P.G.A. Spells Death

by James Y. Bartlett

  When Ben Oswald had gotten the word in the control room that one of his announcers was dead in his greenside booth, he immediately threw the program back to New York. There were just five minutes left in our allotted time, so the IBS newsroom took over and did a recap of the day’s news, which mostly involved the announcers listing the many ways the President was personally destroying the country.

  Oswald arrived at the tower above the sixteenth green about the same time as the first cops. The Savannah PD had a number of officers assigned to the golf tournament for crowd control, traffic and the like, so when they caught the call, a couple of the senior officers on the grounds were sent over to see what was up.

  Benny the camera guy had closed down his equipment on the platform above my head, then climbed down the ladder and stuck his head inside the narrow space of the announcer’s station.

  “What the hell’s the matter with him?” he said, staring at the motionless figure of Parker Long.

  “He seems to be dead,” I said.

  “Jesus God,” the camera guy said, and he got out of there as fast as he could. I thought I heard him retching down below.

  Oswald’s curly head of hair thrust through the doorway next.

  “The fuck is going on?” he thundered as he entered. Then he looked at Parker closely. “Fuckin’ A,” he breathed. “He’s dead, isn’t he?”

  “I believe that’s what they call it, yes,” I said.

  Moments later, a very large black man, dressed in the dark navy field uniform of the Savannah police, climbed in through the doorway. He took a close look at Parker Long, felt for a pulse, shook his head, and reaching up to the microphone affixed to the epaulet on his left shoulder, muttered in a report with various number codes. Then he turned to look at us.

  “Who found him?” he said.

  “That’d be me,” I said. “The director…” I nodded at Ben standing next to me, “…couldn’t raise him late in the broadcast and sent me over to see what happened. I climbed up here and here he was.” I nodded at the body in the chair.

  “Did you touch anything?”

  “I took his headphones off,” I said. “Nothing else. Benny the camera guy stuck his head in. I think that’s him yorking in the bushes down there.”

  The officer nodded. Then he sniffed, his face scrunching up.

  “What’s that smell?” he asked.

  “Don’t know,” I said. “Smells like something burning. I noticed it when I got in here.”

  The cop pulled out his eight-inch flashlight and clicked it on. He flashed it around the desk, then bent over and shined it underneath.

  “See anything?” I asked.

  “Mmm,” the cop said. Noncommittal. We heard sirens outside. Two more cop cars had arrived.

  “Gentlemen,” the officer said, “I’m going to ask you two to leave the crime scene right now. But we’re going to need a full statement, so if you’d please stick around for a while until I get can an officer to take it, I’d appreciate it.”

  “Crime scene?” Oswald was stunned. “What crime? What do you think happened?”

  “Sir,” the cop said, “I don’t know what happened. We call it a crime scene until we know what happened. We will investigate. You guys are with the TV network, correct?”

  We nodded.

  “OK, then. I want you to go back to your TV compound and wait until I can get an officer over there for an interview. We’ll need to talk to the camera operator and anyone else who might have been in contact with the victim.”

  “Victim?” Oswald wasn’t giving up. “You think there was foul play here? Goddamit, I’m the executive producer and I need to know if ...”

  “Sir!” The officer was out of patience. “Please do what I asked. Return to your compound and wait for my officer. Is that clear?”

  It was. We climbed out of the tower and headed back to the compound of trailers.

  Oswald got on the phone to New York. IBS corporate would want to know that one of their announcers had died during a live broadcast. They would especially want to know if that death had been caused by someone else. I suspected that within half an hour, either some corporate lawyer from New York would be on a private jet heading for the Lowcountry, or, more likely, some white shoe lawyer from one of the leading firms in Atlanta, on retainer from IBS, would be heading our way. At least his Gulfstream could get down here in an hour or less. Just another reason to sit tight, say nothing and wait. That was the drill.

  Back at the trailer park, the rest of my colleagues gathered in bunches and buzzed as they gossiped and swapped theories about Parker Long’s death. Ben Oswald disappeared into the trailer that held his office on the road. After about an hour, Arnie Wasserman came into the main control room and announced that the police were about to begin taking statements from the crew. We were encouraged to tell them everything and anything we knew, especially anything we had seen that day concerning Parker Long. When he left, everyone went back to gossiping.

  Four cops walked in, including the large black guy who came out to look at the body in the tower. He saw me sitting quietly against the back wall and waved at me to follow. I could feel the eyes of everyone else follow as he led me out of the control room. He went over to the canteen trailer and paused at the top of the wooden stairs that had been set up for the crew to use.

  “We’ve taken over this space for the questioning,” he said. “One, they got coffee. Two, lots of chairs and tables.”

  “Good call,” I said. “Might be a few stray brownies or cookies laying around too.”

  “One can always hope,” he said and we went inside.

  The Savannah cops were pretty sophisticated. There was already a crew inside, setting up a video camera and a bright light on a tripod. The camera was aimed at an empty chair, next to another chair set up for the interrogator. They were apparently prepared to videotape all the crew as they were questioned.

