by James Ross
“I had to take a break from him for an afternoon,” Dr. DV said, relieved that he didn’t have to baby-sit his buddy on the links. “I’ve got to thank whoever threw the balls on the first tee.”
Captain Jer rubbed his hand through Yuuto’s hair. He smiled at his new golfing buddy. “This YouWho is okay,” he said with slurred speech. Yuuto pulled his head away and then brushed the bangs off of his forehead.
“And it sounds like he got a new nickname,” Curt said as he grinned at the creativity out of the drunk’s mouth.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The guys got back from their trip to the Gurgling Sheba intact. It was late September. The Saturday morning tee time was getting pushed back later and later because of the seasonal sunlight change. The dew on the grass seemed to coat the blades a little longer. The smell of the grass clippings was not quite so prominent.
The guys had finished and were poured into the back corner of the clubhouse figuring up their bets. The new guys, Scottie P and YouWho, put some new life into the stagnant stories and they would show up and blend in with the group on a regular basis. Over the years it seemed like a couple of guys would quit showing up or, heaven forbid, someone would die. The guys realized how important it was to throw out the welcome mat and encourage anyone that felt like playing to honor the tee time. It didn’t take too much effort to get a head count a day or two before the weekend.
It was best to get a number of players that was easily divisible by three or four. If exceptions needed to be made, J Dub was lenient when it came time to allow fivesomes just so long as they kept up and didn’t slow down the pace of play for the rest of the course. Heck, during the winter months, it wasn’t a surprise to see a sixsome or even more teeing off together. Of course those exceptions would be at the time when virtually no one else was on the grounds.
The camaraderie was all about the friendships, competition, and friendly bets that went on in the inner circle. J Dub and Curt weren’t about to stand in the way of that. They knew that their regulars had a firm grasp on the pace of play and wouldn’t be holding anybody else up. The regular guys knew golf etiquette and J Dub was always thankful that the guys honored it. It made for a much more pleasant work environment.
“You owe thirteen quarters,” Fred said to Paco as the pencil lead finished tallying up the results. Paco dug into his jeans pocket. He usually played in Levis and a white t-shirt and had a gold cross dangling from a chain around his neck. It was right around lunch time and he had gotten into the stash of Vienna sausages that he always kept in his golf bag. Paco kept as many as six to eight miniature cans tucked away in the various pouches. Instead of buying crackers over the counter in the pro shop, he bought them in bulk at a discount house. He opened a pack to complement his Viennas.
“I thought I had a skin,” Paco protested.
“Nah, YouWho tied it,” Fred claimed.
“You got a two on number five?” Paco turned and asked Yuuto.
Yuuto flashed a grin that advertised to the others that he was capable of making a surprise shot once in a while. He nodded his head enthusiastically, proud of what he had done. “Dat far away,” he said as he spread his hands twenty-four inches apart.
“Then you got the greenie,” Paco relented as he stuffed a sausage into his mouth.
“YouWho got the greenie,” Fred confirmed.
Yuuto shook his head back and forth. “My only good swing. What did I shoot?”
Fred grabbed the scorecards and searched for the one with YouWho’s name on it. “Let’s see you had a fifty-one on the front,” he said as he turned the card over, “and a fifty-four on the back.”
YouWho shook his head in dismay and went into deep thought. “Let’s see, dat fifty-fo’ be General Tsao’s chicken wit’ bwoccoli at Happy Peking westauwant and da fifty-one be Kung Pao shemp wit’ lemon batter and mushwooms.”
Captain Jer shook his head not believing what he just heard. “You have the menu memorized?”
YouWho shook his head up and down. “When I shoot dose meals den someting wrong wit’ my game.”
“Try cutting four inches off of your clubs,” Captain Jer interjected as he took another healthy swig from a can of beer.
“Why you sayee dat?” Yuuto asked.
“Why do you think?” Captain Jer countered.
“’Cause I’m so short?”
