It is a beautiful sunny morning and the ocean breeze is damp but invigorating. He carefully places his bags in his car, each tightly adjacent to the next. Entering the office he sees the clerk and informs him he is checking out and places his key on the counter, two inches from the front edge and perpendicular to the register. He reaches for his wallet. This will be a cash transaction; he left a large deposit upon checking in. He impatiently waits while the clerk scribbles on his papers and fusses with the calculator and finally opens the cash register.
“Thank you, Mr. Slocum. Here is the balance of your deposit.”
He takes the cash from the clerk and as he compulsively straightens each bill he winces at the filth and condition of the currency, wishing he had time to wash the bills. He turns up the corners and presses out the creases. He checks to make certain the presidents are upright and facing to the left. When he is satisfied they are in order, he slides them into his wallet and turns to leave.
Inside the car, he carefully arranges each item on the dash and front seat; each has its own place. When the car is sufficiently warmed up, he pulls out of the parking lot and heads for the highway.
FBI Regional Office, Los Angeles, California, Thursday, March 21
Chapter 9
Good morning, Director Bachman,” says Larry Burke as Tom Bachman rushes past his aide’s desk. “I’ve scanned your incoming mail and flagged one from Phoenix as important.”
“Yes, thank you Larry, I’m aware of the email. I’ve been on the phone with John Cunningham this morning.” The Deputy Director, Tom Bachman is middle-aged, trim and handsome, well-dressed and respected. He pours a cup of coffee, sits down and opens his laptop.
The email outlines the case. Since the tour is now in Carlsbad and will be moving north, the local authorities should be advised, etc., etc. Bachman quickly grasps the concerns and how it relates to golf and the LPGA tour. He opens the attached files and starts reading, studies the photos and begins to put the crime together in his head.
Bachman knows the LPGA tour is in Carlsbad today, March 21, through Sunday the 24th and he decides to assign a follow up agent to intervene if the suspect is headed to Carlsbad. He presses the extension number of Agent Louis Schein and gets his voice mail. “Lou, this is Tom. Stop by my office ASAP, I’ve got a file I want you to take a look at. I’m forwarding it to you now.”
Thirty minutes later, Lou Schein taps on Bachman’s door and steps in. Lou is a rather serious man, dark eyes, and blonde hair cut close to the scalp. He wears tailored suits and pastel shirts with conservative ties. He is above average in height, one of the few in the office, and in great shape for a guy his age; most guess mid-forties but he is fifty-one. He and Tom Bachman have an ongoing office chess game and both love to win.
Bachman is on the phone, and raises his eyebrows in acknowledgment when he sees Lou. He motions him inside and points to the coffee pot on the cabinet beside the window. Lou shakes his head no and sits down in one of the leather chairs facing the desk, occupying his time retrieving the files on his handheld.
When Bachman concludes the call, he closes his phone and turns his attention to Lou Schein. “Thank you for coming so quickly, Lou. Have you had a chance to review the files I sent?”
Lou pulls up a photo of the torso and stares at it. He is a serious character, having been with the bureau since he was fresh out of college. He has handled many cases during his career, including an unusual number of serial murder cases. He has a wife and two children, both in college, and neglects them when work takes priority.
“Phoenix thinks it’s a serial and may be headed our way.” says Bachman. “I’ll give you full authority on this one. The killer is possibly a professional golfer, wouldn’t that make some press? The LPGA tour is in California for most of the month, so we need to get on this immediately. I’ve read through it, but when you have it laid out, let me know. Trouble is we have very little to go on here. I don’t want this guy playing his game in California. When you read the coroner’s report you will see the strong involvement with golf. In my opinion, that is our starting point. Take what people you need, get the word out.”
“I’ll get back to you within the next few hours. Bishop to H5.” Schein heads out the door. Tom Bachman studies his chess board and moves Schein’s bishop.
