Match Play (22 page)

L
ou Schein is in the pro shop of the Timber Point Golf Course with his friend Donald Barnes, now retired eight years. Barnes was Lou’s partner in the early days of his career, then became his supervisor.

“This is a great course, Lou. We tee off at nine forty-two, so we’ve just enough time to hit some balls and putt a little. Better work on your long irons a bit; you’ll need to hit a 3 or a 4 iron for your second shot on a lot of the par 4’s, unless you’re hitting it further than you have in the past.”

There was a time when they played regularly and Lou Schein had rarely been able to beat him.

“If you can stay out of the trees and the bunkers, you’ll do just fine,” Barnes continues. “I usually shoot around 90 here, but I can’t hit the ball like I used to. You’ve definitely got the advantage. What about playing for five dollars a hole, and you spot me a stroke per hole…just to make it interesting.”

“I’ll give you a stroke on the par 4’s,” Lou says, “but I’m certainly not going to let you have anything on the par 3’s or par 5’s; you probably play three times a week since you’ve been retired. I’m a sucker for it, but I’ll go the five bucks a hole. That’s fourteen strokes for the round, agreed?”

“Done!” Barnes nods, his smile broadening as he holds out his hand to shake on it.

As they turn to leave, Lou spots the FBI flyer. Even though he knows every word, he studies it as if it’s his first time seeing it.

Barnes comes up behind him. “Is this the guy?”

“Yes, the best sketch we’ve got, but we’re hoping we won’t need to put these up very much longer.”

They are hitting range balls when the dark green Navigator pulls into the parking lot.

David’s game is as good as it has ever been, but he still hasn’t found his ball for the seventh hole. He is somewhat distracted, still haunted by last night’s nightmare.



He’s on the processing floor of the packing plant. All the machines are running; band saws, conveyors, and grinders. There’s a terrible stench and the level of noise is excruciating. He is frightened because he is alone. There isn’t another person in sight, yet the floor is covered with blood as if the butchers have been working. He feels as if he’s lost, but he knows exactly where he is.

He shouts for someone to help him but the din of the machines is so loud he can’t hear his own voice. The dream goes on and on, unchanging until he reaches one particular workstation.

A man he doesn’t know is standing there, covered in blood, holding a butcher knife. David tries to speak to him but the man can’t hear him and acts as if he can’t see him either. He isn’t frightened of the man until he looks down and realizes there is blood all over his own clothing. He is soaked in it. He tries to back away but he’s caught on something, the butcher is staring at him with a dangerous look in his eyes. David can hear his clothing tear and then he’s lying on the worktable…the butcher standing over him….

The anxiety is still omnipresent. He is glad to be at the course where he can think about the round and the match. He will take control. Control is everything.

He parks far from the clubhouse and forces himself to focus only about the now. It is a beautiful course, lots of trees, narrow fairways and well-placed bunkers. It will be a good challenge.

He changes his shoes, arranges his bag on his shoulder and walks toward the clubhouse, cleats clicking. He is wearing typical golf attire: a blue polo shirt, tan slacks, a green cap with a Titleist logo, and his sunglasses. He rubs his face as he walks.

When he reaches the pro shop, he asks for a tee time in about an hour so he can warm up and putt a little. The attendant at the desk assures him there will be no problem getting on in an hour.

“May I have your name, please?” The attendant smiles, pencil poised.

“Oh yes, of course, it’s David Stellman.” He thinks his reply should have seemed less thoughtful.

“And will you want a cart, sir? It’s a rather hilly course and hard to walk.”

“No, thank you, I’ll walk.” He picks up a scorecard and studies the layout of the course while the attendant rings up his total.

“Will that be credit card or cash, sir? Your total is $135 for eighteen holes, walking, and the bucket of balls for the range is included. The range is out the door and to the right, you’ll see it when you reach the corner of the building. The first hole and the starter are on the west end of the range. He’ll call you in about an hour.”

“It’ll be cash.” David pulls his wallet out and lays seven twenties on the counter. He picks up his change and the receipt for the starter, and moves toward the counter where the buckets of range balls are waiting. He takes a bucket and before he exits, he’s face to face with himself.

“Geez, they still haven’t caught this guy?” he says under his breath, with a smirk on his lips. His bag is in the rack outside the pro shop door. He picks it up and walks toward the range.