“No,” Captain Jer continued. “So they’ll fit in the trash can better.” The table erupted with laughter. For a drunk, Captain Jer could deliver some one-liners.
Disappointed, Yuuto said, “You tink I should quit?” He took the comment at face value.
“I was just kidding,” Captain Jer countered. “You stay and play. Heck you can beat me.”
“That’s not saying much,” Pork Chop butted in. “A one legged blind man could beat you.”
“He is blind half the time,” Dr. DV quipped making reference to the quantities of beer that Captain Jer consumed on the course.
A shrieking sound blared from the cable television network. Across the screen flashed a special report bulletin. “What had been feared has been confirmed,” the newscaster began. “The GRS killer has struck again. And now we join Susan Beard with a live report from Paducah, Kentucky.”
“Can you believe that?” Paul asked to no one in particular. “We were just a few miles from there earlier this week.”
“The Gurgling Sheba might as well be docked in Paducah,” Pork Chop added. “What night did they say it happened?” The guys craned their neck to listen to the report.
“The time of death appeared to be Wednesday night,” Ms. Beard went on to inform.
“That’s the first night that we were down there,” Fred said from the same spot in the back booth that he had sat in for years. All of their attention was riveted to the news.
“That hits close to home,” Dr. DV said. “They can lurk anywhere.”
“Investigators said that the cause of death and clues left at the scene were definite signs that the GRS killer has struck again,” the newscaster continued.
“Just so he doesn’t hide in the bushes on the golf course,” J Dub yelled from behind the counter.
“There’s no reason for him to be at a place like this,” Captain Jer said, “unless he was after Julie.” He glanced behind the counter and grinned at the female assistant. His tan, contrasting silver hair, and alluring blue eyes seemed to enchant every female in his presence. “Shoot me another one.” He reached over for a Vienna sausage from Paco, got his hand slapped, and continued to the bar top as Julie reached into the cooler.
“I won’t even dignify that comment, Jerry,” Julie blurted. “Put me in a beige dress and cover my mouth with duct tape so you can’t see me or hear from me.” Everybody in the room stopped for a second as Julie laid down the law.
“I wonder if he was in the casino the same time that we were,” Pork Chop said. “That’s scary.” He grabbed a nacho, dipped it in cheese sauce, and promptly deposited an orange colored drip on the front of his shirt as he hurried to put the snack in his mouth. “Dammit!” I can’t go a day without getting something on the front of my shirt.”
“You need to tuck that napkin under your Adam’s apple like you do at those casino buffets,” Elia said in his Middle Eastern accent. He had an electric razor and was running it over his perpetual five o’clock shadow being careful not to disturb his thick black moustache.
BowTye walked over from his spot in the opposite corner and delivered a freshly shined pair of golf shoes to Paul. “Well, thank you,” the retired ex-military recruiter said as he peeled off a couple one-dollar bills and placed them in BowTye’s hand.
“You’ll part with that money faster than three quarters in a golf game,” Fred kidded the elder statesman as the television set changed back to the college football game that was being broadcast.
“He earned it,” Paul countered as he winked at his little friend from New Orleans. “Plus he’s quick. We just got off the course ten minutes ago.
”
“Aaahhh!” Pork Chop screeched. “I can’t believe it!” He was cleaning up the stain on his golf shirt, but that had been put on the back burner as he glanced at the screen.
“What?” Fred asked annoyed. The shriek had gotten everyone’s attention and had disrupted their normal banter.
“You won’t believe this call!” Pork Chop shouted as he pointed at the television screen. “Watch this!”
All the guys turned to watch the replay. “What call?” YouWho said. Even though he had been in the country for several years he still didn’t understand all of the nuances of the game of football.
“The call in the game!” Pork Chop yelled as he went back to scrubbing the cheese off of his shirt.
“What did they do?” Scottie P asked as he walked from the bar to the back booth, his eyes fixed on the screen.
