Murder on the Front Nine

by Steve McMillen

  In the Army, I trained to be ready for all situations but this guy Stan is one scary dude. He has been down some unmarked channels in his life.

  I return to where Jimmy is going through our large bucket of range balls like Machine Gun Kelly. I have asked him many times to take his time and think about each shot.

  Jimmy looks back at me and says, “I thought you two were going to get into it over there. What did he say?”

  “He did not like me watching him. He seems paranoid to me and somehow he knew I was Special Forces.

  “Do you think he’s the one?”

  “Jimmy, that guy is one frightening person. I think my army buddies were correct to put him at the top of their list.”

  Stan finishes his small bucket of balls and walks toward us. Just before he turns and goes over to the golf course he stops. He does have balls and I don’t mean golf balls.

  “Hey army, watch your back. And that goes for your friend also.”

  Jimmy starts to move forward but I put my arm out to stop him. I don’t think he likes being threatened.

  “No problem Seal, we’re covered. Who’s watching your back?”

  Stan’s face doesn’t change expression. He turns and walks away.

  After a few minutes, our adrenalin slows down and Jimmy’s face comes back to its natural color. He goes back to taking out his frustrations on the range balls and I proceed up the tee line toward Steve and Ken.

  Before I leave, I say to Jimmy, “Keep your eyes open, big guy.”

  “No problem, I’ve got you covered.”

  I stop along the way and talk to several other people on the tee line just to keep my golf teacher image intact. As I near Steve and Ken’s location, they both turn and look at me at about the same time. I don’t believe either one of them recognize me.

  Steve says, “I saw you talking to that guy. Be careful, he’s about three fries short of a happy meal.”

  “He did seem to have an attitude problem, so you know him?”

  “Oh we both know him. His name is Stan Hutchinson. Hey, I’m Steve and this is Ken.”

  “Nice to meet you, I’m Mickke D.”

  Ken laughs, “I guess you know all about happy meals.”

  “Yeah, right. Tell me more about Stan.”

  All of a sudden, they both get defensive and Steve says, “Why do you want to know? Are you writing a book?”

  I answer, “You could say that. No I just thought he was a strange guy.”

  Ken looks at Steve and says, “Nice talking to you Mickke D, but we need to get back to practicing.”

  I pull a couple of real estate business cards out of my pocket and give one to each of them. “If you’re ever in the market for a place at the beach give me a call. And by the way, good luck in the World Am next week.” I walk away.

  I hear Ken say softly to Steve, “How does he know we’re playing next week?”

  I just smile to myself and continue down the tee line to where Jimmy has almost run out of range balls.

  He asks, “So what do you think about those two guys at the end of the range?

  I reply, “No way, they just do not have an assassin profile or mentality. I think we can eliminate them. They’re just gamblers and hustlers.”

  “So we’re back to your Seal friend,” he says sarcastically.

  “So far, but we don’t know if any of the six is the assassin. Let’s see what happens tomorrow.”

  Chapter 19: Dave, Andy & Paul

  Thursday morning, after thinking about and discussing a plan of action, we decide to try to catch Andy and Dave at the driving range and then I hope we can play with Paul in the afternoon since I sort of promised Jimmy we would be playing golf. I hope today goes better than yesterday. We go to the Possum Trot clubhouse to find Dane.

  “Dane, can you change some tee times around for us so that we can play with Paul Hills and Lee Donaldson at 12:06?”

  Dane replies, “Let me check with Karen. She is in charge of the check-in desk.”

  Dane leaves and goes out to the front desk. When he returns he says, “No problem, you are playing with Paul and Lee.”

  So far, so good. We thank Dane and move over to the practice range to get ready for Andy and Dave.

  I go inside, ask for a large bucket of balls and tell the young woman behind the desk, Rita, who is different from the person who was working yesterday, that Dane sent me over.

  All of a sudden from behind the counter, a medium size, blond dog puts its paws up on the counter. It looks like a mix between a lab and a pit bull.

