William Bernhardt - Final Round

He released the body but remained where he was. He felt frozen, locked into place. His brain felt paralyzed, too. He was petrified by shock and horror and an utter lack of comprehension. How could this be?

It was his first love, Jodie McCree, just as he had seen her only hours before. Except now there was a deep, bloody gash across the base of her throat.

A fatal slice.

In 1968, Bob Goalby and Roberto De Vicenzo dueled for the Masters championship. As they approached the final hole, De Vicenzo was ahead by a stroke. Goalby sliced on the tee shot and barely made par. De Vicenzo overshot the green and bogeyed. The score was tied. But De Vicenzo’s scorekeeper, Tommy Aaron, had made a tragic error. Aaron gave De Vicenzo a four on the seventeenth hole, even though a worldwide television audience had just watched him do it in three. De Vicenzo didn’t catch the error and signed the scorecard. Therefore, the official score showed Goalby winning by a stroke, even though everyone knew better.

At first, the Augusta National powers-that-be didn’t know what to do. The Masters is not a USGA or PGA event, so they weren’t bound by their rules. Should they abide by the letter of Rule 38, Paragraph 3, or allow equity and justice to prevail? Perhaps there should be a sudden-death playoff, some suggested. They huddled in the clubhouse, meanwhile forbidding the CBS sportscasters from announcing a winner. At last, Bobby Jones himself was called upon to resolve the controversy, while the TV people stalled for time.

“We are the Augusta National Golf Club,” Jones ruled, “and we will abide by the rules of golf.” De Vincezo had signed the card, and that was that. Goalby was declared the winner.

Afterward, Conner lost all sense of time, all notion of where he was and what he was doing. It was as if he’d fallen into a curvature in the time-space continuum; he was aware that the world was proceeding apace, but he wasn’t a part of it anymore. Somehow, he’d disconnected himself; the people swarming around him were like actors in a play-a horrible, gruesome play-and he was safely ensconced in the audience. Or so he wanted to believe.

Jodie. With a hideous oozing slash across her throat.

People buzzed all around him, droning on, creating a dull roar at the edge of audibility, like bumblebees swarming in the distance. He heard himself answering their questions, but the answers came from somewhere else, some separate brain, some distinct consciousness. Only when he saw a friendly face did he slowly start coming back to his head.

“Cross? Hey, Cross?” It was Lieutenant O’Brien. “Are you going to be all right?”

Conner blinked several times rapidly. His consciousness attempted to recollect itself. “I’m fine. I’m okay.”

“Good. You clowns clear out. Give him some air.”

Conner was only vaguely aware of everything that happened after that. They asked him more questions and he tried to answer them. He heard them asking others questions, too, but no one seemed to know anything. There were no leads, no witnesses. Somehow, the killer had managed to murder Jodie in the fountain, or at least deposit her body there, and no one saw it happening. No one who was talking anyway.

All the reception guests were required to stay on the premises until late into the night-even the bride. Despite all the preparations and programming consultants and the investment of monumental wads of cash, Freddy’s party was ruined.

Around one in the morning, Conner somehow managed to stumble to his car and drive back to his cabin, where to his infinite relief, he fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

Saturday

He was awakened by an insistent pounding on the door of his cabin. Given his current state, it felt as if someone were ringing a gong inside his cerebellum. Groaning, Conner rolled out of bed, stumbling against the nightstand in the process. He abruptly realized he wasn’t wearing anything. He checked the closet, but couldn’t find a robe, so he settled for a towel.

He heard the front door of his cabin pop open. Damn! he thought. Guess I forgot to lock the door again. He heard the footsteps crossing the outer room. A few moments later, the clamourous pounding resumed at the bedroom door, even more insistent than before.

Wrapping the towel around his waist, Conner plodded to the door. “Damn it, Fitz, can’t you ever give me-”

He stopped cold. It wasn’t his caddie standing on the other side of the door. It was Lieutenant O’Brien.

“Nice outfit,” she said, as she marched into the bedroom. “Is it monogrammed?”

Conner clutched the top of the towel. He didn’t want any comic accidents. “Good morning, Lieutenant. I knew I’d get you into my bedroom eventually.”

“You’re a riot, Cross.” She stared at the unmade bed, the tangled sheets, the pillows strewn across the floor. “How the hell are you?”

“Not as good as I was a few minutes ago. When I was in bed. I think I’ll go back now. You can come, too, if you like.”

“I’m here on business.”

Conner pressed his fingers against his forehead. “Surely you don’t have more questions. Haven’t I already answered every question that could possibly be asked? Especially given that I don’t know a damn thing.”

“I’m assuming you don’t know who killed Jodie McCree. But surely you learned something last night.”

“Not really.”

“I was keeping tabs on you, Cross. You disappeared for a good while. And later, a witness told me you were racing across the room, pushing people out of the way. Heading toward the fountain. As if you knew what had happened. Or was about to happen.”

Conner held up his hands. “Hey, now-don’t get any crazy ideas.”

“It looks pretty damn suspicious.”

“I can explain.”

“Then you’d better. As quickly as possible.”

“Right.” He fell onto the edge of the bed. “After I saw Jodie floating in the fountain… I guess I forgot all about it.” Slowly, dredging up the memories, Conner recounted how he had trailed Freddy up the stairs, how he had overheard a mysterious conversation with an unidentified second person, how he had followed them but lost them.

And then found Jodie instead.

“I don’t know what the hell Freddy was talking about, or who the other guy was, but it has to relate to these murders.”

“You don’t know that.”

“What else could it be?”

“How should I know? Maybe he was having an argument with the caterer. Maybe one of the violinists broke a string. Maybe they bet on a golf game. It could’ve been anything. We can’t assume that because there was a murder, every weird conversation beforehand related to it.”

Conner appeared unconvinced. “Whatever they were discussing, it was crooked. And very secret. If I were you, I’d arrest Freddy. Before he leaves.”

“I don’t have grounds to arrest him. And he’s been told not to leave town.”

“At least bring him in for questioning.”

“What would be the point? Do you think he’s going to confess to murder? Much better to leave him alone. Let him think no one suspects-but keep a close eye on him.”

“I guess that makes sense.” Conner pounded his fists together. “But I’d still like to know what Freddy was talking about.”

“Did he mention Jodie?”

Conner mentally traced back through the conversation. “I don’t think so. Not as such, anyway.” He snapped his fingers. “But Ace did.” He related their brief conversation at the reception to O’Brien. “He said something about Jodie. That she was sweet or nice or something like that.”

O’Brien arched an eyebrow. “Did he say sweet or nice?”