“The team in the blue scored a touchdown and then all of a sudden this flag came out of nowhere,” Pork Chop claimed. “I mean it had to have been five or six seconds after the play was over.”
“Where is it?” Paco asked.
“I don’t know!” Pork Chop yelled. He was irritated that the replay wasn’t being shown. “Come on!”
“If it was a blatant missed call then they won’t show it over,” Paul said. “That’s the way they do it nowadays.”
“They have to show it again!” Pork Chop shouted. “You have to see this! You won’t believe how bad of a call this was.”
All eyes in the room were now glued to the television set waiting to see the replay. As the referees huddled on the field Fred said, “Hey! That’s the same guy that’s been in here a few times.”
“Which guy?” Elia asked.
“The black referee,” Fred answered. He turned to the counter and yelled across the room. “Hey, J Dub!” The pro turned his head to the back room as he finished putting money in the register. “Isn’t that the same guy that owns the bait and tackle shop down in Wiebbey bottom?”
“Where?” J Dub asked. He was a little disoriented after his concentration had been disturbed.
“The ref on television!” Fred shouted.
J Dub peered across the room to the television. “Just a second. I don’t have my glasses on.”
“It’s the same game that’s on the TV behind the bar,” Fred said loudly.
J Dub turned to view the screen that was closer to him. After studying it for a second he said, “Yeah that’s D. Wayne.”
“Then the fix is on!” Pork Chop shouted. “You gotta see this call!”
“If they ever show it,” Scottie P interrupted.
“If it was that bad of a call, then they won’t show it again,” Paul stressed.
“They have to!” Pork Chop shouted. The stain on his shirt had now been rubbed in permanently. There was no way any detergent would ever loosen the dried cheese.
“Don’t count on it,” Paul insisted. They don’t want to incite the audience.”
“No, that’s just the replay screen on the big board at the game,” BT corrected. He had been silent all the while but knew his business. He had refereed some high school games at one time.
The picture on the screen changed from the referees to action. “Here it is!” Pork Chop yelled. “Now watch this!” The receiver went up between three defenders and made a spectacular catch. As two defenders bounced off of each other, the receiver came down and spun away from the third defender. Once free he ran thirty yards and scored with two seconds to go in the game. The crowd erupted and players rushed to the end zone. In one of the shots the black referee could be seen taking a yellow flag out of his pocket and throwing it onto the field in an area around the quarterback long after the play had been completed.
“I no see anyting wrong wit’ dat,” YouWho said.
“There isn’t anything wrong with that!” Pork Chop shouted. “That was a great play!”
“Game over!” Fred agreed.
“But now look,” Pork Chop said as he motioned his hand toward the screen. “Here it is again. This guy doesn’t have anything else to do but throw a worthless flag.” D. Wayne reaches into his pocket and tosses a flag on the ground well after the catch had been made.
“I can’t believe they keep showing that,” Paul said in amazement.
“He’ll be lucky to get out of the stadium alive,” BT joked.
“What did they call?” Paco asked.
“Holding!” Pork Chop screamed.
“They can call that on every play,” Fred claimed.
“How much you want to bet that it had something to do with the point spread?” Paul suggested.
“Ha! It had everything to do with the point spread,” Pork Chop shouted back. He had gambled so much that he thought that everything was fixed by the people that controlled the betting lines and the money.
The screen changed to live action as the final play of the game was played. The referees ran off the field with an escort from the highway patrol all decked out in their Smokey Bear hats. Debris from the crowd rained on their exit.
“There’s another one for the books,” Fred said with a chuckle.
“I guarantee you somebody cleaned up on that one!” Pork Chop yelled. He laughed as the television screen changed to a commercial.
“Yeah, whoever controlled that referee,” Elia proposed. He had seen everything in his days growing up in Beirut.
