Match Play (6 page)

Carlsbad, California, Thursday, March 21

T
he man
is in a congenial mood as he drives the coast. The trip has been pleasant. The ocean is two things to him. Its darkness and abysmal quality remind him of his recurring nightmares; then on days like today, its blue expanse produces a certain clarity and focus.

He checks into a nice hotel between Carlsbad and Oceanside. He requests a top floor room with an ocean view and surprisingly gets it; he cannot tolerate the sound of footsteps above him. He is pleased to find the room is equipped with a microwave and refrigerator.

After checking the room for cleanliness, he takes off his cap, relieved he doesn’t have to hide. He opens the balcony door and stands just inside the room running his fingers through his shoulder-length hair, gazing out onto a beach not yet developed.

The man opens his briefcase, unrolls the sheath of knives and inserts his fingers into one of the trophy pouches. He sits at the foot of the bed and is holding the baby food jar as one might hold a precious piece of glasswork. The first hole trophies seem so lonely being just two. He whispers in a cooing voice, “Don’t be sad. Soon, very soon, you’ll have company.” His eyes are blinking rapidly and his dilated pupils reveal his sexual excitement. He slows his breathing and tries to focus.

He studies the contents of the jar and is pleased that the alcohol is doing its job. The nipples look fresh and fleshy, but the hue of the liquid has darkened somewhat, and that disturbs him. As he swirls the liquid and watches them bounce off the side of the jar, he is reminded of times in the past when he had done the same with other trophies. He remembers how proud he was when he added a blue to his collection of canine eyes. He really must make time to stop in Chicago. He feels intact when all his trophies are together.

He makes a mental list of all the tasks he must complete before the second hole. Everything must be in perfect order. The Navigator needs an oil change and must be washed and waxed, which means he has to unload all his belongings. He tucks his hair back under his cap and leaves the room. His car must be empty before others are allowed to service it. He unloads his golf clubs and other equipment first and takes them to the room, then returns to the car for his luggage.

He spends the next ninety minutes reorganizing his room: golf bags conveniently staged but not in the way. Soiled clothing separated to be sent out, notes attached to each garment with instruction about treatment, detergent and starch. He organizes the refrigerator, trying to decide the perfect spot for the new jar of mayonnaise.

He tightens the lid to the limit of his strength after submerging the baby food jar and feels confident that no one will discover it. He makes certain the foods he purchased are in sequential order when he needs them. He does not want to be reaching for the lunchmeat and cheese before he has the bread.

He is satisfied with the room and realizes he is hungry. Tucking his hair under his cap and grabbing his briefcase, the man takes a quick glance around the room, opens the door and hangs the “Do Not Disturb” sign on the doorknob.

Knowing the room is in order and his belongings are safe provides a kind of shield that spreads over him and protects him from harm. Out of character for the solitary man he has become, he greets other guests while walking to his car.

He doesn’t need to hide from anyone; no one knows about the match except him…maybe the police, but he’s not certain. Surely the first hole has been discovered, if not by chance then by odor. He muses about the 3 iron he hit out the patio door on the second tee. He couldn’t follow the ball in the dark but knows he hit it straight and well. It had been a fine beginning to the second hole.

He spots a couple of fast food restaurants up the road but they don’t appeal to him. He often wonders what the employees do to the food while they prepare it; he knows he would do something disgusting simply because he is repulsed by people. There aren’t enough sanitary wipes in the world to make places like those clean enough to patronize. He decides to go to Carlsbad, find a nice restaurant and hopefully get the car serviced.

In Carlsbad, he leaves the Navigator at a service center which has given him a two hour time frame. Briefcase in hand, he spots a small Italian café with outside seating, and he waits to be shown to a small corner table with a bistro umbrella.

He cleans his hands with a sanitary wipe and then examines the glasses and silverware already set on the table; he uses the linen napkin to give them an extra wipe.

He peruses golf advertisements he has picked up at the hotel while he drinks a glass of Chianti and waits for his lunch. He knows he wants to play La Costa Resort and Spa in Carlsbad, but he has to first make the plans which will give him a jump on the second hole. He can leave for Texas a day or two after Rancho Mirage. The planning process is so involved he becomes distracted and is startled when his food arrives. He asks for another glass of Chianti and again cleans his hands before eating.

Lunch is enjoyable, the sea breeze is gently blowing, and after checking his watch he sees he has enough time for another glass of wine. He sits back to enjoy the afternoon and think about the match. He decides on his schedule and in what order he will play the two courses.

He rises after paying the check and realizes he is a little tipsy, finds the men’s room and splashes his face with cold water. He studies himself in the mirror; his face, eyes and expression are, as always, unreadable. No one can guess what he is thinking.

He picks up the Navigator and is pleased with the attention to detail with which the vehicle was cleaned. It is late afternoon and he craves a shower. He travels back to his hotel.

He knows his clubs and equipment are in immaculate condition. He has decided to play La Costa in the morning, take the Titleist forged set and his 1 iron. He is exhilarated at the thought of playing there; it is essential to stay in the fairway. He remembers watching a televised LPGA match where one of the players had faded a long drive into a rocky hill; the ball had ricocheted and disappeared. Such an outcome is unacceptable for him.

