Death is a Two-Stroke Penalty

by James Y. Bartlett

  The bag area suddenly went silent as the other caddies stared over at us.

  “Okay, Jocko,” I said. “Lighten up, man. I’m just trying to find out what happened to JohnTurnbull the other night. Thought you might be able to tell me something.”

  “I’ll tell you what happened,” Jocko said. “That self-righteous son of a bitch drove himself off that bridge and got squished, and that’s too goddam bad for him.”

  “Well, maybe he did and maybe he didn’t” I said.

  “Meaning what?” Jocko finally let go of my shoulders.

  “Meaning someone could have thrown him off that bridge.”

  “And you think it was me?” His sneer was back.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Was it?”

  Jocko didn’t say anything. He just looked at me and laughed. I wasn’t sure what Bulldog O’Shaunessy would have done about that. So I turned and left.’

  Chapter 13

  TO THE SURPRISE OF no one, the Cannon Carolinas Open began as scheduled. Perfectly understandable. There were contracts involved. The sponsors had a contract with the PGA Tour that called for a golf tournament. The tour, in turn, had a contract with the television network that called for six hours of programming on the weekend. The 150 players didn’t have a contract, per se, but they all had ponied up several hundred dollars in entry fees and they expected to be able to compete for the million-dollar purse. John Turnbull was yesterday’s news, and yesterday’s news never got in the way of fulfilling a bona fide contract.

  There is a very palpable difference in the air when a golf tournament is being played. During the practice rounds and pro-ams, everything is relaxed, informal, not so serious. Players stroll the fairways, swapping stories and jokes with each other, their caddies, and even the fans lining the ropes.

  But on Thursday, the morning the event begins for real, the atmosphere changes. Suddenly the game becomes ultra-serious business. The tension becomes real, hanging over the golf course like an early morning haze. The players’ faces show the strain of concentration, their gaits become purposeful. There are no wasted motions, no wasted steps. The fans outside the ropes pick up on this tangible tension, and they fall into deathly, rocklike silence whenever a player begins his preparation to make a shot. That silence, in turn, helps feed the tension in the air.

  The outward, atmospheric tension in the air, which had always defined for me the thrill of professional golf, was mirrored today by my own inner tensions. I was disturbed that John Turnbull’s death could be so easily put aside. And I was still reeling after my hackneyed interview with Jocko Moore.

  I made my way back to the press room where my compatriots, few in number at this early hour of the day, were munching free pastries and doughnuts, sipping hot coffee and perusing the morning’s newspapers.

  There were two messages for me tacked on the framed message board. One was from Lieutenant Bert Ravenel and the other from Jean MacGarrity. I grabbed a cup of coffee and a jelly doughnut – I hadn’t eaten anything yet this morning, after all — and headed for my desk. While I ate my doughnut, I placed the two pink message slips down on my desk and stared at them. Eeeny, meeny, miney, moe. I licked some jelly off my dialing finger and called the policeman.

  “Ravenel,” he snapped when they put my call through.

  “Top of the morning, lieutenant,” I said. “How goes the crime-busting this morning?”

  “Ah, Mister Hacker,” the lieutenant drawled. “Amateur sleuth, lord of the press box, former beat reporter who used to follow the cops around the innards of humanity in the big city...how are we this fine morning?”

  “Been checking up on me, I see.”

  “Oh, yes, my fine friend,” he said. “I probably know more about you than your own mother.”

  “I’m happy for you,” I said. “You calling to tell me my batting average in Little League, or do you have something interesting that pertains to our little circumstance?”

  “Well, now that you mention it, I did get the preliminary report late last night from the M.E.,” he said. He paused and I could hear him shuffling some papers on his desk.

  “And – ” I prompted, trying not to sound overanxious.

  “Time of death estimate sometime between midnight and three A.M. And, the coroner says Mr. Turnbull died of internal injuries suffered by falling off a bridge onto rocks and by having a heavy object, likely the golf cart, thereupon fall upon him.”

