William Bernhardt - Final Round

It was the least he could do, they both thought. For John.

The Wednesday press conference in Butler Cabin was a distinguished Masters tournament tradition, but this year, it was nothing short of bizarre. As tournament director, Andrew Spenser led the proceedings, ably assisted by his lapdog Derwood Scott. The first deviation from tradition came in the timing; instead of being held in the morning, the conference was delayed until late evening. The second deviation was the subject matter. Spenser dutifully tried to drum up excitement about the par-three and the main tournament yet to come, offering up trivia and tidbits about the players’ lives, statistics about the players’ standings, their performance to date on the tour, their scores in previous Masters tournaments.

No one cared.

“Can you give us more information about what happened to John McCree?”

“Have you got any leads?”

“Is it true the police suspect one of the other pros?”

“What if the killer strikes again?”

Standing in the back of the cabin, Conner watched Spenser wipe his brow. That prim, proper gentleman wasn’t accustomed to fielding questions from a pack of vultures like the one assembled in Butler Cabin today. He could almost sympathize with the man, if he hadn’t been such a jerk to Conner the day before.

Spenser gripped the podium and stared out into the sea of reporters. “Please. This is not police headquarters. This is the Augusta National Golf Club, home of the Masters tournament, the most important-”

“Is the corpse at the coroner’s office?”

“How many times was he hit?”

“Was there a lot of blood? Will you have to replace the sand bunker?”

Conner could feel Spenser’s tension clear across the room. It was a relief when Spenser excused himself and Derwood stepped up to the podium-probably the first time in history anyone was glad to see Derwood arrive, Conner mused.

“Please,” Derwood began, “we’ve told you everything we know about John McCree’s death. Let’s discuss the tournament-”

“Can you confirm that McCree is dead?” one of the reporters shouted from the rear.

Derwood sighed. “Yes. I’m afraid we’re certain about that.”

“And that he was murdered?”

Derwood began to hedge. “I have no information regarding the cause of death. There are many possibilities. I find it very difficult to believe that anyone at the Augusta National could be capable of-”

“Someone hit him, right?” This voice came from a female reporter near the front. “I heard he was hit on the head. Possibly several times.”

“Again, I have no information regarding the cause-”

“You’re not suggesting he did that to himself, are you?”

“Well… no. Perhaps an unfortunate accident…”

“In a sand trap?”

Derwood tugged at his collar. “As I’ve already said, we are unaware of the details-”

“How can you proceed with the tournament when one of the most prominent players has been murdered? Isn’t that more than a bit callous?”

Derwood drew in his breath. He was prepared for this one. “This is of course a difficult question with ramifications that go far beyond the competition itself. We called an emergency meeting of the board of directors and our chairman, Artemus Tenniel, to determine the proper course of action. We also consulted with John McCree’s widow, Jodie McCree. After giving the matter close and careful attention, all parties involved agreed that the best course of action was to proceed with the tournament as scheduled. Now, however, the tournament will be held in John’s McCree’s honor. This endeavor is dedicated to his memory.”

Conner tried to stifle his sneer. Given how jam-packed the tournament schedule was these days, it would probably be impossible to reschedule the Masters for a later date. It was now or never. Proceeding with the tournament but dedicating it to John’s memory probably appeared to the board to be the best way of preserving their cash cow without seeming incredibly insensitive. Conner wondered how this cover-your-ass smokescreen fit in with “the exemplar of excellence.”

Still, he thought, it was just as well. He knew Jodie wanted the tournament to proceed. She wanted to keep all the suspects on the premises as long as possible. Once the tournament ended, and all the players and staff departed, any investigation would be greatly complicated. Realistically, if he was going to have any hope of determining who killed John, he would have to do it before everyone left Sunday night.

Up at the podium, Derwood was still fending off questions about the murder.

“Why was the body buried in a sand trap?”

“Really,” Derwood insisted, “I have no way of knowing.” All at once, his eyes lit upon Conner in the back of the room. Conner felt a chill race through his body.

“If you must inquire about these unsavory matters,” Derwood continued, “why don’t you ask Conner Cross? He’s the one who found the body.”

That was a tidbit they hadn’t heard before. As one, the sea of reporters whipped around to face Conner. They began to press in his direction.

Conner felt like a fox who’d been treed by the circling hounds. He broke for the front doors, but two men bearing minicams blocked his path. Before he could take off in a different direction, he was surrounded by reporters, many of them shoving microphones under his nose.

“So,” Conner said, clearing his throat, “I guess you folks want to ask me about my spiffy new haircut, huh?”

It took Conner more than an hour to extricate himself from the reporters. It was amazing-especially since he’d told them everything he knew in the first minute and a half. Normally, a few minutes of Conner’s trademark obnoxiousness would be sufficient to drive anyone away. But the reporters weren’t even fazed; if anything, they seemed to like it.

The whole experience was ironic, Conner thought, as he trudged back to the clubhouse. Most of the pros on the tour spent half their spare time trying to rustle up some publicity. Conner had just gotten a ton-and he didn’t want it. Not under these circumstances.

Conner passed through the clubhouse doors, wove his way to the bar, ordered a martini, and found a seat at an empty table in the corner. Most of the other pros were there, too, but the mood had altered radically. There was none of the madcap revelry-no betting, no joking, no carousing. John’s death had hit everyone hard. The room was permeated by somber, sullen depression. Conner realized he should probably circulate, try to find out what if anything the others knew, but he just wasn’t in the proper frame of mind.

About ten minutes later, Freddy Granger ambled over. “Hi there, Conner.”

Conner didn’t even look up, but Freddy’s deep Southern accent was a dead giveaway. “If you’ve found another peephole, I’m not interested.”

Freddy looked embarrassed. “Nah, I-“ He pointed to the empty chair on the opposite end of Conner’s table. “Mind if I sit?”

Conner shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

Freddy took a seat. “I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am, Conner. We all feel terrible. We all miss John. But I know you were closer to him than any of us. I’ve always considered you a friend and-I’m sorry this had to happen. If there’s anything I could possibly ever do-all you have to do is ask.”

Conner nodded. “Thanks, Freddy. I appreciate that.” Conner meant it, too. Sometimes he felt like the pariah of the tour; his status as PGA bad boy caused him to be ostracized by those who considered themselves the class acts of the tour. It was nice to hear that he had at least one friend. Other than the one he’d lost. “How’d you do in the tournament?”