Murder on the Front Nine

by Steve McMillen

  I should have remembered that old saying, be careful what you wish.

  How did I end up in the Myrtle Beach area? It was the perfect storm. I was just recently divorced from my first wife and I wanted to get away from the Ohio winters, especially the snow and ice; I loved to play golf and liked the thought of the beach with lots of girls in bikinis. In addition, I had a job offer from a landscape company in North Myrtle Beach. They needed someone to manage the landscaping of a new golf course. It was a no-brainer decision on my part.

  Myrtle Beach, aka the Grand Strand, runs from Brunswick County, North Carolina to Georgetown, South Carolina. It is sixty miles of beaches, golf courses and restaurants.

  Many have called the area the golf mecca of the world. One hundred plus golf courses and you can play golf three hundred sixty-five days a year. Need I say more about golf?

  The beaches are wide and have easy access routes for parking or walking. There are also many fishing piers dotting the horizon if you’re into that form of recreation. In addition, the great part is that the beaches are only crowded with tourists in those little bikinis for about three months out of the year. The remaining months, it is like having your own private beach. It’s empty.

  There are more than fifteen hundred restaurants along the Grand Strand and they provide some of the best seafood along the Mid-Atlantic Coast. You can have seafood, a steak, Carolina barbecue, or an old-fashioned hamburger. The choice is yours.

  So why did I relocate to Myrtle Beach? It was all of the above. It had everything I ever wanted or needed and I had a great job waiting for me. There was golf, girls, the beach, and a job. It doesn’t get any better than this.

  Chapter 2: The Army Buddies

  Allow me to tell you what my three amigos told me about SIL. They started SIL because there were some cases and investigations that the CIA, NSA, and other covert organizations wanted information on but could not or would not get officially involved. They needed some other entity to do the down and dirty work and keep them out of the headlines. These organizations would hire SIL as an independent contractor to gather the information, report their findings, offer suggestions and keep the big boys out of the public eye. Barry, Bill, and Ted usually did the legwork themselves but occasionally a case would come along which required a special type of operative.

  I suppose that is why I get this off-the-wall phone call. “Hey old buddy, it’s Bill. How are you and how is your golf game these days?”

  “Hey Tank, good to hear your voice, game’s not very good because I never get a chance to play or practice, how’s yours?”

  I have not heard from any of my old Army buddies in almost fifteen years, so Bill’s call really comes from out of the blue.

  He answers, “My golf game is about the same Mickke D, not very good. Say, Barry, Ted, and I will be in the Myrtle Beach area next week and we are hoping to get together with you, play some golf, drink a few beers, and check on your new lifestyle.”

  Then all of a sudden, “Sorry guy, I’ve got another call; I’ll get back to you in a few days.”

  He hangs up! I am speechless. I don’t know what to think. How do they know I am living in Myrtle Beach and how did they get my cell phone number?

  Monday evening I receive another call from Bill. “Hey Mickke D, how about picking us up at the airport on Friday evening. We’ll be leaving Sunday morning and can we camp out at your place?”

  “Sounds great,” I reply, “should I make a tee time for Saturday morning?”

  “You bet, and be sure to bring your A game because Barry says he is going to kick your ass, Mr. Golf Teaching Pro.”

  I ask him what airline they will be flying and what time they will be arriving.

  There is hesitation on the other end of the line and finally he comes back, “We will be coming in on a private plane and we will call you when we get close.”

  “Are you coming into Myrtle Beach International?”

  Again silence, finally he says, “No we’re flying into the Grand Strand Airport. Do you know where it is located?”

  “Yes, I do, and tell Barry not to forget his clubs; I don’t want to hear any excuses at the end of the day.”

  After we hang up I start thinking, private plane, no definite time, and how do they know I am a teaching pro? That happened several years after the last time I had seen any of them. I had been improving my own golf game by reading books and listening to golf tapes and then I began to help some of my friends who were willing to try my new methods and ideas.