Lou Schein is a Section Chief, giving him supervisory status over cases in the hands of agents with lower ratings. As he walks back to his office, he is already assembling a team to assist him with this case. Serial murder cases have always intrigued him; he is superb at interpreting the machinations of a twisted brain. He is already troubled with the notion this particular killer might be traveling; it will make it harder to catch him. He might strike in Carlsbad, but then the LPGA tour is playing in Rancho Mirage. He and his agents might have to follow the tour until they apprehend the killer. Lou is an avid golfer; his understanding of the game will be helpful, in fact essential, if he is to unravel the mind of this madman.
At his desk, Schein accesses the Phoenix files from his PC. One push of a button from a computer sends vital files and photos to cellphone, notebooks and PC’s. Even though Lou enjoys the quick electronic availability of data, he still likes the feel of the files, the smell of the photos, the ability to turn pages; he is stuck between the world of old school paperwork and the ever changing computer age.
He carefully studies the crime scene photos and begins to read the files. It doesn’t take long to see the characteristic traits of the serial murderer. The thoroughness of the crime, the lack of evidence, the elaborate construction of the scene, a motive vivid to the killer but obscure to anyone else. It is all there.
He reads Dr. Cochran’s statement three times and then delves into the autopsy report. He is impressed with her insight and expertise and wishes for some way she can continue to work the case.
Totally engrossed, Schein already has a sense for the killer. He takes particular note of the newspaper clipping. The letters in the names of the players are not recklessly scribbled over; each is neatly blocked out. In fact, it is startling how uniformly each letter has been covered. This killer is compulsive, but of course most of them are.
He examines the photos of the scorecard and notes that he himself would have entered his own score much the same in a game of match play. In his experience, he believes there should be a taunt in the evidence somewhere, the glimpse of a clue. Every serial killer wants to believe he is outsmarting his competition, so much so that he will provide assistance. The arrogance is genuine; serials have moved outside the boundaries of normalcy, morality and the law. He rereads the files, looking for the clue. Perhaps a reference to the tournament, a name? Schein is confident he will see the sign.
His computer clock informs him it’s lunchtime and he is beginning to feel the pangs of hunger. He raises his head, stares out the window and rubs his face and eyes, leaning back in his chair. As he spins around to face his desk, he sees Special Agent Roger Payne. SA Payne is standing hesitantly on the other side, clearly wondering if he should enter or knock. Schein motions to him to come in.
“Roger, you and I should have lunch. I have a new case here and I’d like you to join my team. I’m sending the files to you now.”
“That would be great, sir.”
SA Roger Payne is a recent transfer to the Los Angeles office having been assigned twelve weeks ago. Lou Schein liked him from the start. He is a healthy young man, over six feet, stocky, played football in college. He seems a little too selfconscious but it makes him cautious, and Section Chief Lou Schein approves. Roger’s engaging smile causes one to want to vote for him to be prom king or congressman; he has classic good looks, light complexion and dark hair; broad smile with perfect teeth. He could be a poster boy to attract young men to the FBI.
As they walk out of the office, Payne accesses his email and opens the file Lou sent. A cursory perusal piques his interest and he is anxious to know more.
The men walk the three blocks to Lou Schein’s fa
vorite restaurant, a small, well-preserved 1940s era brick building with a flickering neon sign that says “Eats.” The staff greets Agent Schein, and as he heads to his favorite booth, the waiter is behind him with his customary glass of iced tea.
Schein prefers to sit with his back to a wall, never a door, and face the street windows and front door. He motions Roger Payne to the other side of the booth. The waiter places the iced tea in front of Schein and glances at Payne who orders a Coke.
The men spend little time studying the menu before the waiter is back with Payne’s drink. Schein orders today’s special, braised tenderloin and salad; Payne orders a cheeseburger and fries. While waiting for the food, Agent Schein begins to fill his companion in on the details of the case.
“All we have thus far, to our knowledge, is one crime. In my preliminary review of the file, I believe the killer fits the profile of a serial killer. He mutilates the body but ends up transforming the victim’s torso into the representation of golf green and that, my friend, will be our route to catching him, if he is in fact traveling with the LPGA tour.”