  As I reach over to pet the dog, Rita says to me, “Don’t touch her, she doesn’t like strangers, she may bite you.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Bogey.”

  “Well Bogey, you don’t look that mean to me.”

  I reach over and pet her head. She jumps back down and runs into the back room and in a split second returns with a tennis ball in her mouth. She lays the ball on the counter.

  “Bogey, I wish I had time to play with you. Maybe I’ll come back later and we can play.”

  Rita is dumbfounded. “I have never seen her act that way with a stranger. It’s as if she knows you.”

  “Oh, I just have a way with dogs. Too bad it doesn’t work the same way with women.”

  She blushes and then says that Dane called and said to comp me for any practice balls, which means I don’t have to pay for them. She wants to know what I have on Dane for him to do that. I tell her, with a smile, that it is top secret and that if I tell her I will have to hunt her down and kill her.

  Rita takes a step backward and stares at me with a strange frown on her face. She starts to say something. I laugh; tell her that Dane is an old friend and that I was just yanking her chain. I thank her, say good-bye to Bogey, and proceed out to the tee line.

  Possum Trot has a great practice facility: huge chipping and putting green, a large grass tee area, sand bunkers, and a great separate pitching area. We set up on the far left side of the grass tees so I can observe everyone on the tee area and unless they are left-handed, they will not be looking back at me watching them. It is around 8:30am and it doesn’t take long for our first suspect to show up.

  Dave (the police) Prendels walks out to the grass tees with a medium bucket of balls. He sets up about five stations away from us. He is a big dude, at least six foot and probably weighs 230 to 240 pounds with a military haircut. The way he walks, his knees are probably as bad as Ken Ballinger’s. I always try to notice any weaknesses in the enemy before I confront them. He is big but slow so I can probably outrun him in a race and out maneuver him in a fight even though he outweighs me by fifty pounds. I do not notice any weapons on his person. He does some stretching exercises before getting several clubs out of his bag.

  I hear him say to the fellow hitting balls next to him, “Hey I have not hit a ball yet but I will bet you twenty bucks that I can put this first ball on that 50-yard practice green over there.”

  The man smiles, shrugs his shoulders, and replies, “You’ve got a bet young man, one ball only,” and pulls a twenty out of his pocket.

  Dave gets a twenty, takes the other twenty and places them under a club on the ground.

  I smile to myself because I’m pretty sure I know what is coming next. I use to do the same scam during my youth when I worked part-time at Lincoln Lanes back in Lancaster. I would bet some unsuspecting customer that I could bowl over 250 before I had ever warmed up. If they took my bet, I would take a score sheet, (yes back then they still had score sheets,) turn it over and write in big, bold numbers 250. Then I would place the score sheet on the lane at the foul line and roll my bowling ball over the sheet with 250 written on it. I had just bowled over 250.

  I was right; Dave walks out in front of the tee line and holds up his arms to stop everyone from hitting. He then says, “Could you please hold up, I lost something out here, I’ll be just a minute.”

  He walks out to the designated 50-yard practice green a
nd places the golf ball he is holding on the green. He has just won his bet. By the time he returns to the tee line and picks up his winnings, the man he has just beat out of twenty dollars is leaving and shaking his head. Dave just shrugs his shoulders and starts hitting practice balls.

  I decide to walk up the tee line and start a conversation with him. I tell Jimmy to watch my back although he is busy hitting the free bucket of balls. I guess he wants to appear inconspicuous.

  I move up the tee line and stop to watch Dave hit some shots. I will be looking for a reaction when he first sees me because I am still sure the person who blew up the plane was in the crowd watching while I was taking pictures Sunday morning. I sit on a bench directly behind him and he finally turns around and looks right at me. I hope this ends better than my encounter with Stan (the man).

  “That was quite a scam you pulled on that guy, he did not seem like a very happy camper when he left.”

