Final Round

by William Bernhardt

  33

  Conner protested, but to no avail. With the help of two uniformed officers, O’Brien hauled Conner out of the bar and led him down the corridor. All the pros in the vicinity stood agape, watching but not speaking, as the cops dragged him out of the building.

  “There goes my short-lived reputation,” Conner muttered, as he was escorted down the stone path that divided the clubhouse from the cabins.

  “Move!” O’Brien said curtly.

  “You can’t just haul me away like this! I don’t even have a toothbrush. Let me stop by my-“ His head jerked around. “Hey, the lights are on in there! Someone’s in my cabin!”

  O’Brien looked at him levelly. “And this surprises you?”

  “Damn straight! I even locked my door tonight! What’s going on?”

  O’Brien pondered for a moment, then shrugged. She gave one of the uniforms the signal. They led Conner back to his cabin.

  Before he was even close, Conner could see that something serious had occurred while he’d been waiting for the postings and swilling margaritas. All the lights were on in the cabin, and uniformed men and women were swarming all over it. A dozen people, maybe more. Some of them Conner recognized-because he’d seen them before, out on the eighteenth hole in the sand trap where he’d found John’s body.

  The previous crime scene.

  O’Brien took him by the cuffs and led him inside. The crime scene techs parted as she approached, making a path for her without even being told. “We received an anonymous call about an hour ago,” she explained. “Said there’d been some kind of disturbance in your cabin. Violent, from the sound of it. When we arrived, we found the front door wide open. And this is what we found.”

  She made a tiny gesture which was altogether unnecessary. Conner couldn’t possibly have missed the grisly main attraction.

  It was Freddy E. Granger, golf pro and proud father of a recently married Southern belle. Only this time, he was sprawled across Conner’s bed. His throat had been cut-like Jodie’s, only not half so neatly. He must’ve struggled, Conner surmised, because the cut was jagged and irregular, like a dull knife working its way through a particularly tough piece of meat. Blood was everywhere, on the headboard, on the bedspread, on the carpet, and the walls. It had been a week of horrors, but this was the most grotesque, most hideous spectacle Conner had ever seen in his life, bar none.

  “My God,” Conner said. He turned away, holding his stomach, feeling his gorge rising. “You can’t think-You can’t think that I-”

  “We don’t think. We know.” O’Brien pushed him away from the bed, then jerked him toward the door. “You have the right to remain silent. If you decide to waive that right, anything you say can and will be used against you…”

  34

  Back at Augusta police headquarters, Conner sat in an interrogation room surrounded by half a dozen law enforcement officers. O’Brien had apparently won the coveted right to take the lead; she sat opposite the small table from him, a look of disbelief permanently etched on her face. Two men in uniforms stood behind her, their mouths closed but molded into something like a sneer. There was an older matronly woman administering the cautions and operating the tape and video equipment. And finally there were two huge burly men guarding the door.

  “I’m tired of playing cat and mouse,” O’Brien said impatiently. “Just come clean. Tell us the truth. Then everybody can go home.”

  “Everyone except me, you mean.”

  O’Brien did not smile. “Well, Conner, I don’t see you going home for a good long time, no matter what you say.”

  “You really know how to inspire a guy.”

  She leaned across the table. “You must be racked with guilt by now. Killing your oldest and best friend-and his wife?” She shook her head sadly. “I can’t imagine what you must be going through.”

  “I’ve been telling you-I didn’t kill anyone.”

  “And I have to admit-I bought it for a while. I went along with you. Played your game. But the game’s over now. You’ve been caught red-handed.”

  “There’s no red on my hands. Not a trace of blood. If I committed this murder, where’s the blood?”

  O’Brien was unimpressed. “I learned how to wash my hands back in kindergarten, Conner. It’s not a big trick.”

  “How did I manage to not get any blood on my clothes?”

  “Practice makes perfect.” She drummed her fingers on the tabletop. “Give it up. No one’s buying it anymore.”

  “Look, talk to the people at the clubhouse. Talk to the bartender. Talk to Harley or some of the other pros. I’ve been in that clubhouse for the last three hours. I never left once.”

