Match Play (14 page)

T
he packing
plant is in downtown Chicago; the drive on a Monday takes about an hour. A-Prime Packing Plant is the only plant that remains in The Yards which was the meatpacking district in Chicago for more than a century. Now the old buildings are fancy offices and four star restaurants. In the early 1900s, The Yards had been confined to an area in the southern part of the city. The land itself is priceless and David’s father got supreme satisfaction by not selling when everyone else did.

The area was bordered by 39th and 47th Streets and by Halstead and Ashland. There was a different ethnic neighborhood living on each border and most of the men had worked in the plants. A-Prime Packing is in the southeastern corner of The Yards. David knows zoning changes will force him to sell, but for now he shares his father’s obstinacy.

He parks in front of the main office and looks up at the building. It covers an entire block and goes up to six stories high. It is entirely constructed of block and brick. The coolers and the access to the tracks are on the opposite side of the block, where the kill room is.

David worked in the kill room for three months. Then for a year, he was assigned to work a prescribed amount of time on every floor, to learn the business. He was then sent to train as a store manager, his father saying it was a proper foundation for management.

The whole place looks cold and eerie, surrounded by snow, bleak and frigid without the steam rising as it does during the week when processing is underway. The building looks like a corpse.

He walks up to the main entrance, enters his personal code on the alarm pad and lets himself in. He will have to go by the downtown offices Tuesday to see Mr. Einsinger, but now he wants to be left alone. The business offices are on the sixth floor; he isn’t interested in anything up there and never has been. He figures if he is careful, old Art will never know he’s been there. Of course, his code will show up in the security system, making his presence apparent to anyone who checks.

He walks down one of the corridors that lead to the large processing rooms on the first level. The most basic part of the butchering occurs here. The separation of usable organs, the removal of the intestinal casings, everything usable goes up, and everything unusable goes down and is shipped out for rendering.

He works his way across the large spaces of Level One, ducking under conveyors and racks. The place smells of disinfected death. He is accustomed to it, even likes it. The second floor is where the big band saws are; on just about any work day, one can walk through there and find a finger on the floor.

He uses his passkey to open the door to the basement stairway and descends into what he has always referred to as the “gut level” of the place. He turns on the lights and works his way to an access door to the steam pipe corridors below the basement.

The door is near the area where the gut carts are stored. It smells of death and feces. The carts steam in the winter as they sit there with blood oozing out the rusted bottoms. Today, they look like any other dumpster. During processing, the basement is washed down hourly during shifts, but the cement remains a red brown blood color from years of use.

He is hauling a dumpster with a golf cart on his route to collect human feces. It is winter, cold and raining and he is working at a plant that is designed to recycle shit. All around him are piles of feces as high as buildings and they’re segregated into varying stages of decomposition. He is shoveling in an area of new deposits.

He is wearing a rubber poncho, rubber gloves and rubber boots and is otherwise naked. He shovels as fast as he can when the feces suddenly change to boneless human carcasses. They are like sacks of flesh and hang over the sides of his shovel; their eyes and sockets are black holes and their flesh and faces sag like wet towels except they are dripping blood.

David is startled out of his nightmare memory by the sound of a pair of handcuffs hitting the floor. He realizes he has dropped his keys and wonders how long he’s been standing here. He never knows when he loses time. He shakes his head slightly to rouse himself.

He reaches the door to the lower levels. He pauses for a moment and looks around, in his mind all he can see is the piles of flesh and feces, the pools of blood. How many times did he come down here to escape the screaming animals in the pens above?

He flips the lights on to illuminate the bowels of the plant. When he opens the door, a rush of putrid hot air greets him. He removes his jacket and continues his descent. He enters a room at the bottom with tunnel-like passages going in all directions. The ceilings and walls are covered with sweating water pipes and electrical conduits. There are valves and other controls everywhere; the entire plant is dependent on the systems contained in these tunnels.

Sam Washington had shown him the tunnels. When David was allowed to take a break, he would often come down during the hot, humid summer months because it was cool. Now, at the end of winter, it seems too warm.