  He replies without any hint of recognizing me, “No, he wasn’t, but I’ll bet if I really had taken the shot and missed, he would have taken my twenty.”

  He then drops a ball down on the grass, looks back at me and says very confidently, “Twenty says I can do it for real, you want some?”

  I have been watching him hit a few shots and it looks as if he is leaving everything out to the right of the green, so I say, “Sure, but let’s make it fifty.”

  After all, he is betting with the other guys twenty.

  I want to put a little pressure on him and besides that, I am gambling with SIL money. I figure he realizes he is leaving it out to the right and therefore he will compensate to the left and since the wind is coming from right to left, I feel the odds are in my favor.

  He agrees and makes the swing. He misses the green about five feet to the left. I wonder if I am supposed to split my winnings with SIL. No way.

  He looks back at me as I hold out my hand. He gets into his pocket, pulls out a wad of bills and hands me a fifty.

  “I sure wish I had more time to get that back but I have a 9:00 tee time and it’s already 8:50,” he says with an unhappy camper sound to his voice although he is smiling. “Maybe I’ll see you around later and you’ll give me a chance to get even. Do you play poker?”

  “No, poker is not my game, but let me give you a business card. If you need any help with your game before the World Am, give me a call and I’ll give you a discounted rate.”

  “How do you know I’m playing in the World Am?” He quickly asks.

  “Oh, just a guess, but if I don’t see you, good luck next week.”

  “Teaching pro huh, maybe I will give you a call. Do you take checks?”

  I laugh, “I don’t think so, cash only, in advance.”

  He smiles, shakes my hand and heads over to see the starter. I think I kind of like this guy. As I am walking back down the tee line toward Jimmy I hear Dave say, “Hey Farmer, what are you doing here?”

  He then points back at me and says, “Watch that guy, he just took fifty from me, he’s good.”

  I have a gut feeling Dave is not the assassin but now I have lost the element of surprise with my next suspect.

  Andy, the farmer, walks over to me and says, “So you took fifty from the Police, that’s quite an accomplishment. He doesn’t lose very often.”

  I look him directly in the eyes. “Oh, I guess I just got lucky.”

  The Farmer is about 5’10”, two hundred pounds with sandy red hair peeking out from under his John Deere ball cap. He actually looks like a farmer.

  I shake his hand and say, “I’m Mickke D, are you playing in the World Am next week also?”

  Andy stares back at me with cold, dark eyes but his face never changes expression. He does not recognize me from anywhere, or so I thought.

  “Say Mickke D, did you ever spend any time in Korea? You sort of look like a guy I met over there.”

  “Sorry, Mr. Bottier, I never made it to that part of the world.”

  “Look here Mickke D, how do you know my name? Did the Police tell you?”

  “I guess he did or I was just lucky again.”

  “Well, I hope you don’t plan on taking money from me. I’m just a poor farm boy from Michigan who came down here to play in this here World Am thing they have going on next week.”

  I reply with a partial grin. “Michigan huh, do you guys ever play Ohio State?”

  “Well, not very well recently I’ll have to admit, but listen here, I’ll tell you what I will do right now. I’ll just bet you that Michigan beats Ohio State next year and I’ll only take ten points.”

  I too quickly reply, “I’ll take that bet with one small change. No points.”

  His eyes are darting with excitement as he quickly replies, “Well, how much Mickke D? Make it easy on yourself.”

  I shoot right back at him, “How about a hundred and I’ll give you an address right now where you can send the check.”

  He extends his hand and we shake. He then smiles at me like a Cheshire cat and I just know I am in trouble.

  When it comes to Ohio State/Michigan football, I sometimes allow my loyalty to get me in trouble. One might say, I open mouth, insert foot. He explains to me what he has just said and that is that Michigan will beat Ohio State. He did not say in which sport. I took for granted he meant football. Therefore, if Michigan beats Ohio State in any sport next year, I lose. He gives me a card and says I can mail the check to this address. I see no reason to give him one of my cards.