With whom will he end up playing? He smiles as he drives back to his room.

FBI Regional Office, Los Angeles, California, Thursday, March 22

A
gent Schein
walks into Conference Room D. Payne is staring at the crime monitor screen. Agent Bruce Phillips, a smallish, average looking guy who wears frameless glasses is sitting next to Agent Mary Gibson. Agent Gibson is a tall, fit woman, and Lou is glad to see her on this team. She is a heavy smoker and some of her coworkers find it a disagreeable habit, but she makes no apologies. Her attention to detail has earned her the respect of her colleagues. Lou asked for Phillips more for his intellect than his investigative prowess; he is a premier researcher and partnered with a computer the man is pure genius.

“Good morning, everyone.” Schein clears his throat. Everyone acknowledges him as he walks toward the 52" presentation LED monitor. “Roger, let’s take a look. What have you got?”

Payne has arranged the data in chronological order for the agents to see on the big screen or access from their laptops, which they have all brought to the meeting. Since Agent Schein likes the crime information on paper as well, Payne has compiled four files for each of the agents.

Lou reviews the material again, asking the same question to himself. Where is the taunt, the clue, the tease? If this guy is a typical serial killer, it will be there.

The meeting is a review of the crime in Phoenix. Each agent has studied the files and gives opinions about the forensics and evidence. Still, nothing is decided beyond what Phoenix has already concluded. When the meeting adjourns, Schein’s team is dispatched to fulfill their specified tasks.

Part of the routine is to contact VICAP and ask for a review of homicides that might have occurred during last year’s LPGA tour. The San Diego office is also advised that law enforcement agencies should be aware of the potential that a killer may strike during the Kia Classic.

Lou’s task is to report to Director Bachman. He walks quickly to Bachman’s office and is already talking as he walks in. “Well, we’ve done the groundwork and the bulletins are on their way to the offices and agencies in the San Diego area.”

“Nice work, Lou. Do you have clear impressions or insights you’d like to share?” says Tom Bachman as he motions to a chair.

Lou shrugs his shoulders and runs his hands through his hair in frustration. “I know there’s a piece of information we’ve overlooked. These guys always taunt with something but then hell, maybe this killer is different. My gut tells me it’s there.”

“If he doesn’t kill while the LPGA is in Carlsbad, that leaves the Nabisco Dinah Shore in Rancho Mirage,” says Tom. “Then the tour moves to Texas after a tournament in Hawaii, so we’ll know soon enough.”

Lou sees that Tom is drinking coffee and stands up and goes to the coffee cart and pours himself a cup. He pours in the creamer and watches little chunks of white swirl around on the top. He sets his cup back by the pot.

“I feel sure that I’ve got the right people on this, Tom. I’m using Gibson and Phillips, and I put Payne right in the hot seat. I’m going to make him my partner on this one. Phillips will do the computer work and Gibson can take care of inter-office communication. We’ll split the follow-ups as they occur.” Lou smiles. “I figure Gibson can keep Phillips from falling on his weapon while they’re in the field.” He raises his eyebrows. “How are you on getting the Phoenix coroner assigned here?”

“It’s a done deal. She should be here late this afternoon, and she knows she’s working exclusively with you.”

“That’s wonderful!” exclaims Lou. “She’s as capable as they come and she has a broad sense of what a serial killer is doing. I’ll meet her at the airport myself, we can get acquainted and I can fill her in on the agents assigned to the case.”

“I’d like you to contact the LPGA personally. If they are reluctant to help, even with Bureau assurances of discretion, bring it to me and I’ll push it up the chain of command until they are willing to cooperate,” Bachman says.

Lou nods. “You can bet they’re going to be very skittish about this whole thing. I will be sensitive to their requests and respectful of the situation, but I hope they don’t ignore the fact the killer could be a player or even an LPGA official. The key is to get them to cooperate and we don’t have a lot of time. We’ll start running names as soon as they provide them. It’s going to be a big budget. Between players, staff, support people, reporters, it’s a lot of profiles and a lot of man hours.”

Bachman is neatly arranging papers on his desk. “Keep me advised. At least the lists should compress rapidly. In a matter of days, we’ll know where to concentrate our efforts and maybe we’ll get lucky.” Bachman stands up. “Queen’s knight to C6. Let’s go home.”



For the agents working on the case, the next two days are a blur. So much information passes through the FBI office in Los Angeles that Agent Schein selects two more teams to join the group. Background checks are performed on everyone associated with the tour, even well-known respected players. Alerts are sent via email and telephone to golf course managers in the area to be aware that a predator is stalking women golfers.

Dr. Cochran, with her expertise as a natural profiler and an experienced psychologist, brings another dimension to the investigation. Agent Schein, believing that he and his colleagues have followed through with the investigative and preventive phases of the crime, dismisses everyone to go home and get some rest just before midnight Saturday.

The Kia Classic in Carlsbad will be over on Sunday afternoon, and if the killer does not strike by then, the agents are almost certain the murderer will be in Rancho Mirage by April 4.