As he’s nearing the corner of the building, he hears the starter call: “Stevens, Maris, Barnes and Schein—to the first tee.”

David skids to an abrupt halt. He stands motionless, almost paranoid after the dream.

Can it be Agent Lou Schein? Is he really here? How marvelous that he plays golf!

He continues on, almost giddy with anticipation. Just as he reaches the corner of the building he sees a golf cart heading to the first tee. Seated in the passenger seat is FBI Special Agent in Charge Louis Schein. David recognizes him from the newspaper articles and from the photo Joan took while standing in the spectator crowd at the fifth hole crime scene.

Well, well, well! What have we here? My Match Play opponent in the flesh! He can watch me practice!

David adjusts the bag on his shoulder, starts humming a tune as he walks on toward the driving range.

An hour later he is called to the tee. He’s put out with a threesome of bogey golfers and after watching them tee off, he knows it will be a long day. The third member of the group, Dr. Levensen, is in town early for the Open. The doctor has a cart, and good course etiquette requires David to ride with him. They mostly talk about the tournament as they zigzag back and forth across the fairways, chasing the doctor’s ball. By the end of the front nine, it has turned into a tedious spectacle. He is mostly watching the doctor play three shots to his every one.

David is losing his patience but reminds himself it is good for his course management and valuable preparation for the seventh hole to endure this chaos. He is 3 under par teeing off on the 10th tee when he sees Agent Schein.

Schein is on the 14th hole, an adjacent fairway on the leg back to the clubhouse. David watches Lou tee off. He hits a long, well placed drive. The fact that Schein is a good player only entices him further.

Just as David is about to tee off, the concession cart pulls up between the 10th and 14th tees, and the players from both tees start toward the cart. David follows, and when they reach the concession cart, he is standing three feet behind Lou Schein.

He removes his sunglasses to keep from having any similarity to the sketch.

Everyone is buying beer and Dr. Levensen hands one to David. Lou Schein turns, beer in hand, and he and David are face to face.

“How’s your round going?” Lou smiles at David.

“Three under. How about you?” David smiles back.

“I’m two over par. This is a tough course.” Schein takes a drink of beer and thinks to himself,
Hell, this could be our guy. They all could be our guy.

“I’m Lou Schein. Nice to meet you.” Lou offers his hand.

“David Stellman. Nice to meet you too.” He takes Lou’s hand and shakes it firmly. “Well, finish strong, and it will be a good round.”

Lou joins Don Barnes and they walk together back to their cart. As they sit drinking their beers, the conversation about Schein’s case continues. They have been talking between shots, and Barnes has been offering his opinions, Schein listening attentively.

“Usually these guys are recreating an act associated with some sort of life-threatening or life-altering event,” Don is saying. “The crimes rarely occur randomly, but when a certain type of individual or special circumstance triggers the event. The women your killer has chosen are secondary to the golf game. The golf hole and green are really the compulsively repeated elements of the crime.”

Barnes stops to catch his breath. “And the fact that he props the victim’s head up so she can see the gruesome mutilation of her body must be significant.”

Lou is interested in what his old friend is saying. “I see what you’re getting at; the witness is for his benefit. As if to say, ‘Don’t you see how terrible this is?’ Because otherwise, no one will notice the mutilation. Or maybe he wants her to see what he’s doing?”

“Look, Lou, we’re both profilers and I’m sure you’ve thought this yourself,” Barnes say, “but I’d say something terrible happened to him that has something to do with golf, and no one protected him or cared. Perhaps a golfer abused him. Maybe his father? And maybe it was his mother who didn’t protect him, or even notice it happened. Perhaps she was a victim too. If so, maybe he’s still trying to get her to see it.”

“I like your theory; I’ve been trying to determine his motive. The next question is how does it help us? We still don’t have a suspect, or any basis to search beyond what I’ve told you.”

“There’s some obscure trigger to these murders,” Barnes responds. “The motive comes from within. The killer is stimulated by something internal, not by the victims. He doesn’t kill these women because of who or what they are. He kills them to recreate a scene that satisfies his need to express his truth, or interpretation of it. He creates the scene to relieve the feelings he’s having. The women are simply props.

“It’s the recreation of the event that elicits the murder, the completion of it, the realization of it. Maybe the woman, or ‘mother,’ seeing the crime is what satisfies him. It satisfies his need to have a witness.”