He walks down a particular corridor, it’s been many years since he’s been there but he is certain he remembers where he hid it. The walls are covered with spiderwebs, the floor is damp, and he sees signs of the rats he knows are watching him. He continues his journey, trying to remember the marker. He knows he hid it behind a bunch of valves indented into the wall, but there are valves every fifty to one hundred feet.

He thinks he’s gone far enough and checks the individual recesses in the walls. He should have brought a flashlight and gloves. He picks up a piece of rusty pipe and probes each indentation and finally, about another one hundred feet down the corridor he finds his hiding place. He startles a rat and mangles it with the pipe.

David pushes away the cobwebs and uses the end of the pipe to clear the spiders, then he pulls out the jars of cow eyes from the recess in the wall. He thought he had hidden three jars but there are only two.

He taps them on the floor, one jar breaks and the fluid splashes and the eyes roll like marbles across the floor. He scrapes the remaining jar against his shoe until it is clean enough to handle then starts back the way he has come. The jar is cradled in his right hand, the pipe in the other. He keeps the length of pipe ready, just in case.

At the bottom of the stairs he sets the jar and the pipe on the floor and puts his coat on. David looks in the gut room and finds a piece of burlap and a length of twine. He folds the burlap into a neat triangle, wraps the jar and ties it with the twine, then thoroughly sanitizes his hands.

David makes his way to the main entrance. He succeeds in avoiding old Art—there’s no telling which part of the building he might be in—or maybe he’s asleep somewhere.

David resets the alarm and leaves the building, stunned by the cold air that greets him. The car is parked in the shade, and by the time he stows the jar in the spare tire compartment and climbs in the driver’s seat, he is shivering.

He goes to a golf shop and purchases more game pieces for the match; by the time he returns home it is after four o’clock and he goes straight to the master suite. David sits at his desk and makes a list.

1. Go to bank
   
2. See Mr. Einsinger
   
3. Get car serviced
   
4. Plan route to Texas
   
5. Clean and sharpen knives
   
6. Purchase alcohol for trophies
   

David crosses off number five; he will have time to work on the knives when he gets to Irving, Texas. He leaves the list on the desk and paces around the room to jog his memory…what has he forgotten? He dismisses the idea of taking his medications with him. He stopped taking them before he left for Arizona.

He goes into the bathroom and sits on the edge of the large Jacuzzi tub. The wall surrounding it is accented with the same irises as the shower; one wall is one-way glass windows looking out at the gardens. The longer he sits, the more inviting it looks.

He turns on the water and jets and undresses. He glances at what is left of the scratches on his arms and is satisfied he no longer has to hide them. He thinks of the bitch who scratched him, then he visualizes her nipples and briskly walks to his desk to get his trophies.

He carries the four small jars to the bathroom sink and washes them, then sets them to float in the tub, not unlike what a child would do with bath toys. He likes the way they bob around; they disappear under the bubbles then emerge somewhere else, just as they would if they were still on breasts.

He goes to the small bar adjacent to the bathroom and retrieves a bottle of Riesling wine from the refrigerator. He opens the bottle and pours a glass of wine, and as he steps into the tub he has a partial erection.

In the tub, he stares into the backyard, seeing no tracks in the snow. He can barely see the lilac bushes in the fading light. They are leafless, and the blackbird nests are obvious with no foliage to camouflage them.

In the summer, those nests had been hard to find unless the babies were chirping. Then it was simple. For a moment he can’t remember how many beaks he has. He clearly remembers the two summers he had collected them; his father had killed Buster during the first summer, or was it the second? After a while he lets it go; he will be at the bank tomorrow. He has the tally on the side of the jar, and he can look then.

The wine and the oscillating warm water has relaxed him. He plucks the jars from the water and sets them in order on the side of the tub. One, two, three, and four. He climbs out of the tub, dries himself and puts on a robe. He goes back into his room, thinking he will lie down for a few minutes.

“David? David?” Sarah is knocking on the door.

David sits up on the bed. He is covered by a blanket and still wearing his robe.

“I have your dinner. It’s seven o’clock. May I come in?”

