Match Play

by Poppe, D. Michael

  She continues, “The scorecard is marked on the sixth hole. According to the golfers in the lab, the three in the circle indicates that he birdied the hole. It is actually a par 4 and he scored one less than par; birdie. The 1 up written above the score indicates again, according to my colleagues who are familiar with golf, that he won the hole and he is scoring the imagined contest as match play. They were confused as to why he scored it a birdie. On a side note, after some research of the Wild Fire course, we have concluded that the killer mimicked the actual 6th hole using the placement of the sand traps and the shape of the green.”

  Officer Jackson adds, “I play golf regularly with some friends and occasionally we play match play. It isn’t like stroke play; in stroke play you play a certain number of holes, usually eighteen which consist of four par 3’s, ten par 4’s, and four par 5’s. Par is the pre-determined number of strokes that a golfer should require to complete a hole.

  “So a par 3 should take three strokes and that is said to be a score of par, and on eighteen holes the sum of the pars is generally seventy-two. Depending on the sum of your scores on each hole you will either be par, under par, or over par. You add up your score for all the holes at the end of the round of eighteen holes and low score wins.

  “In match play, each hole is scored separately. If you are the low score on the hole you win the hole, but you win only that hole and you are said to be 1 up. If you lose, you are 1 down and the players move to the next hole. Then if the same player wins the next hole with a low score, he is 2 up. The player you are playing is 2 down because he lost both holes. Ties are carried over so no one wins if the scores on the hole are the same. If you are playing eighteen holes the first person to win the majority of holes is the winner. Example: Two players playing eighteen holes: Player A wins seven holes; Player B wins eight holes, and they tied on three holes. Player B, who won eight holes, wins the majority and wins match play.”

  “So, our killer is saying he won the hole and with a birdie?” Jackson’s eyes widen and he shakes his head with the realization. “We are 1 down.”

  “But if he’s playing match play, he has to win the majority of holes to win the match. Do we win if we catch him?” asks Detective Howard.

  “That’s right,” agrees Nancy. “If he is playing a typical eighteen hole match, and we don’t know that or the reason for the birdie, but if what we’ve surmised is correct, he is just beginning. We don’t know how to tie or win a hole.

  “As I said earlier, I can’t explain the placement of the breasts or the absence of the nipples. We found hairs on the bagged clothing, some did not belong to the victim, but without someone to compare them with they are as valueless as the prints. The rest of the golf equipment was of no help; the 3 iron had some blood residue that matches the victim. There is no evidence that she had been struck with it.”

  Nancy hesitates and takes a breath. “In my years with the Phoenix PD, we haven’t had too many cases exhibiting this kind of carnage. I have read the related literature and I will tell you what I believe. If as the evidence indicates, he is just getting started, there will be more killings until he is caught. As I said, he needs to win a majority of the holes to win the match, but the match could be nine, eighteen, thirty-six or even seventy-two holes. The planning, the cleanliness, the absence of evidence are all what you would expect from this type of killer.

  “In his mind, he is a hole ahead of us already. If his conception is realized, it will play out systematically and predictably, which may be the only chance of catching him. This is an individual who is twenty-five to forty years of age, intelligent, self-assured, and probably isolated socially. I would surmise from the crime scene that he is also a very compulsive individual. Everything is calculated, carefully orchestrated and executed with complete detachment and no remorse. One might compare it to a recurring sexual obsession: now that he has tasted the power, the omnipotence of the act, he will have to repeat it again and again.

  “The report on the knives is a perfect indication of this type of compulsiveness. ‘Sharp as scalpels’ is what I said. You can bet the killer’s tools are like religious relics, almost sacred; they have seen him through extraordinary circumstances. Believe me, he treats these knives with love, he trusts them. The crime isn’t about sex, it’s about power. He’s saying, ‘I can do whatever I want, and you can’t stop me.’ The crime and the contest are essential to him, everything else is secondary.” Nancy Cochran pauses, rubs her eyes, and stares directly at Detective Sharp. “I have concluded that the nipples are his trophies.”

  Detective Sharp stands and addresses the group. “We need to get this to VICAP as soon as possible. Does anyone have information not discussed here today?”

  Officer Barrios says, “The victim’s sister said she was to play golf on Sunday, March 17. What if she just went to the tournament as an observer? We should talk to whoever she was with that day.”

  “Excuse me?” interrupts Officer Jackson. “I just want to say this, probably not important, but it’s been bothering me since yesterday.”

  “Let’s have it!” barks Sharp.

  “When we received the call for this murder, we were down the street on another call a few street numbers away. The callers, an elderly couple named Farryton, were afraid to enter their apartment because of a broken window in a patio door. They suspected burglars. We took their key and entered, nothing had been disturbed and nothing was missing, so we filed a normal report: kids or vandals. What had broken the window was a golf ball, Mrs. Farryton found it behind a kitchen counter. It was unremarkable except it had a big red 2 sort of smeared on it, not the way you would normally mark a golf ball. Anyway, we bagged it and turned it in with our report.”

  “I’ll want to see that ball in the lab,” says Dr. Cochran. “I’ll get it from properties when I leave here. How far would you say that the Farryton’s place is from the crime scene?”

  “I guess a couple hundred yards to the south. Wouldn’t you think that’s about right, Bill?” Jackson looks over at Barrios.

  Detective Howard bursts in, “What if he actually hit it? The victim’s blood was on the 4 iron lying by the open patio doors. I don’t hit mine that far, but if this guy is a golf pro he certainly could have. The open patio doors where the breasts were placed were on the north side of the victim’s apartment.”

  “So why hit the damn ball?” Sharp again.

  Barrios says, “The patio doors in the victim’s place face south, toward the Farryton’s place.”

  Dr. Cochran can barely contain her excitement. “The golf tee on the floor between the breasts, the open doors, the breasts flanking the door! He set up the tee markers for the next hole. The breasts are the markers, he even left the tee as a clue. He teed the ball up on the carpet and hit it out the door with that 3 iron. It only landed in this elderly couple’s apartment by chance. He’s telling you he’s already playing the second hole.”

  “Christ!” mutters Sharp.

  “I’d bet my diploma that the 2 on that ball is written in the victim’s blood, and I can assure you, he is just beginning. If he is connected with the LPGA, he’s already left town. You need to get this case over to the FBI as soon as possible. If he’s local, he’ll kill again here. You won’t have to wait long until he does.”

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

  Chapter 8

  More 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 Class
ic, 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.