Lou Schein’s face shows some actual enthusiasm for the first time in a while.
“I like it, Bruce. At least it gives us a definable field to investigate. He’s here. I know there will be a murder during the Open. If we find a scratch player who’s at the Open Tournament but isn’t a pro, we…”
Phillips interrupts, “This isn’t going to be anything we can accomplish this week. I’ve done some preliminary research and find that the USGA has over 800,000 members at 9,000 golf clubs around the country. The number of people maintaining their handicap through the USGA is 4.5 million. Scratch or better players in the age range of thirty to forty years will statistically amount to thousands. And don’t forget the list will also include every member of the PGA between the age of thirty and forty. We haven’t completely eliminated any of them. In addition, the PGA is not that cooperative.”
Agent Schein’s look of optimism fades.
Nancy Cochran offers, “We have the DNA from the San Diego and Irving cases. If Bruce can condense this list to a manageable number, all it will take to identify the killer is a blood test, if they’re willing.”
Bruce finalizes his comments. “I estimate it will take approximately forty-five days to two months just to refine the list for reasonable suspects, and that’s if we get priority access across the nation, which is unlikely. We could be looking at August before this produces anything tangible, and if our guy doesn’t maintain a USGA handicap, the whole endeavor will be for nothing.”
“I want you to proceed, I’ll get the authorization,” Agent Schein says with determination.
Everyone begins gathering notes with the intention of finding the nearest computer.
“Let’s not adjourn yet,” says Schein. “I want to know that everyone is up to date on the case.” He picks up his notes.
“We have the videotape from Dallas, and regardless of the missing details, I think the composite sketch of the killer, though not perfect at present, is improved. We found male skin cells on the piece of latex glove, and the FBI lab in LA will determine if the DNA matches the blood stains from the San Diego scene. And thanks to an observant golf partner, we know our killer has scratches on his arm; we can only hope they have scarred. We assume the scratches come from the intruder in the Emily Cho case since we never found her hand.
“We have the evidence we need to convict this maniac. The chronology of the crimes and their correlation in execution, along with the scrambles, make them irrefutably related. We just need to catch him.”
“So how will we proceed here in New York?” asks Mary Gibson.
Lou points to the bundles of paper stacked against an adjacent wall. “Those are the flyers with the sketch and profile of the suspect and our contact information. We set up a 1-800 tip line to make it easier for people to call in. I want those flyers distributed to every hotel, golf course and law enforcement agency in the area and I want it done by Wednesday night. It’s our best hope for a break in the case while he’s here on Long Island. I’ll get you the help you need. And let’s hope he makes a mistake.”
He looks around the table. “If anyone has anything else that needs attention, let’s hear it now.”
No response.
“I’m in meetings for the rest of the day and I’m not coming in tomorrow. If you need me I’ll be at the Timber Point Golf Course here on Long Island. I’m not sure I even like golf anymore, but I have an old friend, retired from the Bureau, who I agreed to join for a round. Perhaps I’ll have an epiphany on the course.
“If anything breaks, I want to know immediately. My cell will be on.” With that, Agent Lou Schein leaves the room.
Chapter 50
Lou 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, y
ou’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.”
Chapter 51
David 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.
Match Play Page 21