“Right,” said Payne, nodding at the waiter as he brought their meals.
“The tour is holding two or three tournaments in California this month, and one starts today right down the freeway in Carlsbad. I’d like you and probably Agents Gibson and Phillips in on this. Gibson is a solid investigator and detail-oriented. Phillips is a master with the computer and compiling data. You have a background in psychology and criminal science.” Lou glances up from his tenderloin, “Do you play golf, Roger?”
“I sure do, sir! I’ve got a three or four handicap. I try to play at least once or twice a week.” His voice shows his emotions; a little embarrassment, a lot of excitement. “The killer seems obsessed with golf, and as you say, knowing the game is essential to understanding his game.”
Lou smiles at his coworker’s enthusiasm. “The LPGA is not going to like this, so we are going to have to be pretty discreet with our investigation as it will require asking some very personal questions. Consider all the people who travel with the LPGA, and we’re facing a monumental task. I’m sure the LPGA will be opposed to any press, actually in our favor. We don’t want to stroke the killer’s ego. At some point, we may be able to anticipate him and then our public information officer will have to issue a press statement.”
The agents continue their discussion through lunch, then over coffee. Schein is pleased and impressed by the questions young Agent Payne is asking. Neither man says much as they walk back to the office, each doing his own thinking and studying the files on their phones.
Schein tells Payne to immediately begin organizing the team, and he will inform Phillips and Gibson of their assignments. The four agents will outline the case and then Schein will assign other teams as needed.
Later, Lou Schein sits at his desk and again considers the Phoenix PD coroner. He is aware of openings for forensic scientists and a coroner’s position in the LA office. Dr. Nancy Cochran had signed the reports “assistant” coroner, so she is subordinate to someone. Perhaps she is dissatisfied or not essential to her department.
He decides to enlist Tom Bachman in a campaign to get Dr. Cochran assigned to the Los Angeles office of the FBI. Lou Schein wants her on his case.
Carlsbad, California, Thursday, March 21
Chapter 10
The man is in a congenial mood as he drives the coast. The trip has been pleasant. The ocean is two things to him. Its darkness and abysmal quality remind him of his recurring nightmares; then on days like today, its blue expanse produces a certain clarity and focus.
He checks into a nice hotel between Carlsbad and Oceanside. He requests a top floor room with an ocean view and surprisingly gets it; he cannot tolerate the sound of footsteps above him. He is pleased to find the room is equipped with a microwave and refrigerator.
After checking the room for cleanliness, he takes off his cap, relieved he doesn’t have to hide. He opens the balcony door and stands just inside the room running his fingers through his shoulder-length hair, gazing out onto a beach not yet developed.
The man opens his briefcase, unrolls the sheath of knives and inserts his fingers into one of the trophy pouches. He sits at the foot of the bed and is holding the baby food jar as one might hold a precious piece of glasswork. The first hole trophies seem so lonely being just two. He whispers in a cooing voice, “Don’t be sad. Soon, very soon, you’ll have company.” His eyes are blinking rapidly and his dilated pupils reveal his sexual excitement. He slows his breathing and tries to focus.
He studies the contents of the jar and is pleased that the alcohol is doing its job. The nipples look fresh and fleshy, but the hue of the liquid has darkened somewhat, and that disturbs him. As he swirls the liquid and watches them bounce off the side of the jar, he is reminded of times in the past when he had done the same with other trophies. He remembers how proud he was when he added a blue to his collection of canine eyes. He really must make time to stop in Chicago. He feels intact when all his trophies are together.
He makes a mental list of all the tasks he must complete before the second hole. Everything must be in perfect order. The Navigator needs an oil change and must be washed and waxed, which means he has to unload all his belongings. He tucks his hair back under his cap and leaves the room. His car must be empty before others are allowed to service it. He unloads his golf clubs and other equipment first and takes them to the room, then returns to the car for his luggage.