He pulls his sleeve down over his right forearm and slides to the edge of the bed. “Yes, Sarah, come in.”

“Did you rest, David?”

“Yes, I did, but I feel like all I want to do is eat and go back to sleep.” He goes to the small table where she has placed the tray. She hands him a napkin and uncovers the dinner. The salmon looks delicious and he begins to eat.

Sarah turns toward the bathroom. “I’ll tidy up in the bathroom while you’re eating.”

“Sarah, wait!” He left the four jars sitting on the edge of the tub. “I’d prefer if you would just turn some music on and let me dine quietly. Perhaps you can take care of the bathroom when you come for the tray, or even in the morning.”

“Very well.” She hits the power button on the music system and leaves the room.

As soon as the sound of her footsteps disappears, David hurries to the bathroom. He returns the jars to his desk drawer and locks it.

Palm Spring, California, Shirley Scott’s Hotel Room, Saturday, April 6

A
gent Lou
Schein and his team stand outside the door of Room 325. Lou has a scowl on his face and is looking at his agents as if they are a bunch of incompetent recruits.

“Gloves and masks, everyone. This one is a little ripe. The housekeeper noticed a foul odor at the door and entered after no one answered. A ‘Do Not Disturb’ placard was hanging on the doorknob. The housekeeper who discovered the scene is quite distressed. Palm Springs PD contacted the FBI. The scene is essentially the same, according to the police report. Nothing has been disturbed, so let’s get to work.”

The policeman standing sentry checks credentials and opens the door for the FBI.

The five principles—Schein, Cochran, Payne, Gibson and Phillips—enter the room with the forensic techs from L.A.

Schein spots the golf club by the open patio door and picks it up. It is a pitching wedge and would only hit the ball a short distance. “Phillips, go outside and see if you can find a golf ball, most likely be marked with a number 4.”

Dr. Cochran notes that the tissue where the breasts have been removed is only lightly powdered and not filled. Gibson and Payne examine the condition of the head. The placement is typical, but the blood on the table is coagulated and dried in some places; the victim’s hair is matted with dried blood.

The third hole pennant is stabbed into the navel and the golf green is painted on the victim’s abdomen.

Lou reads the Mission Hills scorecard which is marked 1 up and the par 5 shows a double bogey 7. “The killer is obviously unhappy with the match,” he says. He picks up the newspaper and bags it, and hands it to Phillips as he walks in.

Phillips has a cut-up golf ball he has retrieved from one of the gardeners in the maintenance shed. “The gardeners hit it with the mower but found the pieces and wondered why it had a large red four on it. They placed it on a shelf.”

Schein looks at the cut up ball and calls out, “Wait a minute, people. We’ve got an anomaly here. This ball is marked with a 4 but the scorecard is only marked 1 up.
We
must have won the third hole. What could have happened to make him think we won?”

They watch the security footage and see that Shirley Scott entered the elevator with another woman, but they didn’t appear to be together.

After the room is cleared of evidence and the forensic team has left, Schein and his team review and compare notes.

Schein says, “If we won this hole that means the killer must kill eight more times in order to win the match.”

Chicago, Illinois, Wednesday, April 17

D
avid transfers
his trophies to the briefcase and carries it downstairs and places it by the hall table. He wears a tailored, blue pinstripe suit, his hair held back with a leather tie. He stops to admire the vase of lilacs on the table; he never tires of the fragrance.

In the kitchen, Sarah is waiting with his usual breakfast. “Good morning, David.”

“Good morning, Sarah.” He sits at the table by the windows.

“Why don’t you take the day off, Sarah? I’m going into the office and then I have other business elsewhere. This will be a good opportunity for you to get some personal time.”

“It isn’t necessary,” she answers as she wipes down the stove. “You’ve been gone for two months, the house has been quiet and I’ve had plenty of personal time. Since you’re leaving in a week, I want to make sure everything is ready and to set your things out for packing.”

“Well, suit yourself, but you know I worry about you.”

“I know you do, David.” Sarah looks at him and smiles. “I’ll be just fine. Will you be gone all day? Do you have plans for dinner?”

