William Bernhardt - Final Round

“But someone turned you in.”

Harley bit down on his lip. Conner could imagine his inner turmoil. A part of his brain knew he should remain silent, but another part was desperate to speak in his defense. “Someone called the cops. They showed up, and-“ Harley cast his eyes toward the floor. “I assumed everyone there was a sorority girl, meaning they were eighteen or older. But it turned out one of them-the one I was with-was somebody’s little sister. Fifteen. And the cops found out.”

“So you were arrested.”

“My attorney said I could get off easy if I pled guilty. So I did. Two years probation. I never served a day in jail. It was no big deal.”

“No big deal-unless you were planning on a career in the PGA. Because, as I’ve been reminded all week long, the PGA has very strict morals and ethics regulations. And there’s no way in hell they’d let a convicted sex offender on the tour.”

“It just wasn’t fair! One stupid mistake, and it was all over. All my plans, all my prospects, all those years of practice-all down the dumper. Myron Caldwell had come to a dead end.”

“So you became… someone else.”

Harley flopped down on the nearest bench, tired and resigned. “Myron disappeared. I changed my looks, changed my name. Eventually created a body of false IDs and fake background records. Then, when I thought enough time had passed, I entered the PGA qualifier. And made it.”

“And so this year you joined the tour.”

“That’s right. But I’ve been careful. Damned careful. I never went anywhere near anyone I thought might be able to make me. That’s why I was so uncomfortable the other day when that crowd followed us all over the course. That’s why I didn’t socialize much. And I’ve thrown tournaments. I figured a guy who consistently places fourth or fifth can remain relatively anonymous-but a champion receives entirely too much publicity. I didn’t want a crowd watching me; I didn’t want to be on television. So I contented myself with placing. Just high enough to rake in the bucks-never high enough to attract attention.”

“It’s also why you skipped Pebble Beach, isn’t it? Too close to Stanford.”

Harley nodded. “I had everything planned so carefully. And then-“ He stopped short.

“And then, Monday afternoon, I introduced you to John.”

“That’s right.” His face twisted. “Didn’t recognize him at all. But he recognized me. I could tell it the second he laid eyes on me.”

“John was like that,” Conner said quietly. “Never forgot a face.”

“No, he didn’t, damn him. And I knew he’d feel honor-bound to report me, too. That’s what the PGA requires, isn’t it?”

Conner nodded solemnly. “So you killed him. Before he had a chance.”

“What choice did I have?” Harley spread his arms wide. “My career was on the line. I’d put too much work into this to let it slip away-again!”

“But why the golf club switch? Why frame me?”

“Why not? It was your damn fault I was in this mess. And it was convenient, since you were using the same brand clubs as Freddy. I thought the best way to keep the cops from looking around too much was to give them an obvious suspect. So you were elected. I did the dirty deed with your club, knowing full well it would be traced back to you.”

“But how did you get it?”

“Ah, that’s why I needed Freddy. I didn’t want to do anything that would attract attention to me. I needed help.”

“Why Freddy?”

“I knew he needed cash, bad. He hadn’t placed in a tournament in two years, and he was throwing it away hand over fist on his daughter’s wedding. He was such a weasel-it didn’t take much to get him in my back pocket. I slipped him some bucks and he agreed to separate you from your clubs.”

“The peephole.”

“Yup. That was the dodge he used. And you fell for it. Left your clubs on the driving range. I removed your nine-iron and replaced it with Freddy’s-after scraping off the serial number. And then I lured John out to the eighteenth green-”

“And killed him in cold blood. Buried him in the sand trap.”

Harley didn’t deny it.

“And Jodie?”

Harley took a deep breath. “I didn’t plan to kill Jodie,” he said quietly. “But I passed her at the wedding reception Friday night and she was muttering Fiji over and over under her breath. It was only a matter of time until she figured it out, or told someone else who figured it out. I couldn’t take the risk. I tried to get Freddy to help, but of course he was too much of a weakling. So I took care of her myself.”

“One sin begets another. And Freddy?”

“That greedy bastard couldn’t be satiated. Once he realized what I had done with your club, he thought he had me under his control. He demanded money, more than I could provide. That’s why I concocted that extortion scheme-I needed the cash to pay him off. And even after I made away with the million-he wanted more! Can you believe it? I tried, but even as I sent the second fax, I knew Tenniel would never go for it. So there was only one course left to me. Freddy had to die.”

“Which you happily arranged. Framing me in the process.”

Harley shrugged. “Best to be consistent, don’t you think? It was the logical thing to do.”

“I suppose it was you who took the potshots at me last night.”

“You mentioned Fiji on the cellular phone. I realized Jodie must’ve talked to you before I killed her. I didn’t intend to kill you just to shut you up. If I’d wanted you dead, you’d be dead. I needed you alive to be my scapegoat.”

Conner stared at him, his cold demeanor, his guiltless expression. “You’ve killed three human beings- three -and for what? So you could be a pro golfer? For the bragging rights of being on the PGA tour?”

“Yes, damn it! Not to mention the money. I’ve made almost a quarter of a million bucks in three months. Think of that! Three months! Imagine what I stand to make in the years to come. I’ve worked all my life for this. I’ve spent my spare time practicing, day in, day out. While other kids were out screwing around, I was knocking a ball into a tin cup, mastering my stroke, perfecting my swing. I had a right to be on this tour. I deserved it. I earned it! And I wasn’t going to let them take it away from me. Not again!”

Crackers, Conner thought to himself. Absolutely altogether crackers. And golf drove him there. “Come on, Harley. We’re going to the police.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

“I’m not going to the police.”

“Then I will.”

“And tell them what? That you have some screwy theory designed to get you off the hook? You don’t have any proof.”

“I have the knife.”

“Of course you do. You’re the killer.” Harley laughed. “But no one saw me with it. And no one ever will.”

“I’ll tell them what I know.”

“And who’s going to believe you? You’re just a screw-loose, shaved-head gonzo golfer. You can’t prove anything.”

“I think I can. See, we found your voice disguiser in the tunnels, where you dropped it. It has fingerprints all over it. And I’m betting they’ll match the ones we take from you at the police station a few minutes from now.”

“I can explain that away.”

“Don’t be so sure.” Conner reached into his pants pocket and removed a small tape recorder. “This has been recording ever word you’ve said since I turned on the lights.”

Harley’s face hardened like steel. “Give me that.”

“I don’t think so.”

“I said, give me that.”

“Or what? You’ll brain me with one of my golf clubs?”

Harley reached inside his jacket and slowly removed a small revolver. He pointed it at Conner’s head. “You won’t leave here alive.”