“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
Chapter 12
The 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 ma
ny 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.
Chapter 13
It is Saturday, mid-afternoon, March 23 at Aviara Golf Club when the man selects the second hole, a par 3; he will play the hole tomorrow. He has followed the careers of many golfers in Certain Swing Magazine; he knew when he saw her that she would produce a compelling conclusion to the second hole. He has chosen Emily Cho, age thirty-one.
The long morning has made him weary and he searches for a hotel by the beach. Money is not an issue; he is wealthy by any standards. He finds a high end, very well-maintained hotel with four floors. He requests top floor with a view and is quite satisfied when he enters the room. He makes note of the location of the refrigerator and microwave. He opens the balcony door and immediately the ocean breeze wafts in and surrounds him with the warmth of the sun.
He returns to the car, unloads his luggage, and while there, retrieves more cash from the spare tire well. The wrapped packet of bills is in order, with the presidents facing upright and to the left. His hand bumps the Glock 30S and he is reminded that California gun laws are very strict. He must make sure it is not discovered should he be stopped for any reason.
Back in his room, the man removes his cap and stands on the balcony and peers out at the ocean. His shoulder length, wavy blond hair is tossed by the ocean breeze. His blue eyes glisten in the light reflecting off the ocean. His height is slightly less than six feet, and he has a handsome face, light-complexion and smooth skin, that appears younger than his years. He is lean and well-toned and carries himself with a confident demeanor. His hands are well-defined, with narrow and elegant palms and long and graceful fingers; he has the hands of a pianist.
He twirls a strand of hair as he plans which courses he will play over the next few days. When he played the first hole in Phoenix, he had time to find his victim and stalk her for two days before playing the hole. Now he feels pressured for time and decides if the opportunity to play the second hole presents itself, he will be less cautious. He is more practiced, more prepared.
He expects that Joan will be at Aviara on Sunday morning interviewing the players. He ties his hair and fits it under his cap. He will check with the concierge for restaurant recommendations and for the location of the nearest market.
He chooses a bistro just one block away, with a small market next door. The hostess sits him by the window with a view of the ocean. The hostess is the right age and he wonders if she plays golf. He is equally impressed with his waitress, contemplating if she also plays golf. In his compulsion to always be prepared, it is imperative that he has a secondary in mind.
He enjoys his dinner of grilled sea bass and steamed vegetables along with two glasses of a California Pinot Grigio, one of his favorites.
He stops at the market and picks up a few things from the deli; lunch meat, fine cheese, sourdough bread, condiments and two bottles of wine. He drifts down the aisles, finds potato chips and fancy cookies and sees the sign for baby products. He picks the small jars; two applesauce and two apricot. Next is the cosmetic aisle and the man adds toothpaste to his hand basket.
He walks slowly back to the hotel, noting his car in the parking lot. He approves of the inconspicuous spot he chose. His purchases fit neatly into the refrigerator, all but one, a jar of applesauce which he eats while flipping through television channels. Not finding anything of interest, he showers and goes to bed.
He smells the ocean in his room; the light curtains are billowing and he can hear the soothing sounds of waves crashing on the beach. As he starts to fall asleep he imagines himself a predator slipping through water, seeking, cognizant of every detail, ready to strike his prey.
Aviara Golf Club, Carlsbad, California, Sunday, March 24
The Second Hole
Chapter 14
He stands outside the players’ tent and waits. He knows Emily Cho is inside; he has been following her for the past hour. She missed the cut on Friday, not scoring below two over par and will not play the final round today. He knows she likes to stay for the entire tournament when she misses the cut. She’s been characterized as a good sport, an enthusiastic spectator and an exemplary golfer.
After what seems an eternity to him, she finally emerges from the tent in time to watch the first group tee off. He stations himself in her proximity, but not so close as to be noticed. His blonde hair is stuffed inside his golf hat, pulled low. He is wearing dark sunglasses. His clothing resembles what is worn by the majority of the spectators and he feels inconspicuous.
He and Emily wait patiently while several groups tee off; they applaud when the players are announced.
He is not interested in anyone except Emily, the second hole in the match.
The leaders tee off and the crowd begins to move, everyone making decisions about which group they will follow. Emily falls in with the crowd around Natalie Kerr and Paula Cole. He wonders if they are all friends. The two golfers get off to a good start, but he is fixated on Emily and moves a little closer every time the crowd moves.<
br />
They reach the third hole, a par 3.
This is the par 3 he has chosen for the match, and it is time for the man to initiate the game. While the players are getting ready to putt, he moves up beside Emily and applauds as the player closest to the hole marks her ball.
Emily flashes her eyes at him and smiles, and then turns back to the play. The first thing he says will be crucial to his success.
“You’re Emily Cho, aren’t you? You’re a very good player, I’m sorry you missed the cut.”
Emily smiles, nods and turns back to the play.
The man presses on. “My sister writes for Certain Swing Magazine in Chicago. She’s written a couple of articles about you.”
“Oh! Is she Joan Steadman? I like her personally and I admire her work. Even with your sunglasses on, you two look a lot alike.” Emily is looking up at him, her head tilted.
“Yes, Joan is my twin. She admires you as well.” He stops talking when the players begin to putt. Once done and they start to walk to the next hole, Emily follows. The man walks along beside her; he can’t be perceived as forward, however he must seal the deal right now.
“You’re twins? What’s that like? I’ve heard about clairvoyance and shared feelings.” Emily Cho seems very interested.
He does not want to talk about Joan and changes the subject. “How many times have you won on the LPGA?”
Match Play Page 6