  One of my friends said one day after a lesson, “Mickke D, you should become a teaching pro.” I took his advice, enrolled in a golf teaching school in Florida, passed the course and began teaching on a part-time basis. The rest is history.

  My military training begins to click in. What are these guys up to? I decide to pull in a favor and get the down and dirty on my old friends and SIL.

  My next-door neighbor, Jimmy Bolin, the same one who drenched me with his sprinkler system, is a retired FBI staff special agent and I have given him several golf lessons at no charge. He said that if I ever needed anything, be sure and let him know. I call him Tuesday morning and tell him I need some background information on a company called Special Investigation Limited located in Culpepper, Virginia.

  He asks what specific information I am looking for and I answer, “I would like to know the current status of the main principals, Barry, Bill, and Ted, and if there are any bad rumors going around about them. Also I would like to know the financial status of the company.”

  He replies, “I’ll see what I can do, how soon do you need this?”

  I tell him I need whatever he can find out by midday Friday.

  Thursday evening around 7:30 my doorbell rings. I look out the side window and see Jimmy. He comes in with a folder, which does not seem to have a whole lot of material in it. After some small talk about his golf game and a beer, we get down to business. He tells me that information on SIL is very limited and very hush-hush. They have worked for the CIA, NSA, FBI, and several other “spook” organizations.

  It is rumored they may have even done some work directly for the White House, hanging chads in Florida. The story is that they gathered intelligence on the main parties making the decisions in Florida and found enough dirt to make sure the White House got the proper outcome for the election. If this is true, they know people in high places, about as high as you can go.

  As far as the principals are concerned, they are not much more than ex-Special Forces officers who found a niche for themselves. They are not married, have nice condos, and nice cars. The company owns a Gulfstream airplane and a helicopter, which they use regularly. They stay out of the limelight and don’t seem to be in any trouble financially. Jimmy also states that without his contacts at the Bureau, none of this information would have been available. They definitely know someone high up the ladder.

  I decide to fill Jimmy in with what little information I have about the upcoming weekend just in case I need him later. He is a big, strong, tough, smart guy, in his mid-fifties who has done some things that if I told you about them… well you know.

  He cautions me to be careful. From what he has gathered, SIL usually gets the dirtiest and sometimes strangest cases. I tell him I am probably just building a mountain out of a molehill and that they are just coming down to play golf and talk about old times. Yeah, right.

  Chapter 3: Mickke D

  Friday morning I make a 10:00 tee time for Saturday at River Hills. I clean up the two spare bedrooms and clean my golf clubs. The clubs are not very dirty because they never get used. I even get out my gun, a shiny, chrome-plated Colt .45 and clean it. In the afternoon, I go to the store, pick up some rib-eye steaks, salad mixings, and beer and then stop by my office to see if I have any messages.

  I seem to spend a lot of time in my office these days but I don’t seem to accomplish much. When I first moved to Myrtle Beach, I was doing commercial and residential landscaping. That was the period when
real estate was going crazy so I decided to get my sales agent license and later on I got my brokers license and started my own company. Therefore, my office is a landscape and real estate office all in one.

  At one time, I had a large office with several employees but that became too much of a hassle and then the real estate business went to hell in a hand basket, so now it is just me in one room, which I rent from a local plumbing contractor. His receptionist, who is also his wife, answers my phone when I’m not there.

  I paid off my house (I did real well in real estate), paid off my Trailblazer and even paid off my third ex-wife. I also have a free and clear 1981 Black Corvette in the garage, so I am virtually debt free. When I am working as a landscape architect consultant to several local golf design companies, I charge three hundred a day plus expenses. Life is good although not very exciting.

  None of the messages are pressing except I did get a 911 call from Robert, one of my golf students. His once-straight drives have turned into a terrible duck hook. He is close to a meltdown. He wants to know if I can meet him sometime to work out his problem. I call and tell him I will meet him at Harbor View Driving Range around 3:00 today. He sounds better already.