  “We’re checking your story. We know you were in the clubhouse. But no one was really keeping tabs on you-a fact you no doubt counted on. So far no one can be certain you didn’t slip away for a short while. After all, five minutes is all it would’ve taken.”

  “But it doesn’t make any sense. Why would I want to kill Freddy?”

  “I don’t know. Why did you kill John and Jodie?”

  Conner’s face screwed up with anger. “I didn’t!” He leaned forward, voice angry. “I didn’t kill anyone!”

  His shout rang through the tiny interrogation room, bouncing off the coarse plaster walls. Get a grip on yourself, Conner warned himself. This is exactly what they want. They want you to lose control, to babble.

  Conner tried to calm himself. He leaned back in his chair. “I’m not saying anything more.”

  “Do you want an attorney?”

  Conner blew air through his teeth. That really would be the last resort, wouldn’t it? He might as well stamp I’M GUILTY on his forehead in big black letters. “No, I want you to let me go and leave me alone.”

  “Yeah, that’ll happen.” O’Brien turned her head and gave a quick nod to one of the men standing behind her. Seemed it was time to change lobsters and dance.

  The other man, a dark-haired middle-aged guy with eyes as deep as a water well, introduced himself. “I’m Sergeant Hopkins,” he said. “For the record, I’m taking the lead in the interrogation as of twenty-two-oh-six P.M.” He looked at Conner and smiled pleasantly. “What was it, Mr. Cross? Professional jealousy?”

  Conner peered at him uncomprehendingly. “What are you talking about?”

  “Motive, that’s what I’m talking about. I’ve got no problem with guilt; it’s obvious you did it. Finding John McCree’s body yourself was a nice touch; that threw us off for a while. But you had clear means and opportunity. The only thing I can’t figure is motive.”

  “So I killed John because he was a better golfer? That’s really pathetic.”

  “To me, maybe. But to someone who spends his whole life knocking those balls around-who knows?” He tilted his head to one side. “Or maybe it was the woman.”

  “The woman? Which woman?”

  “Jodie McCree. She was your girl, once upon a time, wasn’t she? Don’t bother denying it. We’ve investigated this thoroughly.”

  “That was years ago!”

  “And I’ll bet it was digging into your craw every single day, wasn’t it?” His face darkened, and his eyes actually seemed to recede. “I’ll bet your hate festered like an open wound, getting worse and worse every day, until finally you just couldn’t stand it any longer. You saw them both at the tournament, maybe sitting across the table at the champions’ dinner, and you couldn’t stand it any longer. You had to do something. You had to strike back against the people who had wronged you. Isn’t that how it happened?”

  “No!”

  “You’ll feel better if you confess. Really. Just let it all go. You can’t imagine how much better you’ll feel.”

  Giving Hopkins a few shots in the face would also make him feel better, but he wasn’t going to do that, either. “You’re barking up the wrong tree, Fido.”

  “So it was all a coincidence. Just a strange twist of fate that you found the body. That your golf club was the murder weapon. That
you were on the scene when Mrs. McCree was killed, too. That you don’t have an alibi for either murder.”

  “I didn’t know I’d need one-since I didn’t know there were going to be any murders!”

  “Weren’t you a bit jealous of your old buddy John? When he went off to that big West Coast college? When he married your old girlfriend? When he won all those golf tournaments, and you couldn’t seem to win anything?”

  “I’ve done all right this week.”

  “Sure-’cause John McCree is out of the way.”

  “That’s the stupidest-”

  “When he was around, you were psychologically incapable of playing a good game. But once he was gone…”

  “What is this, Psych 101? You’re on a gigantic fishing expedition. You don’t know anything. And you don’t have anything on me.”

  “Other than a bloody mutilated corpse on your bed,” O’Brien replied. “How do you explain that?”

  Conner frowned. “I can’t. But it wasn’t me.”

  “Why would anyone else want to kill Freddy Granger?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “And even if they did-why would they do it in your cabin?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe the same reason they took my golf club. To frame me.”

  “And why would anyone want to do that?”

  “I don’t know!”

