SA Roger Payne is a recent transfer to the Los Angeles office having been assigned twelve weeks ago. Lou Schein liked him from the start. He is a healthy young man, over six feet, stocky, played football in college. He seems a little too selfconscious but it makes him cautious, and Section Chief Lou Schein approves. Roger’s engaging smile causes one to want to vote for him to be prom king or congressman; he has classic good looks, light complexion and dark hair; broad smile with perfect teeth. He could be a poster boy to attract young men to the FBI.

As they walk out of the office, Payne accesses his email and opens the file Lou sent. A cursory perusal piques his interest and he is anxious to know more.

The men walk the three blocks to Lou Schein’s favorite restaurant, a small, well-preserved 1940s era brick building with a flickering neon sign that says “Eats.” The staff greets Agent Schein, and as he heads to his favorite booth, the waiter is behind him with his customary glass of iced tea.

Schein prefers to sit with his back to a wall, never a door, and face the street windows and front door. He motions Roger Payne to the other side of the booth. The waiter places the iced tea in front of Schein and glances at Payne who orders a Coke.

The men spend little time studying the menu before the waiter is back with Payne’s drink. Schein orders today’s special, braised tenderloin and salad; Payne orders a cheeseburger and fries. While waiting for the food, Agent Schein begins to fill his companion in on the details of the case.

“All we have thus far, to our knowledge, is one crime. In my preliminary review of the file, I believe the killer fits the profile of a serial killer. He mutilates the body but ends up transforming the victim’s torso into the representation of golf green and that, my friend, will be our route to catching him, if he is in fact traveling with the LPGA tour.”

“Right,” said Payne, nodding at the waiter as he brought their meals.

“The tour is holding two or three tournaments in California this month, and one starts today right down the freeway in Carlsbad. I’d like you and probably Agents Gibson and Phillips in on this. Gibson is a solid investigator and detail-oriented. Phillips is a master with the computer and compiling data. You have a background in psychology and criminal science.” Lou glances up from his tenderloin, “Do you play golf, Roger?”

“I sure do, sir! I’ve got a three or four handicap. I try to play at least once or twice a week.” His voice shows his emotions; a little embarrassment, a lot of excitement. “The killer seems obsessed with golf, and as you say, knowing the game is essential to understanding his game.”

Lou smiles at his coworker’s enthusiasm. “The LPGA is not going to like this, so we are going to have to be pretty discreet with our investigation as it will require asking some very personal questions. Consider all the people who travel with the LPGA, and we’re facing a monumental task. I’m sure the LPGA will be opposed to any press, actually in our favor. We don’t want to stroke the killer’s ego. At some point, we may be able to anticipate him and then our public information officer will have to issue a press statement.”

The agents continue their discussion through lunch, then over coffee. Schein is pleased and impressed by the questions young Agent Payne is asking. Neither man says much as they walk back to the office, each doing his own thinking and studying the files on their phones.

Schein tells Payne to immediately begin organizing the team, and he will inform Phillips and Gibson of their assignments. The four agents will outline the case and then Schein will assign other teams as needed.

Later, Lou Schein sits at his desk and again considers the Phoenix PD coroner. He is aware of openings for forensic scientists and a coroner’s position in the LA office. Dr. Nancy Cochran had signed the reports “assistant” coroner, so she is subordinate to someone. Perhaps she is dissatisfied or not essential to her department.

He decides to enlist Tom Bachman in a campaign to get Dr. Cochran assigned to the Los Angeles office of the FBI. Lou Schein wants her on his case.