  The big black officer led me over to the coffee urns and we each poured ourselves a cup. He saw me looking at his nameplate, pinned above his badge, which read Connor. He stuck out a beefy hand.

  “Delbert Connor,” he said. “Savannah PD.”

  I told him my name and what I did. The guy manning the video camera nodded at Delbert and we went over and took our seats. The lights were bright in my eyes, and a bit irritating.

  “Can you adjust the lights down a bit?” Delbert said. “We’re just asking questions here, not trying to torture anyone.”

  “Right, captain,” said the video guy, and he jumped up and adjusted the light a bit.

  “OK, Mr. Hacker,” Delbert said. “For the record, can you tell us your name, your occupation and how you came to discover the body of Mr. Parker Long?”

  I went through my story. Delbert nodded here and there. The video guy just looked at either the camera or the floor.

  “You told me before that you smelled something burning when you first went into the booth,” Delbert said. “Can you elaborate on that a bit?”

  “When I came into the announcer’s space and found that Parker was dead,” I said, “I was aware of a burning smell in the room.”

  “What kind of burning smell? Paper? Leaves? Firewood? ”

  “No,” I said. “More pungent that those. Kind of acrid. Like maybe something plastic was on fire. Chemical-like.”

  “Was there any smoke?”

  “No,” I said. “It was just an odor in the air. I think you caught it when you came in a few minutes later.”

  “Right,” the cop said. “Did you know the victim?”

  “Not very well,” I said. “I’ve only been with the network for a few weeks, and this is actually my first tournament on the crew. I met him last night for the first time when we all went out to dinner.”

  “I see,” the cop said. “So I expect you don’t know anyone who’d want to see Parker Long dead?”

  “No,” I said. “I’m afraid not.”

  “Any
one on the crew who was mad at him for any particular reason?”

  “Not that I know about,” I said. “He apparently was congenitally late. But that’s the only thing I heard.”

  “Explain.”

  I told them about the dinner the night before for “the talent,” and how everyone had joshed that Parker was always the last one down.

  “OK, thanks Mister Hacker,” Conner said. “That’ll do for now. Of course, we may have additional questions for you. You in town for the whole weekend?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I’m supposed to fly out Sunday night.” I paused. Then went for it.

  “You think he was murdered?” I asked.

  “What makes you think that?” Conner said.

  “Something about that acrid smell,” I said. “It’s the only unusual detail, except of course that Parker Long croaked. I mean, he was fine, doing his job, announcing golf…until he wasn’t. If someone got him, it was quick and it was silent. That burnt smell could have been wires. Electrocution. Somebody coulda zapped him, which could have caused that smell, and then removed the wires and skedaddled into the crowds. Pretty easy.”

  Delbert Connor looked at me with fresh interest, head cocked to one side.

  “That’s a pretty detailed analysis of a crime scene from a guy who covers the golf tour,” he said. “I think it’s a really good idea for you to stick around this weekend.”

  I laughed. “Before I got into golf,” I said, “I worked the police beat up in Boston. Saw dozens of crime scenes. Know the drill. Know cops. So I know you smelled what I smelled and you are thinking the same thing. You’ve probably combed the area beneath the tower for wires, burned or not. Plus dusted everything in that room for prints. You’ll only find mine on Parker’s headset, which I took off his ears. And you’ll find out from the rest of the crew that I was sitting in the control room for the entire time of the broadcast. But don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere. You need me, I’ll be right here.”

  Delbert Conner looked at me with that level cop stare. He was hard to read, as are most cops, but I knew he didn’t like me for the crime, if in fact there had been a crime.

  “Right,” he said. “Here’s my business card. You think of anything else, you call me. Thank you for your information.”

  He nodded with his head at the door and I left.

  11

  Later that night, I called home.

  “Hi, honey,” I said when Mary Jane picked up my call. “I think I’ve done it again.”

  “Oh, crap,” she said. “I don’t like the sound of that. Have you been arrested for homicide?”

  I laughed.

  “Have I ever been arrested for homicide?” I asked.

  “It’s been threatened once or twice if I recall,” she said. “Why don’t you tell me what happened.”

  So I did.

  “It’s a good thing I love you so much,” she said when I was finished. “Otherwise I might believe that you are a dead body attractor. So tell me, how many police officers have you pissed off today?”

  “Not a one,” I said, trying not to sound proud about it. “My man Delbert Connor actually likes me, I think.”

  “Well, that’s progress,” she said. “What are the chances that Officer Connor will let you leave town on Sunday to come home?”

  “I can’t see why he wouldn’t,” I said. “I didn’t do anything wrong. Ben Oswald sent me over to see why Parker wasn’t talking anymore. I discovered the reason: he was dead. We don’t know how or why, yet. So I think I’m in the clear. I’ve got about twenty alibis.”

  “Well, thank goodness for that,” she said. “The kids would miss you if you got locked up for a stretch in the Georgia state pen.”

  “You would too, right?”

  There was silence on the line. Which continued on longer than it should have. Finally, Mary Jane giggled.

  “Of course, you big jerk,” she said. “Come home. All is forgiven.”

  “I didn’t do anything,” said. “So I don’t need forgiveness.”