  “Is this going to be your story at trial? Because I have to tell you-it’s pathetic. No one’s going to believe you.”

  “How could I know the answers to these questions? I wasn’t there! I didn’t do it!”

  “Gee, maybe no one did it. Maybe it was suicide. Maybe Freddy slashed his own throat.”

  Conner didn’t feel this remark merited a response.

  “Or maybe it was just an accident. Maybe he slipped in the shower.”

  Conner looked over at O’Brien. “Do I have to listen to this?”

  “Or maybe his death was staged,” Hopkins continued. “Maybe he isn’t dead at all. Maybe this was some wacky fraternity stunt.”

  “Would you just shut up!” Conner shouted. Once again, his voice echoed through the tiny room. “I’ve had it with you, understand? I did not kill my friends! I did not kill Freddy Granger! And-And-“ All at once, Conner’s shouts faded.

  “Yes?” Hopkins said expectantly.

  “And-damn.” Conner fell back into his chair. “I think I know who did.”

  O’Brien pushed her way back to the interrogation table. “What are you saying?”

  “I know who the killer is.”

  “Yeah,” Hopkins snorted. “So do we.”

  Conner’s eyes became soft and unfocused. “How stupid could I possibly be? It’s been right in front of my face the whole time.”

  Hopkins pressed his hand against his forehead. “This is ridiculous. I refuse to be distracted by this ploy. I want to-”

  O’Brien cut him off with a wave of his hand. “No. Let’s hear him out.”

  “It’s so simple,” Conner said, still lost in his own thoughts. “Why didn’t I see it before?”

  “Conner…” O’Brien took a step toward him.

  “This is a load of crap,” Hopkins groused.

  Conner was lost in thought. “Maybe there’s a way…”

  “Can’t you see what he’s doing?” Hopkins bellowed. “He’s just buying time.”

  O’Brien bit her lip. “I’m not so sure…”

  “It’s obvious. He’s a con man, through and through. He has no sense of right or wrong. He’s a golfer, for God’s sake!”

  “Oh, well then!” she exclaimed. “Snap on the shackles.”

  “I’m telling you, O’Brien, he’s playing you for a fool. Again!”

  O’Brien gave him a stony stare that shut him down in a heartbeat. “I said we’re going to hear him out. And you-Sergeant-will follow my lead. Got it?”

  Hopkins buttoned his lip, a sullen expression on his face.

  “Good.” She turned back to Conner. “Look, if you’re serious about this, we’re going to need proof. Otherwise-”

  “Maybe we could create some proof,” Conner said. His brain was racing, tying to put all the disparate pieces together. “Maybe-if I could call Fitz.”

  “Fitz? Why?”

  “I’m allowed one phone call, aren’t I?”

  “And you want to use it to call your caddie?”

  “Man’s best friend.” Conner sat up and leaned across the tiny table. “Look, everybody-I know this seems crazy. But-just go along with me, one more time. Let me play out one last round-under O’Brien’s close supervision, of course.”

  O’Brien raised an eyebrow.

  “I can’t be certain,” Conner continued. “But it’s just possible we may be able to bag a killer.”

  35

  About half an hour later, Fitz wandered into the clubhouse bar-but it wasn’t the Fitz to whom everyone on the tour had grown accustomed over the years. His normally dapper, immaculate appearance had disappeared; he was dirty, disheveled, smudged. His cap was on crooked and his face was stubbled. He looked exhausted. For once, all his years showed in the deep lines etched in his face.

  He leaned against the bar, looking as if he could barely hold himself upright. “Club soda,” he ordered. “Quick.”

  The bartender, Vic, popped open a bottle and poured the drink posthaste.

  Most of the pros were still hanging around the bar, swapping sto-ries or commiserating over the tournament results. Tomorrow morning their planes would take them home, but for the moment, they were free to amuse themselves. Ace sat at one table, surrounded by well-wishers and hangers-on. Harley sat at another, his fifth place trophy resting on the table just before him. Barry was back at the bar, swilling to his heart’s content. And on the other side of the room, one table was occupied by the three top men in the tournament officialdom: Tenniel, Spenser, and Peregino. A heated conversation was taking place at that table, with lots of angry, exasperated sputtering and arguing. Trying to determine what was going on at that table was the second-most popular topic of conversation in the room.