  “Gee,” I said, “You think? Guess that rules out the death by saber-tooth tiger theory I had working.”

  Ravenel chuckled. “I really ought to hang up and let you go pound sand,” he said. “But you did point out the bit about the tire marks.”

  “Ah, inspector,” I said, “I was only doing my civic duty.” “Yeah, bullshit,” he growled. “Anyway, the coroner did find one other little tidbit of interesting datum.” “Which would be —?”

  “Which is that John Turnbull had a major league buzz on when he died.”

  “A what?” I was incredulous.

  “He was zonked. Blotto. Drugged to the gills.” Ravenel seemed to be enjoying this. “Had enough Quaaludes in him to slow down a rampaging rhino in heat.”

  “That’s...that’s absurd,” I stammered. “John Turnbull wasn’t a drug abuser. He was as straight an arrow as there is. There must be some mistake.”

  “Ummm-hmmm,” Ravenel said. “Where have I heard that before? Oh, yeah...every time some straight arrow dies from an overdose. ‘How could that happen? He was such a great person. Never touched the stuff.’ Well, John Turnbull touched the stuff. At least once. And it probably killed him.”

  I was thinking fast. “Well, at least you’ve now got some juice to open the investigation on this case,” I said. “I mean, you can’t claim this was an accidental death now.”

  “Wanna bet?” Ravenel sounded suddenly weary. “Listen, Hacker. The facts I have in front of me tell me exactly what happened. Turnbull went out somewhere after his Bible class thing and got totally drugged up. As blitzed as he must have been according to this report, he was probably out of his mind. He found a golf cart, started driving it, missed the turn on the bridge, and ...boom! Unfortunate, tragic, but just an accident caused by carelessness and inebriation.”

  “But what about the lack of tire marks on the curb?” I insisted. “That’s gotta tell you that Turnbull’s cart didn’t slam into that curbing, but was slowly and carefully lifted over and pushed down the other side. How did Turnbull manage that if he was drugged up and driving fast? How does a guy on ’ludes carefully drive his cart over a six-inch curb and then manage to beat the thing to the ground so it can land on him?”

  I was insistent now. “Sorry, lieutenant, but the accident theory just doesn’t fit. I think you have a murder on your hands.”

  He let out his breath in a rush.

  “Now listen to me, goddamit,” he said. “Do you realize what kind of shit would come down on me if I tried to make a lot of noise on this case? First of all, I’d hafta close down the goddam golf tournament, which would piss off everyone from the chief of police to the governor of the great state of South Carolina. Then I’d hafta interview all the players, and their wives, and their caddies and God knows who else...all the tournament people and resort people...in short, about half the goddam organized Free World. Believe it or not, we got other crimes happening right here in beautiful Charleston almost every day, and I don’t have near enough men to handle this job. And to do it right would mean keeping everyone here for the next two or three weeks, which would mean canceling the next two goddam golf tournaments, which would make a couple more governors and TV networks and God knows shit else pissed off at me. No,” he concluded, “I ain’t gonna make that call unless I am pretty goddam sure about it, and the fact that this bozo had a few pills in him when he bought the farm ain’t enough to push me out on that limb.”

  “C’mon, Ravenel,” I said hotly. “We both know there are a lot of things that aren’t adding up here. And the drugs
in John Turnbull’s body is one of the biggest. I can’t believe you’re not doing anything with this. I could go public with what I know and force the issue, you know.”

  “Which you won’t,” he said quietly, “’Cause you’ve got dog- else to go on.” And we both knew he was right. There weren’t too many hard facts at play in Turnbull’s death – just supposition and unanswered questions.

  “Besides, who said I wasn’t doing anything?” Ravenel said. “Officially, cause of death is an apparent accident. Unofficially, the file is still open and I’m tiptoeing around. And that’s off the record.”

  “Right lieutenant,” I said, my anger gone. “I hear you. Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Go back to writing about golfers and golf and keep your nose out of my business. The last thing in the world I need is some dumbass reporter leaving footprints all over this case.”