He spends the next ninety minutes reorganizing his room: golf bags conveniently staged but not in the way. Soiled clothing separated to be sent out, notes attached to each garment with instruction about treatment, detergent and starch. He organizes the refrigerator, trying to decide the perfect spot for the new jar of mayonnaise.
He tightens the lid to the limit of his strength after submerging the baby food jar and feels confident that no one will discover it. He makes certain the foods he purchased are in sequential order when he needs them. He does not want to be reaching for the lunchmeat and cheese before he has the bread.
He is satisfied with the room and realizes he is hungry. Tucking his hair under his cap and grabbing his briefcase, the man takes a quick glance around the room, opens the door and hangs the “Do Not Disturb” sign on the doorknob.
Knowing the room is in order and his belongings are safe provides a kind of shield that spreads over him and protects him from harm. Out of character for the solitary man he has become, he greets other guests while walking to his car.
He doesn’t need to hide from anyone; no one knows about the match except him…maybe the police, but he’s not certain. Surely the first hole has been discovered, if not by chance then by odor. He muses about the 3 iron he hit out the patio door on the second tee. He couldn’t follow the ball in the dark but knows he hit it straight and well. It had been a fine beginning to the second hole.
He spots a couple of fast food restaurants up the road but they don’t appeal to him. He often wonders what the employees do to the food while they prepare it; he knows he would do something disgusting simply because he is repulsed by people. There aren’t enough sanitary wipes in the world to make places like those clean enough to patronize. He decides to go to Carlsbad, find a nice restaurant and hopefully get the car serviced.
In Carlsbad, he leaves the Navigator at a service center which has given him a two hour time frame. Briefcase in hand, he spots a small Italian café with outside seating, and he waits to be shown to a small corner table with a bistro umbrella.
He cleans his hands with a sanitary wipe and then examines the glasses and silverware already set on the table; he uses the linen napkin to give them an extra wipe.
He peruses golf advertisements he has picked up at the hotel while he drinks a glass of Chianti and waits for his lunch. He knows he wants to play La Costa Resort and Spa in Carlsbad, but he has to first make the plans which will give him a jump on the second hole. He can leave for Texas a day or two
after Rancho Mirage. The planning process is so involved he becomes distracted and is startled when his food arrives. He asks for another glass of Chianti and again cleans his hands before eating.
Lunch is enjoyable, the sea breeze is gently blowing, and after checking his watch he sees he has enough time for another glass of wine. He sits back to enjoy the afternoon and think about the match. He decides on his schedule and in what order he will play the two courses.
He rises after paying the check and realizes he is a little tipsy, finds the men’s room and splashes his face with cold water. He studies himself in the mirror; his face, eyes and expression are, as always, unreadable. No one can guess what he is thinking.
He picks up the Navigator and is pleased with the attention to detail with which the vehicle was cleaned. It is late afternoon and he craves a shower. He travels back to his hotel.
He knows his clubs and equipment are in immaculate condition. He has decided to play La Costa in the morning, take the Titleist forged set and his 1 iron. He is exhilarated at the thought of playing there; it is essential to stay in the fairway. He remembers watching a televised LPGA match where one of the players had faded a long drive into a rocky hill; the ball had ricocheted and disappeared. Such an outcome is unacceptable for him.
With whom will he end up playing? He smiles as he drives back to his room.
FBI Regional Office, Los Angeles, California, Thursday, March 22
Chapter 11
Agent Schein walks into Conference Room D. Payne is staring at the crime monitor screen. Agent Bruce Phillips, a smallish, average looking guy who wears frameless glasses is sitting next to Agent Mary Gibson. Agent Gibson is a tall, fit woman, and Lou is glad to see her on this team. She is a heavy smoker and some of her coworkers find it a disagreeable habit, but she makes no apologies. Her attention to detail has earned her the respect of her colleagues. Lou asked for Phillips more for his intellect than his investigative prowess; he is a premier researcher and partnered with a computer the man is pure genius.
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