  I figure I have until at least 6:00 before my group arrives so I meet Robert and within twenty minutes we have replaced the duck hook with a gentle draw and some very straight shots. He had gone back to gripping the club too tightly and was hitting the ball instead of swinging the club head and just letting the ball get in the way. Life is now good for Robert.

  I usually charge thirty dollars for a lesson but Robert gives me a fifty and tells me to keep the change. I decide to go home and wait for the guys to call since I am only fifteen minutes from the airport.

  While I am waiting, I search through a junk drawer and find an old photo of the four of us standing on the first tee at a local charity golf tournament. I start thinking, what do I really know about my old golfing friends?

  Barry was a martial arts instructor and a computer whiz kid. Bill taught survival training, small weapons, and sniper skills. Ted was a computer geek and an explosive expert. The three of them were always together when they were not training or teaching. Bill told me the three of them met at Officers Candidate School at Fort Benning, Georgia and have been good friends ever since. They always took their vacations at the same time. They never said where they went, and I never asked. They didn’t smoke, didn’t drink too much, and as far as I knew, absolutely no drugs. Of course, I haven’t seen them in more than fifteen years. Things may have changed.

  They tried several times to bring me into their tightly knit group as a permanent member but I knew I would be the fifth wheel. (They were always talking about pirates and sunken treasure. They were like kids in a candy store when anyone mentioned old shipwrecks and buried treasure). I did not think I would fit into their little club. Barry and I did not always see eye to eye on a lot of things when we were together. They even offered to make me a part of SIL but I said thanks but no thanks. They never brought up the subject again. Our relationship remained simply a weekend golf foursome.

  Chapter 4: The Reunion

  I am starting to become concerned, it is now past 7:30pm and no word from the group. I go out on my deck, which overlooks the 16th fairway at River Hills and wait for their call to go to the airport. I have always thought the 16th at River Hills is the most eye-appealing hole on the course. It is a tree-lined short par 4 but the green is surrounded by water on three sides plus a sand trap. An errant tee shot or approach shot can lead to a big number on the hole.

  River Hills is a very nice, laid-back golf community in Little River. It is located just over the Intercoastal Waterway from North Myrtle Beach, with around 370 single-family homes. It is off the beaten path and usually very quiet. Residents take their dogs out for walks and if there were sidewalks, they would fold up about 8:00 in the evening and unfold around 9:00 the next morning.

  I am watching the last group of golfers for the day come through; I know that because they have a red flag on their cart. It is still light and I figure they will be finished before dark with no problem.

  I can hear the distant sound of a helicopter heading my way, probably bound for Myrtle Beach International, the Grand Strand Airport, or maybe continuing down the coast.

  As the chopper noise gets louder and closer, my phone rings. It’s Barry. “Hey old buddy, are you ready to pick us up?”

  I reply casually, “I don’t know. Are you close?”

  He laughs, “Well in about two minutes we’ll be in your back yard, is there anyone coming down the fairway?”

  Oh, my God, they are in that chopper I hear and they are going to land in the fairway behind my house.

  Barry comes back, “We are running a little late so I told the pilot to just drop us off at your place. Don’t worry, you know us, we’ll be in and out in thirty seconds or have you forgotten all of your training?”

  In shock, I wonder if the HOA has a covenant about choppers landing in my back yard. If not, you can bet there will be one after tonight. How am I going to explain this?

  I guess I have grown soft and passive after all these years while my Army buddies still have that zest and flair for adventure in their lives. Where did I go wrong?

  Oh yeah, I remember. Married, divorced, and broke three times. Let’s not even talk about the bright red boxers. My old friends are the ones who have missed all the joys of life, not me.

  I am waiting to hear sirens coming down the streets of River Hills. They will come, arrest all of us, and take us off to jail or worse yet, call out the Marines, thinking this is an invasion.