David snaps his fingers as if he just got a sudden idea. “I’ll tell you what! Why don’t you and I dine together tonight? Right here at seven-thirty. You select the menu; we’ll have a bottle of wine and a good visit.”

Sarah unsuccessfully tries to hide her delight. “I’d love to! Seven-thirty it is!”

David finishes his breakfast and walks to the hall for his briefcase. Sarah has set out his Irish wool overcoat. When he reaches the anteroom, he notes his golf clubs are gone. Albert is most assuredly already in the basement cleaning and polishing them. David steps out into the cold Chicago day. The Navigator has been started and when he steps in, it is warm inside.

He will deal with Einsinger first at the downtown office. He calls Einsinger, who is surprised and nervous as always. He hadn’t expected David back so soon. David explains he will be in Chicago only for a few more days. Einsinger says he will have the financial statements and any papers needing attention in David’s office.

“That’s fine. I’ll call you if I need you. I’ll be in my office by nine.” David ends the call before Einsinger can reply.

David Steadman doesn’t like Chicago in the winter; it is bleak and barren. Everything looks dirty and desolate with a shroud of despair. He will be glad to leave in a few days.

His interest is in Texas.

He leaves the Navigator at the downtown Lincoln dealership where he bought it. He is given VIP treatment as usual, and a ride by courtesy limo to his office.

He surprises his secretary by his arrival and settles into his office. He reviews the most important papers Einsinger set out for him. The financial statements reflect the time of year; groceries haven’t sold what they did in December or November, but there is almost two percent growth regardless, including two recently opened markets.

The bottom line: Steadman’s Markets grossed $3.6 million in the first quarter and the December dividend from the packing plant is higher than the previous year; amounting to almost $700,000.

He pushes the papers aside and asks his secretary to contact Bryce Jamison, the corporate and family attorney. She buzzes him back a few minutes later with Jamison on the line.

“Hello, Bryce, how are you?” Bryce Jamison is in his seventies, and had been his father’s attorney. Jamison and Einsinger are the only two people left who worked for his father and are still involved in anything Steadman. When his father died, David dismissed and replaced everyone else.

“No, I’m not back. In fact, I’m leaving the first of the week. I’d like to discuss a couple of things with you. I’d like to add a couple of codicils to my will.”

“How about three-thirty, David?”

“That’s great, Bryce, I’ll see you then.” He ends the call and buzzes his secretary. “Ask Mr. Einsinger to step into my office as soon as possible.”

It is ten-thirty when Nathan Einsinger enters David Steadman’s office.

“Hello, sir. What can I help you with?”

“Sit down, Nate.” David motions to a chair in front of his desk. “I’d like an approximate estimate of my net worth. I’m seeing Bryce Jamison today and I’d like to make a couple of philanthropic pledges.”

Einsinger stands. “Yes sir, I’ll be right back. It should only take a half hour to compile the figures.”

“That’s fine, you needn’t come back. I’m leaving; just call me on my cell when you have the approximate numbers.”

“All right, sir. Do you want it in a lump sum or divided by the separate holdings and corporations?” Einsinger seems jittery.

“I suppose you’d better separate it. Give me three figures: the groceries, stocks and dividends from the packing plant, then the other stocks and bonds.”

Einsinger is making notes. “And what about your personal property, the house and furnishings?”

“Make a separate tally for that as well; the property, the art and collectables, everything that’s insured.”

“Very well, this will take a little longer. I’ll try to have it for you by one o’clock. Will there be anything else?”

“No, thank you, Nate. I just need it by three-thirty this afternoon.”

Einsinger writes that down as well. He has never overcome his nervousness around the boss. David follows him to the door, picking up his briefcase and coat. He stops at his secretary’s desk to inform her that he will not be back. He says nothing else; he doesn’t like her much but she is a first-rate secretary.

The Agricultural Bank of Chicago is only a few blocks down the street, and David decides to walk. He will stop at the stationary store on the way. He stops to put his gloves on. The wind is brisk and cold between the tall buildings downtown.