William Bernhardt - Final Round

Fitz nodded, then took another swallow of his drink. “I made a promise to Conner, and I intend to keep it.”

Everyone nodded sympathetically. Gradually, the group dissipated. A few of them left the clubhouse. A few minutes later, Fitz was alone with the bartender.

He polished off the last of his drink.

“How about another?” Vic asked.

“Nah,” Fitz said, casting his eyes about the now much emptier room. “I think that’ll do it.” He paused. “Yes, I think that did just fine.”

The door opened, and a thin stream of light spilled into the locker room. One shadowy figure quickly entered, then closed the door behind him, returning the room to darkness. He moved quietly, careful not to make a sound, and deliberately, advancing toward his goal. He had a job to perform, and the sooner he got it done and got out of there, the better off he would be. He placed a key in a small lock. Then he opened the locker door, careful not to let it squeak. He reached inside and a moment later…

He removed a long, blood-stained serrated knife.

“That’s a nasty looking thing. Couldn’t you at least have cleaned it before you stuck it in my locker?”

The man with the knife spun around, his eyes squinting in the darkness. He didn’t have to squint for long. He heard a click, and barely a moment later, the locker room was illuminated by three overhead fluorescent bulbs.

Conner Cross stood at one end of the locker room staring at the man at the other end-who was holding a knife.

Harley Tuttle.

“Son-of-a-bitch,” Harley whispered, just under his breath. “What the hell are you doing out of prison?”

“Is that something your daddy used to say? Or did you think it up on your own?”

“I heard you were arrested. In custody.”

“I got a temporary reprieve, Harley. Just long enough to catch the real killer.”

“Really? Then you’ll be interested in this.” He stepped forward, holding out the knife. “I found this lying on the floor. I don’t know how it got-”

“Harley, please. Don’t bother.”

“Don’t bother?” He twisted up his face. “I don’t get you, Conner.”

“Don’t bother lying, Harley.”

“But what-“ He did a double-take. “Oh, my God. You don’t think-you’re not imagining-that I committed those crimes?”

“Yes, Harley. As a matter of fact, I am.”

“Conner, that’s crazy. Look, I can explain.”

“I’m sure you can. But first, let me take this.” He surged forward and, before Harley had a chance to protest, snatched the blood-stained knife. He wrapped it in a towel, then set it on a counter out of Harley’s reach. “Don’t want you to get any crazy ideas. Like maybe going for four.”

“Conner-are you telling me you honestly believe-”

“I believe this. You killed John. You killed Jodie. You killed your accomplice Freddy, poor schmuck. And you masterminded the extortion plot.”

“Conner-you’re insane.”

“I’ve been certain for some time that the killer was a golf pro. It made sense. It had to be someone who could lure him out to the eighteenth hole in the dead of night. And when the killer had me running all over the course by remote control cellular phone, his knowledge of the course, his terminology, his knowledge of the game all convinced me he had to be somebody on the tour.”

“But even if that’s true,” Harley protested, “why would you accuse me?”

“I didn’t at first. I thought it was Freddy. After all, it was his club that found its way into my bag, right? He’s the only other player here using Excaliburs, and his height would explain why the shaft was shorter than mine. But then you went and killed Freddy, screwing up my theory.”

“Conner-you’re talking like a crazy man.”

Conner ignored him. “I was certain the key to the mystery lay in understanding the meaning of Fiji . It was the last thing Jodie heard John say before he died. She thought it was important-and so did I. I tried to bait the killer into commenting on it over the cellular phone, but he didn’t go for it. So I was left wondering-what could it mean? Was it an acronym? A code word? A geographical reference?”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” Harley said impatiently.

“Oh, I think you do. But I couldn’t figure it out-until this evening, when I heard a cop make a remark about a fraternity stunt. It was all I needed to jog my memory. A bit of trivia left over from my college days. John was a member of the Beta Theta Pi frat house. They’re called Betas. But there’s another fraternity house in the Greek system called Phi Delta Gamma-right, Harley? And its members are called-Fijis.”

“You’re mad. Stark raving mad.”

“John was a Beta at Stanford, but I felt certain he knew some Fijis-maybe even one who didn’t want to be known. So I had a lieutenant friend of mine call the university and get faxed some pages from the Fiji frat house annual for the years John went to school there. And guess what we found?”

Harley wasn’t smiling any more. “I’m waiting.”

“It wasn’t easy. You were a good deal heavier then, and you’ve changed your name. But once I saw the photos enlarged, there was no doubt in my mind. That kid who used to be called Myron Caldwell is now Harley Tuttle.”

“You’re certifiable,” Harley said. He made for the door. “I’m leaving.”

Conner shoved him back. “Granted, you’ve done everything imaginable to change your appearance. Dyed your hair black, shaved your beard. Ditched the glasses and the earring. Just the same, I made you.”

“This is ludicrous!” Harley protested. “Even if I could do such a thing, why would I want to?”

“You know, I was curious about that myself. So as soon as I ID’d your picture, I got faxes of your-or Myron’s-college records. Seems you were quite a promising golfer back in college, which of course increased the likelihood that John would’ve bumped into you somewhere. But it also turns out you ran into a spot of trouble during your junior year. You got arrested and charged with several offenses-sexual offenses. Including statutory rape.”

“You’re full of it,” Harley said. Once more, he pressed forward, trying to escape.

And once more, Conner shoved him back. “I’ve got proof.”

“You’ve got nothing!” Harley’s voice was rising.

“Wanna see the police report?” Conner whipped a green sheet of paper out of his pocket. “There it is, big as life and twice as ugly. Statutory rape. My God-how can you live with yourself?”

“You’re out of line, Conner.”

“If it had just been petty theft or hot-wiring cars, that would be one thing. Most kids get into a little trouble before they grow up. But sex with minors?”

Harley’s face flushed red. “You don’t know what you’re babbling about.”

“I think I do. And it makes me sick.” He shoved Harley backward. “Come on, you disgusting son-of-a-bitch, talk .”

Harley’s neck tensed. “I’m not-”

Conner shoved him again. Harley slammed into the lockers. “You’re a pervert, Harley. A pervert who takes advantage of children. A child molester.” He kept pounding away at him, shoving him back again with each word. “You’re sick, Harley. You make me want to puke.”

“It was just a frat party, for God’s sake!” The words came tumbling out, like lava spewing from a volcano. “That’s all it was!”

Conner stopped hammering him. Finally, he had the man talking.

“We had some fun, they had some fun. All us horny frat boys, all those equally horny sorority girls running around in their skimpy nighties. We were all drunk and turned on and-and-I don’t know. I guess things got out of control. But no one forced anyone to do anything.”