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Authors: D. Michael Poppe
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case.”
“I’d like you to contact the LPGA personally. If they are reluctant to help, even with Bureau assurances of discretion, bring it to me and I’ll push it up the chain of command until they are willing to cooperate,” Bachman says.
Lou nods. “You can bet they’re going to be very skittish about this whole thing. I will be sensitive to their requests and respectful of the situation, but I hope they don’t ignore the fact the killer could be a player or even an LPGA official. The key is to get them to cooperate and we don’t have a lot of time. We’ll start running names as soon as they provide them. It’s going to be a big budget. Between players, staff, support people, reporters, it’s a lot of profiles and a lot of man hours.”
Bachman is neatly arranging papers on his desk. “Keep me advised. At least the lists should compress rapidly. In a matter of days, we’ll know where to concentrate our efforts and maybe we’ll get lucky.” Bachman stands up. “Queen’s knight to C6. Let’s go home.”
For the agents working on the case, the next two days are a blur. So much information passes through the FBI office in Los Angeles that Agent Schein selects two more teams to join the group. Background checks are performed on everyone associated with the tour, even well-known respected players. Alerts are sent via email and telephone to golf course managers in the area to be aware that a predator is stalking women golfers.
Dr. Cochran, with her expertise as a natural profiler and an experienced psychologist, brings another dimension to the investigation. Agent Schein, believing that he and his colleagues have followed through with the investigative and preventive phases of the crime, dismisses everyone to go home and get some rest just before midnight Saturday.
The Kia Classic in Carlsbad will be over on Sunday afternoon, and if the killer does not strike by then, the agents are almost certain the murderer will be in Rancho Mirage by April 4.
Carlsbad, California, Friday, March 22–Saturday, March 23
Chapter 12
T he man is sitting in the lounge of the La Costa Resort and Spa patiently waiting for his golf clubs. He tipped his caddy to clean the clubs and page him when they are ready.
He has just played one of the best rounds of golf of his life, fortunate to be paired with a few low handicappers, and is still reeling from the experience, one of the best days he can recall. No bogeys, five birdies and an eagle. He can still see the awe on his partner’s face when he hit his 1 iron onto the green from 245 yards out. It was a shot that favored his game and he had faded the ball perfectly, rolling it between two bunkers and right into the center of the green. The flag had been placed on the right of the putting surface, the green was relatively flat between his ball and the hole, and the putt had dropped for an eagle.
He is finishing his second beer and sits quietly with his back against the wall, observing the people in the bar. He sees the usual foursomes of older men comparing scores and exchanging money. There are a few couples and, like himself, several men sitting alone. A couple of them are stereotypical golf fanatics who spend all their time and money at the golf course but never really have much of a game. One sees them at every course.
A waitress approaches and informs him his clubs are ready. He leaves for the Pro Shop and picks up his clubs, well-cleaned by the caddy.
He is back at his vehicle, packed and settled in for the drive back to the hotel. He sits for a moment and stares out over the golf course. He is still in awe of his score…seven under par, sixty-five. He slaps the steering wheel with an imaginary high-five and starts the engine.
Back in his room, he showers, combs his hair out and ties it with a strip of leather before laying down to rest. He awakens around six-thirty p.m. to a darkened room. He has many preparations to make before leaving for Aviara Golf Club.
He
“I’d like you to contact the LPGA personally. If they are reluctant to help, even with Bureau assurances of discretion, bring it to me and I’ll push it up the chain of command until they are willing to cooperate,” Bachman says.
Lou nods. “You can bet they’re going to be very skittish about this whole thing. I will be sensitive to their requests and respectful of the situation, but I hope they don’t ignore the fact the killer could be a player or even an LPGA official. The key is to get them to cooperate and we don’t have a lot of time. We’ll start running names as soon as they provide them. It’s going to be a big budget. Between players, staff, support people, reporters, it’s a lot of profiles and a lot of man hours.”
Bachman is neatly arranging papers on his desk. “Keep me advised. At least the lists should compress rapidly. In a matter of days, we’ll know where to concentrate our efforts and maybe we’ll get lucky.” Bachman stands up. “Queen’s knight to C6. Let’s go home.”
For the agents working on the case, the next two days are a blur. So much information passes through the FBI office in Los Angeles that Agent Schein selects two more teams to join the group. Background checks are performed on everyone associated with the tour, even well-known respected players. Alerts are sent via email and telephone to golf course managers in the area to be aware that a predator is stalking women golfers.
Dr. Cochran, with her expertise as a natural profiler and an experienced psychologist, brings another dimension to the investigation. Agent Schein, believing that he and his colleagues have followed through with the investigative and preventive phases of the crime, dismisses everyone to go home and get some rest just before midnight Saturday.
The Kia Classic in Carlsbad will be over on Sunday afternoon, and if the killer does not strike by then, the agents are almost certain the murderer will be in Rancho Mirage by April 4.
Carlsbad, California, Friday, March 22–Saturday, March 23
Chapter 12
T he man is sitting in the lounge of the La Costa Resort and Spa patiently waiting for his golf clubs. He tipped his caddy to clean the clubs and page him when they are ready.
He has just played one of the best rounds of golf of his life, fortunate to be paired with a few low handicappers, and is still reeling from the experience, one of the best days he can recall. No bogeys, five birdies and an eagle. He can still see the awe on his partner’s face when he hit his 1 iron onto the green from 245 yards out. It was a shot that favored his game and he had faded the ball perfectly, rolling it between two bunkers and right into the center of the green. The flag had been placed on the right of the putting surface, the green was relatively flat between his ball and the hole, and the putt had dropped for an eagle.
He is finishing his second beer and sits quietly with his back against the wall, observing the people in the bar. He sees the usual foursomes of older men comparing scores and exchanging money. There are a few couples and, like himself, several men sitting alone. A couple of them are stereotypical golf fanatics who spend all their time and money at the golf course but never really have much of a game. One sees them at every course.
A waitress approaches and informs him his clubs are ready. He leaves for the Pro Shop and picks up his clubs, well-cleaned by the caddy.
He is back at his vehicle, packed and settled in for the drive back to the hotel. He sits for a moment and stares out over the golf course. He is still in awe of his score…seven under par, sixty-five. He slaps the steering wheel with an imaginary high-five and starts the engine.
Back in his room, he showers, combs his hair out and ties it with a strip of leather before laying down to rest. He awakens around six-thirty p.m. to a darkened room. He has many preparations to make before leaving for Aviara Golf Club.
He
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