  I tried to think of a suitable retort, but had to settle for putting the phone down kinda hard. I felt bad for the phone.

  I next dialed the number Jean MacGarrity had left for me. She answered on the first ring, and her hello had a tremulous tone.

  “Hey Jean, Hacker here,” I said. “You holding up okay?” “No,” she whispered. It didn’t sound like she was, but pushed back my natural instinct to feel sorry for her and tried to picture myself as Bulldog O’Shaunessy instead.

  “I keep asking myself why,” she said tearfully.

  “You’d be better off asking yourself who,” I said.

  “What do you mean?” The teary quality of her voice changed suddenly.

  “What I mean is the cops are thinking somebody pushed John off that bridge,” I lied. “It wasn’t you was it?”

  There was silence on the line. “They don’t really think that, do they?” she said finally. “I mean –”

  “Kid,” I said coldly, “I’ve seen people blown away for whole lot less. Like who was supposed to pay for an ice cream cone. Or because they didn’t like the television program on the tube. You got a prime, grade-A, and reasonable motive, sweetheart, and sooner or later, the cops are gonna come ask you the same question. So...did you?”

  This time she laughed, nervously. “Shit, Hacker,” she said. “If I was gonna kill Johnny, I would have cut his nuts off, not thrown him off a bridge in his golf cart.”

  “Did John Turnbull ever do drugs?” I asked. I thought Bulldog would have admired the way I changed direction abruptly, trying to keep her off guard.

  Jean just laughed again. “Oh, get serious, Hacker,” she said. “That guy was so straight it’s a wonder his spine didn’t slip out his ass every time he stood up. It’s funny,” she mused. “We talked about drugs once. He said he couldn’t understand how some guys could play the game and do drugs at the same time.”

  “Are there many?” I asked.

  “Oh, honey, golfers are people, too,” she said. “People with money to burn, most of ‘em. Yeah, I’ve been to a few cut parties in my day.”

  “Cut parties?”

  “Friday nights, Hacker dear,” she said. “Guys who’ve played like shit and missed the cut for the weekend. They’re young, famous and have more money than they know what to do with. And they’re fearless. They don’t have to be anywhere until Monday or Tuesday. They know they can blow a little coke, smoke some weed and party like mad and still have time to come down and get their heads on straight before the next event. Of course, if they start missing a lot of cuts, then they don’t have the money to buy the shit, anyway.”

  “Interesting,” I said. “So where did you go after you left the bar the other night?” I was getting better at this Bulldog stuff.

  “I went to find Johnny,” she said. “You suggested it, remember?”

  Oh, crap. Bulldog had probably never counseled anyone to go kill somebody.

  “Did you find him?”

  “Oh, yeah. I caught him just as he was coming out of his Bible class,” she said. “I suggested we go for a walk on the golf course.”

  “On the golf course?” I said stupidly.

  She laughed again. “That was my idea,” she said. “I just wanted to get him away from everybody else and get a few things off my chest. I thought it would be a nice, quiet, private place to talk. He suggested we go down on the beach, instead.”

  “And?”

  “And we never went anywhere,” she said. “He noticed I was a little drunk, but he seemed preoccupied about something else. We started towards the beach, but then he stopped and said, no, he had something he really needed to take care of. Said he didn’t feel all that well. Said he’d talk to me later, but he had to go.”

  “Just like that?” I asked.

  “Just like that,” Jean said. “I stood there, more than half drunk, abandoned, alone on the sidewalk, and I watched him walk away. I realized it was all over. It all kind of ran out of me in a whoosh. I figured he had a case of the guilts and was running home to Blondie, and that was it. Finito. I went home and slept like a baby. Then I woke up and found out he was dead and –” Her voice trailed off sadly.

  “Well,” I said, “If he was heading for home, he never made it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He never went home that night,” I said. “Are you sure that’s where he was heading?”

  She thought for a minute. “Well, I’m not positive,” she said. “He ran off the way we had come...back towards the clubhouse...but I assumed he was going back to his villa. It’s the same direction. I don’t know where else he might have gone. His Bible class was over and God knows there’s not much else to do around here at night.”