Carlsbad, California, Friday, March 22–Saturday, March 23

T
he man
is sitting in the lounge of the La Costa Resort and Spa patiently waiting for his golf clubs. He tipped his caddy to clean the clubs and page him when they are ready.

He has just played one of the best rounds of golf of his life, fortunate to be paired with a few low handicappers, and is still reeling from the experience, one of the best days he can recall. No bogeys, five birdies and an eagle. He can still see the awe on his partner’s face when he hit his 1 iron onto the green from 245 yards out. It was a shot that favored his game and he had faded the ball perfectly, rolling it between two bunkers and right into the center of the green. The flag had been placed on the right of the putting surface, the green was relatively flat between his ball and the hole, and the putt had dropped for an eagle.

He is finishing his second beer and sits quietly with his back against the wall, observing the people in the bar. He sees the usual foursomes of older men comparing scores and exchanging money. There are a few couples and, like himself, several men sitting alone. A couple of them are stereotypical golf fanatics who spend all their time and money at the golf course but never really have much of a game. One sees them at every course.

A waitress approaches and informs him his clubs are ready. He leaves for the Pro Shop and picks up his clubs, well-cleaned by the caddy.

He is back at his vehicle, packed and settled in for the drive back to the hotel. He sits for a moment and stares out over the golf course. He is still in awe of his score…seven under par, sixty-five. He slaps the steering wheel with an imaginary high-five and starts the engine.

Back in his room, he showers, combs his hair out and ties it with a strip of leather before laying down to rest. He awakens around six-thirty p.m. to a darkened room. He has many preparations to make before leaving for Aviara Golf Club.

He washes and then searches the refrigerator for a light dinner. He chooses cheese, bread and a half bottle of wine, placing the food on the table. He moves his briefcase to the floor and opens the patio door and sits down to eat. He likes that there is an overhead light above the table as he plans to sharpen his blades after eating.

The cheese, bread and wine are satisfying and the ocean breeze has refreshed him. After clearing the table and washing up, he returns the briefcase to the table.

He removes and unrolls the sheath of knives. He commissioned the set from a German master knife-maker in Chicago. The knives in his collection are top quality, hand-forged steel and all but one, his beautiful twelve-inch butcher knife, which was a gift, were made under his direction. The butcher knife handle is oak and bloodstained, worn with use, and his most precious possession. He instructed the knife maker to use oak for the handles but to stain them with blood.

He lightly touches each one, starting with the peeling knife, then the paring, the boning, the cleaver, the carving, and finally the butcher knife. The pattern in the forged steel shimmers in the light. He removes the butcher knife and briefly flashes back to the many hours spent with this knife in his hand. He picks up a very fine quality whetstone, rises and gets a cup of water.

Deborah Beatty’s eyes flicker through his mind as he begins to caress the stone with the edge of the blade. The sound is like a chant, comforting him with a serenade that is not unlike the sound of the ebb and flow of the ocean. Soon he is in a concentrated rhythm, one with the steel as the blade mates with the stone.

Touching the butcher knife brings memories of Samuel Washington. He worked beside Sam in the kill room of his father’s packing plant. Sam, who never harassed or made fun of him, often jumped the rails and helped him catch up on the gutting.

His first days on the job had been crazed, frenzied bedlam. The sounds were maddening with screaming animals, the air thick with the stench of blood and excrement. Blood was inches deep on the concrete floor; he stood in the guts as the entrails splashed out of the bellies. He was covered in blood, exhausted and disgusted to the point of nausea and had vomited after the first hour.

He was not well built or particularly strong. Sam had jumped over the rails several times to help him and to show him how to split the carcass with the least effort and a deft movement. Sam gave him his personal knife and taught him how to use it properly. The job became easier after that. He was over-handing the blade of Sam’s big knife into the belly and pulling it down until the ribs split, then he would insert his hand and with one firm pull on the intestine, release the innards.

He was the owner’s son and Sam befriended him, never questioning why the young man was there. He had expected to go to college and instead ended up in a mad house. He stops and sets the big blade aside. Samuel Washington is there, in the knife. He will always be grateful to the man for teaching him his skills.

He thinks of his father standing on the observation deck above the kill room, smiling down through the glass. He wonders if he has learned what his father intended.

He reaches into the sheath and chooses the boning knife. It has a very slender blade that he has learned to wield like a scalpel. Often, when he holds it, it feels as if it is a part of his hand. The subtle, soothing rhythm resumes. The sharpening process is repeated four more times before he finally sheaths the knives, dries the stone and closes the briefcase.

He relaxes in the chair for a moment, closing his eyes and listening to the ocean as he unties his hair and thinks of Joan.

California is a place known for its anonymity and a place where he can and will play the second hole. Metaphorically, his ball is lying in the fairway, but no one can touch his game until he chooses.

If all goes according to plan he will be on his way to Chicago by April 8.

He stands, surveys the room and sees that everything is ready for tomorrow. He turns on the light beside the bed before shutting off the others. He arranges his clothing on the chair beside the bed and dials the front desk and asks for a five a.m. wake-up call. He gives his hair a final brushing, ties it back and lays down.

He listens to his breathing…the calm before the storm.