“I see what you’re saying,” Lou says. “We’ve been concentrating on the victims when we really need to understand the event itself. The elements of the event are what coincide at every crime.”

Barnes is smiling at his colleague. “Exactly! Take the greens for example. He’s recreated every kind of hole, so it isn’t a particular hole, like a par 3 that he wants you to notice. Conceivably, it’s the whole course. He removes the appendages and he isolates the scene from the victim’s identity. Everything is focused on the match, not on the victim.

“The scorecard, the scramble, the meticulous way in which he cleans up. It’s all done to emphasize match play. It’s the repetitions that are important, like where he places the ball. What is he trying to say?”

Their playing partners finish teeing off, and they continue down the fairway to their next shots.

Schein continues the conversation. “I’ve been pondering that exact question. It might signify the ball in the cup or the conclusion of the hole. It’s also a colloquialism, ‘I balled her.’ But our killer isn’t having sex with the victims. Was he having sex with his mother?”

Donald Barnes’ head snaps toward Lou. He stops the cart. “You could be right! But who would actually be balling her, this woman whose attention your killer is trying to attract?”

“
The father,
” they both answer simultaneously.

Their playing partners have hit their second shots and moved on up to where Lou and Don’s balls are lying.

“We need to stay in this match, too.” Barnes nods toward their playing partners.

They are on a long par 4; both Don and Lou will need to hit a long iron, a 3 or a 4, to reach the green. Barnes stops at his ball, steps out and hits a 3 iron, sending his ball to the right front of the green, just short of the putting surface.

“Christ!” blurts Lou as Barnes returns to the cart. His brain is in overdrive. “I just thought of something else. Our killer tees it up for the next hole, because he knows he needs to play it again and again until someone listens.”

“Or what if it was an event that occurred over and over?” Barnes sits down in the cart and pushes the accelerator pedal. They head for the other ball. “Or better yet, was it something so terrible he can’t escape it psychologically. It happens over and over in his mind and the act, the murder, relieves the obsessive memories. But the relief is transitory and, consequently, the act has to be performed again and again.”

The cart has stopped. “Wanna hit your ball?” Barnes nudges Schein who is deep in thought. Lou steps from the cart, takes a 4 iron and hits his ball over the green into a bunker.

“What’s the matter, Lou? You getting pumped up?” Barnes chuckles. They drive on. “I think that’s a pretty compelling profile,” says Barnes. “It helps determine motive, but it still doesn’t help you to identify the killer or his next victim.”

“I know. We were discussing the case yesterday in conference. Our current profile of the guy makes him look like everyone. But from this perspective, at least the murders relate to one another. I can finally see a connection beyond the match, and it begins to establish a motive.”

The two men putt out and move to the 15th tee, a par 3 hole that necessitates hitting the ball over a small lake. Barnes and Schein both land their balls on the green; their playing partners have one ball over and one in the water, so they all head for the drop zone.

Schein is impatient now, wanting to get back to the crime board and his team. He is anxious to see if they can interpret any more correlating evidence in light of this revelation. “I need to get going. I wish these guys played better, this is taking too long.” Lou is fidgeting.

“Relax, Lou.” Don chuckles. “We’ve only got three holes to play.”

D
avid has not found his ball, his seventh hole for the match. It’s Thursday, first day of the Open, and he’s getting anxious.

Everywhere he goes he sees the FBI flyers describing a man that could be anyone. The scars on his right arm are barely visible. If he didn’t shave his arms he couldn’t even see them.

He is at Bethpage State Park, the Black Course. He expects to play well here. Of course, his playing partners will be a factor. He detests slow play with haphazard shots, and hard as he might try, he can’t concentrate or suppress his frustration when he is forced to play with mediocre players.

He checks in, pays for his round and strolls toward the driving range with a bucket of balls. He sits on a bench on the far end of the driving range and surveys the tee boxes. He spots a few women hitting balls and moves to the section where most of them are swinging. He pulls his 3 iron from the bag and begins to stretch his back.

David feels empty; he hasn’t been touched by her soul, where is she? The essence of the seventh hole has yet to personify herself.

Two women are hitting the ball quite well, and he decides that he will concentrate on them. If it seems appropriate, he will use the same strategy he used with the fourth hole.