  Well let me see, I won fifty from Dave and I probably just lost a hundred to Andy. I suppose I will have to add fifty to my expense account with SIL. I am going to guess that Andy is going to look up Dave right away, give him the good news, and probably rub it in a little bit. Andy is not the assassin, I am sure of that.

  Jimmy gets a big chuckle out of my first two encounters. I get to hit about ten balls from the large bucket. Machine Gun Kelly hit the rest of them. We spend a little bit of time chipping and putting; then we opt to go back to the clubhouse and wait for our last suspect to arrive.

  We are watching the check-in area at Possum Trot and about 11:30 a man checks in and Karen points over toward us. Paul Hills walks over to introduce himself. I turn my back and look out the window as he approaches. As I turn to say hello there is just the slightest look of surprise and anger on his face.

  He hesitates for a split second and then says, “Hi, I’m Paul Hills and I guess I will be playing with you fellows today.” He is smiling but I notice tension in his face.

  We all shake hands and we introduce ourselves. Jimmy says he is looking forward to playing with him today. I keep quiet and just observe but I know I am looking into the eyes of the assassin. Something about him signals danger, as if the soul behind the eyes has faced this scenario before and is not afraid.

  Paul is good. He gets his composure back in a split second. Still smiling, he says he is going over to the range to hit some balls and practice his putting for a while. He will see us on the tee.

  He does not look like an assassin. He is about fifty, a little bit heavy, dark hair and has the look of a Boy Scout leader, not a killer.

  After he leaves, I look at Jimmy and say, “He’s the guy. I see it in his face. He recognized me from the airport on Sunday. I just knew the killer was in the crowd watching.”

  “Are you sure? He seems like a nice guy.”

  “I am sure, he’s the one.”

  Jimmy’s usually happy face turns serious. “Now I wish I had brought my gun. How do we want to do this?”

  I am not sure. How do you handle spending four or five hours with an assassin on a crowded golf course?

  As Paul leaves the Possum Trot clubhouse, he is ticked-off and livid. Mickke D was the person taking pictures at the airport after the explosion. What are the odds of playing with him on a golf course in Myrtle Beach, home to more than a hundred golf courses?

  Paul does not think he recognized him because he was wearing a disguise at the time, but to spend four or five ho
urs with him on the course may jog his memory. There is only one thing left to do. Paul picks up his golf bag and tells the starter he is going over to the range to practice for a while and hit some balls. After he reaches the practice area, he continues around the driving range office and walks across the road to the parking lot. He throws his clubs in the back of his Highlander and leaves the course.

  Jimmy and I sit in the clubhouse for about ten minutes contemplating how we are going to handle the afternoon with an assassin in the next golf cart. If Paul did recognize me and if he thinks I recognized him, will he try to retaliate on the course or will he run?

  Jimmy says, “Well, if he takes off we don’t have to worry about spending the day with him in the next cart.”

  I reply, “No, then all we have to worry about is being assassinated by him later.”

  Neither one of us comes up with any realistic ideas. Jimmy suggests we always hit short of him so he will never be behind us. We discuss just leaving but I need to be positive Paul is the assassin. I hope by talking with him and asking some pertinent questions, I can be sure.

  When we get to the bag drop, I show Jimmy which pocket on my bag has my gun in it just in case we get in a real bind and I am away from the cart.

  I give our ticket to the starter. He points to a young flat-belly with a ponytail. “This is Lee Donaldson; he is part of your group but we can’t seem to find your fourth. He went over to the range to hit some balls but I can’t find him there or anywhere else.”

  Jimmy and I look at each other without saying a word. He ran. We have the right person. Paul is the assassin.

  I walk over to Lee and ask, “Did you know Mr. Hills?”

  He replies, “Well, not really, I met him on the casino boat last night and he talked me into playing with him today for a few bucks. You guys want a side bet?”