  I am glad I don’t see Jimmy’s car next door. I am not sure what he may do. All I can do is stand on the deck and stare as this helicopter sits down in the fairway behind my house. Three people jump out, each carrying a small hand-held bag and one large golf bag. Barry was right, it took about thirty seconds and the chopper was up, up, and away. Maybe my neighbors will just think this is a new golf package deal thought up by some innovative golf director here in town.

  As my old Army buddies come up the back stairs of my deck I give them a good looking over to see if any drastic changes have taken place in the last fifteen years.

  They are each wearing kakis, a denim shirt with a light sport coat, and no ties. After handshakes and hugs (real men do sometimes hug), I notice Barry, who I always thought looked like Billy Mayfair on the PGA Tour, has less hair and has put on about fifteen pounds.

  Bill looks the same, a lean, mean, fighting machine; except his blond hair is now silver gray (must be the spook thing).

  Ted has put on some weight, lost some hair, and is wearing glasses, but overall they look good and in good shape. Of course one thing I couldn’t miss, they are all packing weapons.

  I ask the group as a whole, “Is there an invasion coming or do you always carry guns on a golf weekend?”

  “Sorry guy, occupational hazard. We’ll stick them in our bags,” Barry quickly replies and they stash their weapons.

  After getting their bags stowed in their rooms, I suggest we go get a sandwich and a beer at a local place called Crab Catchers. The restaurant and bar is located on the Intercoastal Waterway, a string of both man-made and natural channels that periodically dump into the Atlantic Ocean. It is a 3,000-mile highway for pleasure boats and barge traffic. The fellows lose their sport coats and put on golf shirts. We get into the Trailblazer and head into Little River. Funny thing is, I hear no sirens or see no Marines coming our way and it has been almost forty-five minutes since they made their grand entrance.

  On the way to dinner, I amuse them by giving the local Chamber of Commerce story on Little River.

  “It has been written that in 1791, President George Washington dined in Little River on his southern tour.”

  They smirk as I imitate a tour guide and continue. “He is one of the first in a long line of travelers who have visited this tiny village to savor the fresh seafood caught by a fleet of loc
al fisherman. (And yes, we’ve remained a tiny village because every time incorporation comes up on the ballot, it is voted down).”

  Barry only smiles but Bill and Ted laugh hysterically and ask for more.

  I continue, “Over the years, plenty of other northerners have found their way south. In fact, for a while the village got the name Yankee Town because of all the New Englanders who had moved here during the early days of the United States. Some of the folks in Little River swear that if you listen closely, you can detect a hint of British, Massachusetts, or perhaps Connecticut accent in the chatter of the fishermen down on the docks. Others believe the village’s unique personality comes from the combination of pirates, Indians, Spanish explorers, and shipwrecked sailors who founded the place back in the 1500s.”

  “Has any sunken treasure been found, Mr. Tour Guide?” Ted chides.

  Barry frowns and I ignore them. “And of course Little River’s real claim to fame is the annual Blue Crab Festival. Thousands of people come to the waterfront each spring to partake of Blue Crab and live music at the yearly weekend party.”

  Thank goodness, the restaurant comes into view. I can tell the guys have lost interest in the local history and their tour guide.

  We arrive at Crab Catchers and get a table out on the deck next to the waterway. Our waitress is Dee, a pretty, middle-aged, platinum blonde. She is trying to be helpful and take our order but she keeps looking back at a table in the middle of the deck where four loud mouths, maybe golfers, are sitting.

  “Sorry guys, I’ll be right back, I need to quiet someone down,” she says as she turns and moves toward the loud table.

  When she arrives, she says in a very soft voice and with a smile, “Gentlemen, if you could keep your voices down to a soft roar I would really appreciate it. I have several tables of people who are here for a nice quiet evening on the deck with a few drinks and some good food.”