  “You said he told you he wasn’t feeling well,” I prompted.

  “Well, shit Hacker, I’m sorry,” she shot back. “I didn’t stop to give him a complete physical. He just said he felt a little funny. I really didn’t give a shit at the time.”

  “What time was all this?” I asked.

  “God, who knows,” she said. “I couldn’t have read my watch if I thought of it. All I know is that it was night. The sky was black and the crickets were singing. Time? Who the hell knows?” She paused. “Got any more third degree for me, officer?” she chided. “You still think I’m a murder suspect?”

  “Naw, you’re not the type,” I said. “But it sure would have helped if you’d taken someone to bed with you that night. Good alibi.”

  She started swearing at me, so I hung up. Two for two.

  Chapter 14

  LATE THAT AFTERNOON, I got my rented box-on-wheels out and moved it from my villa down to the designated press parking lot. For most of the year, the designated press parking lot was a weed-choked field waiting to be developed into more condos. But from the far end of the field, I was able to get a good view of the cart barn entrance, where the caddies were gathered.

  I brought along a couple of golf magazines and a can of Coke, and with one eye on the cart barn, where guys would come in from their rounds, store the clubs, towel off and spend some time relaxing, I wasted an hour studying Bob Toski’s latest theory, which had something to do with maintaining a constant wrist angle for better control. It reinforced my long-held opinion that the surest way to seriously screw up your golf game is to read the instructional crap published every month in the golf magazines. It’s simple mathematics, really. Every month, the three major golf magazines (and countless minor ones) publish a new issue. Because their marketing studies indicate that the main reason golfers buy these magazines is to pick up quick tips for their games, each of these magazines runs at least three or four articles per issue on how to hit a golf ball. That’s 108 articles a year, or 1,080 articles every ten years. I’m sorry, but there are not 1,080 different elements involved in hitting a golf ball. I’m positive that if someone took the trouble to chart each piece of golf advice published in the golf magazines every year, they’d find all kinds of contradictory suggestions. One month they’d be telling you to keep the right elbow up; the next, it’d be vital that the elbow be kept down.r />
  The net result of learning by golf magazine is that either your brain turns to mush and you give the game up for good, or you try to religiously follow each tidbit of swing advice and your game gets so fouled up that you keep buying the magazines looking for an answer. Were I a conspiracy theorist, I would suspect a Communist-inspired plot at work on the part of the magazine editors to keep the golfers of the free world down- trodden.

  I was fantasizing about a black helicopter attack on Trum- bull, Connecticut when I finally spotted what I had been waiting for at the caddie area. I wonder if Bulldog O’Shaunessy gets the same kind of excited rush. A big, old Chevy station wagon, late eighties vintage, chugged up to the cart barn entrance, gagged noisily and died in a puff of smoke. The driver blew the horn and then jumped out. She was young, short, a bit on the stocky side, and dressed in the latest punk-rock chic. Her jet-black dyed locks were flat and straight, hanging down in the style of Wednesday Addams. She wore a black leather jacket, despite the afternoon heat, over a daringly low-cut and lacy white T-shirt. Torn blue jeans, boots and lots and lots of jangly silver hanging from neck and ears. Like, awesome, man, y’know? I figured her for Jocko’s college-age friend.

  I was right. In answer to the Chevy’s horn, three caddies came strolling out of the cart barn, dressed for a night on the town in their usual uniform of blue jeans, semi-clean shirts and no caddie overalls. Jocko Moore was one of the three, and he came up to the punkette and gave her ass a squeeze and a huge sloppy kiss. Classy guy.

  They all piled back into the car and the punk fired up the engine. After a minute or two of starter-raping, the thing finally turned over with a husky roar. A huge cloud of bluish smoke belched out the tailpipe. I watched Jocko, who was sitting in the front, pull something out from behind his ear, light it, take a hit and pass it to his buddies in the back seat. Probably not a Marlboro, I guessed.