“And wouldn’t you know it,” Pork Chop concurred. “It came from a guy in our own backyard. None other than D. Wayne.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
The building housing the FBI in the St. Louis area was about as staid and lacking in personality as the look on Mona Lisa’s face. The cold exterior had nothing to do with the fire inside the heart and soul of Ginny Slater as she stood in front of the roomful of agents who could have passed as pages for a local Congressman. Dressed in a charcoal gray, smart-looking, conservative business suit she was prepared to hammer her point home to the dozen agents that were sitting around the conference table.
Ginny was, among other things, the leader of the task force assigned to capture the GRS killer. The serial murderer had been nicknamed that because of his propensity to gag, rape, and strangle the victims. One thing was known about the killer. He was a “he” because of the rapes that had taken place. However the absence of DNA made it doubly difficult to put the finger on the slayer.
“Okay, let’s go over what we do know,” Ginny started.
One of the agents uttered, “He’s mobile.”
“You bet he is,” Ginny said forcefully. “We know that he’s struck in Allentown, Pennsylvania, Brentwood, Tennessee, and Tulsa, Oklahoma. Then there’s East Lansing, Michigan. He’s been in Dayton, Ohio and Rockford, Illinois and Evansville, Indiana.” She looked into the eyes of the agents. “And now Paducah, Kentucky.
“Maybe he likes warm weather,” another agent proposed. “He does those in the winter and the ones up north in the summer.”
“Nah,” Ginny said as she dismissed the theory. “We all like good weather.” She took off her jacket and placed it over a seat near the podium. “We have to figure out if all of the victims have a connection. Colleges. Airports. Manufacturing. Satellite offices. Something. This guy is on the move and there is a reason he is in these towns.”
“Maybe he just likes women. They’re all female,” an older agent wisecracked. Ginny glared at the guy not seeing the humor in the statement.
“Look,” she continued, “we need to investigate truckers, salesmen, people that travel.” She paused. “Come on, help me out.” She turned back to the agent that initiated the topic. “And I personally think that he dislikes women.”
“Or sees them as easy marks,” another agent offered.
“You’ve got travel agents, airline personnel, railroad people. Heck that includes anybody that rents a car,” a voice came from the other end of the table, “or takes a vacation.”
“Which leaves us with anybody,” another voice interrupted.
“Go to each town
and run a one hundred mile radius, a two hundred mile radius, and a three hundred mile radius,” Ginny advised. “Let’s see what overlaps and where.”
“I can have that in an hour,” an agent volunteered.
“Scour the Internet dating sites,” Ginny advised. “There has to be a connection between this guy and the victims.”
“What about gas receipts and credit card use?” another agent asked.
“Great idea,” Ginny said, impressed that her think tank was thinking.
“And motel receipts, bar and restaurant tabs, and mobile phone records,” another guy proposed.
Ginny shook her head in agreement. “You got it. You guys know what to do.” She knew that she had the best of the best in the room. “It’s old-fashioned police work until the forensic guys can help us out.”
“Has anything come back from the lab?” questioned one of the guys around the table.
Ginny shook her head back and forth. “Not yet . . . and I don’t want to count on that. Let’s do our homework and find this guy. Got it?” In unison the law enforcement crew nodded their heads.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
The first Wednesday of the tenth month of the year rolled around. There wasn’t much to do for the local sports fans this October. The Cardinals had been eliminated from the pennant race sometime in September and the Rams hadn’t won a game. But the Missouri Tiger football team was lighting up the scoreboard and the Fighting Illini in Champaign were off to a good start on the gridiron.
The weather was spectacular. That time of the year was as pretty as a group of college-aged bridesmaids in a wedding party. Weekend trips to the wineries were popular as well as bike rides on the Katy Trail. Excursions up the river road along the Mississippi were fashionable for those wanting to see the changing of the leaves along the bluffs. The fall harvest was in full swing for the farmers that had to get corn and soybeans off their land. Periodically productive pumpkin patches promptly popped pure, pleasantly-plump produce products.