  “Well, maybe not for whatever happened to the dead guy,” she said. “But overall your slate is far from clean.”

  She made some kissing sounds and we hung up.

  I was thinking how lucky I was to have an understanding wife, sort of, when there was a rap at the door to my hotel room. I opened the door. Ben Oswald was standing there, nervously shifting back and forth and looking frazzled.

  “Hacker,” he said, “As you know, we’re down a man for the weekend. I want you to take over Parker’s spot on sixteen.”

  “Are you insane?” I said. “I’ve never done any broadcasting before. Well, except for yesterday. But all I did was whatever Shooter told me to.”

  “Jeezus, Hacker,” he said, shaking his head. “All I’m asking you to do is sit in the booth up there, watch what’s going on and talk about it. How hard can that be? And I’ll be in your ear the whole time, telling you what to say and when to say it.”

  “Why don’t you just hire a talking parrot then?” I said. “Be easier than trying to train me.”

  “If I could, I would,” he said. “But we’ve got a broadcast tomorrow afternoon, and we’re up against it. I need someone, and you’re it.”

  “Swell,” I said. “This has got disaster written all over it.”

  “Look,” he said, “I just put in a call to Billy Joe Bosworth. He’s filled in for us a couple of times in the last year or two. He’s a little corn pone, but he’s not bad. The viewers seem to like him. If he can get over here from Texas tomorrow, I’ll put him with you at sixteen. Between the two of you, we might be able to pull this off.”

  I knew Billy Joe, of course. So did every golf fan. The Boz. He was from San Angelo, Texas, which as everyone knows, is where the fictional Tin Cup was from. But unlike Kevin Costner, Billy Joe had an honest-to-God Texas twang and the country-boy persona to go with it. He had played the Tour for about ten years, won two or three events, and charmed the socks off fans with his countrified similes and yee-haw enthusiasm. But I could see Oswald’s strategy clearly: with Billy Joe’s nonstop observations and my own meager contributions, we might just be able to make it through a weekend of golf without looking stupid or ignorant.

  “Yippee-o-ky-yay,” I said. “I’ll give it my best shot.”

  Oswald looked relieved.

  “Great,” he said. “Thanks.”

  He turned and walked away down the hall. I closed the door. “And good night to you, too,” I said to myself.

  I sat on the bed and thought for a while. First, I thought of all the things that could go wrong. I knew the TV guys did lots of preparation. Each week, the announcers all were given thick notebooks with facts and figures about the players in the field, and statistics about how they had played the course at Plantation Pines in the past, and personal anecdotes they had collected over their years of experience. I also knew, based in part on my observations while watching the production over the last couple days, that the “talent” was called that because they were good at talking while thinking on the fly. And having Ben Oswald or one of the assistant directors yapping in their ears the whole time. I was flying cold and alone here, Billy Joe or no Billy Joe. I felt my stomach do a little nervous flip-flop.

  Then I thought about what could happen if we pulled this off. Maybe IBS would hire me full time. That would go a long way towards helping with the new house problem waiting for me back in Boston. And it would make me a TV star. People would come up to me in public and ask for my autograph. Golfers would slap me on the back and tell me how brilliant I was. Women would throw room keys at me, or maybe their underwear. Hey…it could happen.

  My reverie was interrupted by another rap on the door. I opened it. Ben Oswald again.

  “One more thing,” he said. “Your existing contract is still in effect. So in addition to this new assignment, I need you to keep doing those history segments. I liked the one we ran today. New York says the initial feedback was positive.”


  “Aw, gee, stop all the compliments…you’re gonna make me blush,” I said. “I take it I’m still getting paid the same amount?”

  He looked at me, appraisingly.

  “I’ll talk to New York,” he said. “If this works out, we can probably do a contractual addendum. Get you a little more.”

  “Swell,” I said. “My newborn son will appreciate that.”

  “You got a new kid?” he said. “I didn’t know that.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “He was born last October. I was two under par on the thirteenth green at Brookline when Mary Jane went into labor.”

  That made him smile. “Hope you finished the goddam round,” he said. “Two under at Brookline ain’t something you quit on.” But he was just kidding. I could tell by how his eyes went a little soft around the edges. “I remember where I was when my two were born, too.”

  “I didn’t know you had kids,” I said.

  “Yeah, well, we’re not that close,” he said. “And they’re mostly grown up now. I wasn’t a very good father, being away most weekends doing TV shows.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I expect that would be hard. But I’m sure they understand.”

  “I’m not sure they do,” he said. “But there’s not a goddam thing I can do about it now.”

  He turned and walked away again. Mister Happiness.

  The next day, I got out to the golf course by late morning. I’m not sure why: there isn’t much one can do to practice for talking about golf. Announcers don’t go out to the putting green and repeat “Hoo, boy, Johnnie, that putt had a little extra sauce on it” about six times, playing with emphasizing different words to see which one sounds best. At least, I had never seen nor heard of one.

  But I did run into Van Collins in the canteen. He was munching on a salad and sipping some iced tea while he read the sports page of the Atlanta Journal-Constitution. I grabbed a cup of coffee and sat down next to him.