  The first, of course, was Conner Cross being hauled off by the cops for triple homicide.

  Ace saw Fitz at the bar, saw his condition, and made his way toward him. “Everything okay?” he asked.

  “No,” Fitz said breathlessly. “Everything is definitely not okay.”

  “Conner?”

  Fitz nodded. “The police have him in custody. They’re about ready to lock him up and throw away the key.”

  Ace shook his head sympathetically. “I can’t believe it. Sure, Conner was kind of a wild man-but killing three people? Incredible.”

  “He didn’t do it,” Fitz said.

  Ace smiled. “You’re a good-hearted, loyal man, Fitz.”

  “I’m not speaking out of loyalty. I’m speaking out of fact. He didn’t do it.”

  “Is there anyway I can help?” Harley Tuttle had come to the bar. “I’m sorry-I couldn’t help but overhear. But, if there’s anything I can do, I’m ready.”

  “That’s very kind of you,” Fitz said.

  “Conner has been very kind to me. More than once. Taking me under his wing. Introducing me to the boys on the tour. Like my daddy used to say, A friend in need is a friend indeed. I owe Conner.”

  “I owe him, too,” Barry said with a hiccup, on the other side of the bar. “I owe him a bloody lip.”

  Fitz scowled. “Shut up, you miserable drunk.”

  Barry was nonplussed. “I don’t know why you’ve stayed with that creep. I’m sure you could get other offers, even at your-your-“ He hiccupped again, then declined to finish his sentence.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt,” said a gentle voice from somewhere behind him. It was Artemus Tenniel. Spenser and Peregino were trailing in his wake. “We’ve heard the most awful rumors about Conner. If you could possibly enlighten us-”

  “The police have charged him with murder,” Fitz said, giving him the quick and dirty version. “But they�
�re wrong. And Conner says he can prove it.”

  “Prove it?” Tenniel seemed dubious. “How?”

  “By finding the murder weapon. The knife that was used on Jodie and Freddy.”

  “Indeed. And how exactly would Conner know where that weapon is-if he’s not the murderer?”

  “He knows where the weapon is because he knows who the murderer is.” Fitz’s voice dropped to a hush. “He’s figured it out.”

  “How?” Ace asked.

  “I don’t know, but he did. He’s certain. And he says he knows where the killer would’ve hidden the knife. Says the scum would use it to try to divert suspicion to Conner, like he’s been doing all along. So Conner figures there’s only about a half a dozen or so places it could be. And he’s had me running all over the grounds, checking them before it’s too late.”

  Peregino cleared his throat. “And have you found it?”

  “No. Why do you ask?”

  Peregino pulled back quickly. “Oh, I don’t-I-“ He paused. “Just curious. You know. Could affect the image of the PGA.”

  “I haven’t checked all the places yet,” Fitz said. “After I wet my whistle, I’ll get back at it. I’m not letting this killer railroad Conner.”

  “You’re a good man, Fitz,” Spenser said, patting him on the shoulder.

  “Don’t work too hard,” Ace added. “You have to take care of yourself, too.”

  Fitz nodded, then took another swallow of his drink. “I made a promise to Conner, and I intend to keep it.”

  Everyone nodded sympathetically. Gradually, the group dissipated. A few of them left the clubhouse. A few minutes later, Fitz was alone with the bartender.

  He polished off the last of his drink.

  “How about another?” Vic asked.

  “Nah,” Fitz said, casting his eyes about the now much emptier room. “I think that’ll do it.” He paused. “Yes, I think that did just fine.”

  36

  The door opened, and a thin stream of light spilled into the locker room. One shadowy figure quickly entered, then closed the door behind him, returning the room to darkness. He moved quietly, careful not to make a sound, and deliberately, advancing toward his goal. He had a job to perform, and the sooner he got it done and got out of there, the better off he would be. He placed a key in a small lock. Then he opened the locker door, careful not to let it squeak. He reached inside and a moment later…