He is warmed up. He sets out his wedges and picks a flag that is 110 yards out. He is working on spinning the ball back to the flag. It requires a downward motion on his swing, and he is picking up some large pieces of grass on the follow through.

He notices that the lady on the right is watching his swing and his ball, but he just can’t connect to her emotionally. He doesn’t feel her.

He finishes with the wedges, cleans them and replaces them in his bag. He pulls a 5 iron and begins working the ball around the 180 yard flag. He is hitting the ball extremely well, and he continues to watch the lady on his right until her male companion arrives.

He turns his focus to a woman behind him who is hitting middle irons. He glances at her out of the corner of his left eye each time he finishes a shot. She has a lot of the characteristics he likes, but he doesn’t believe she can be a par 4. She has too many lines on her face.

He changes to his 3 wood for about a dozen balls and hits the remaining few with his driver. He is ready to play and walks to the practice green until he is called to tee off. It is sunny, warm and humid. He marvels again at how well maintained the course is; it is exceptional for a public course. He will do well; his exhaustion will be his real challenge.

He and his group are called to the first tee. The starter announces: Murdock, Chauncy, Stellman and Stanley. He is apprehensive as he picks up his balls and bag.

Two men are chatting near a golf cart at the first tee. They introduce themselves as Bob Murdock and Dick Chauncy. The three players stand on the men’s tee, taking practice swings until the fairway ahead of them clears. Then they tee off.

They are about to head down the fairway when a second cart speeds up to the tee, passes them and stops at the lady’s tee. A woman jumps out of the cart, takes her driver and hits her ball well down the left side of the fairway. It is crisply hit and rolls a distance further after landing. As the men reach the tee, she turns to them.

“Hi, I’m Kate Stanley. I hope it’s all right if I join you gentlemen. Sorry I’m late, but I couldn’t get my cart going.” She shakes hands with each, then walks back to her cart and drops her driver in the bag.

Murdock says something under his breath that can’t be understood. His playing partner smirks and they jump in their cart and take off.

“Would you like to ride with me?” Kate smiles at David. “I’m a pretty decent player. I wouldn’t be on this course if I couldn’t play at least par.” She pulls her cart up beside him as he walks. “It’s really going to slow us down if you walk and they time us here. We need to keep up a good pace and stay with the players ahead of our group or we’ll be asked to leave the course.”

David stops and looks at her. He just wants to walk back to the tee and off the course, but he fastens his bag to the cart and sits. She stomps on the accelerator and they’re off to find her ball. He tells her they’d better catch up with the others, and they don’t speak for the rest of that hole nor the second.

David makes birdie on each of the first three holes, all par 4’s. His putting has definitely benefited from practice. Kate makes two pars and a birdie on the third, a par 5 for women players. She makes a perfect third shot close to the hole and putts out for birdie with ease.

He compliments her on her play. She is a good player, if only she didn’t constantly talk.

They round the turn by mid-morning, David is 4 under par and Kate is even. They gradually engage in conversation. Their playing partners have kept pretty much to themselves, and everyone has been hitting the ball well enough to cause few delays.

Kate Stanley is a forty-three-year-old registered nurse who lives with her daughter and her mother in her mother’s home in Queens. Kate is talkative, friendly and full of fun. She hasn’t allowed David to maintain his usual laconic demeanor.

He answers her questions reluctantly at first, but then becomes increasingly more responsive, more imaginative with his lies. She is trusting and doesn’t question anything he says. After all, he thinks, it isn’t unusual for a stranger from out of town to be in Long Island for the LPGA Open.

Kate Stanley’s golf game is good. As the round progresses, amidst expressed mutual admiration of one another’s playing, she has provided him with all the information he needs.

He has found his ball and by the end of the round she will be the seventh hole. His course management is forming in his head.

On the 17th tee, he asks her if she would like to attend some of the rounds at the Open with him.

“The Open! I’d love it! I’ve wanted to go for years, but it’s so expensive.” Her brows knit in a frown. “But I can only go on Saturday or Sunday. I work a ten-hour shift at the hospital tomorrow. I’d love to go for the final round on Sunday. My mother and daughter are planning to go to into the City for the weekend.”

She is begging with her eyes. David is ready to tee the seventh hole.

When they reach the clubhouse, she hands him a card with her name, address and phone number.

David promises to call her Friday, tomorrow, to confirm plans for Saturday. He can already sense the moment when she will give her life to the match
.