Amen Corner (14 page)

He put the shoe in his right jacket pocket and stood up carefully, looking up the hill through the pine trees and listening to see if their splashing had attracted any attention. She hadn't been able to scream, and the sound from the parties in the cabins up above would have masked whatever noise they made tumbling down the hill or splashing in the water. He was sure they hadn't been heard.

He pulled the plastic spray bottle from the pocket inside his jacket and popped the protective cap. Then he squeezed herbicide onto the green next to the pond, not 10 feet from the columnist's legs, leaving the words that in the morning would read:

this is the last masters

Chapter Thirteen

Wednesday, April 9

Sam awoke to the sound of raindrops spattering on the windows of the cupola above the Crow's Nest. He'd wanted to sleep until at least eight, but the drumbeat of the raindrops overhead, which normally would have had a soothing effect on him, instead made him feel anxious.

Rain had been in the forecast for several days, and Sam had been looking forward to it. Some of the pros had been saying the greens were getting so firm and crunchy that, unless it rained, no way in hell would their approach shots hold. They'd all get a chance to see if the rain helped later that day during the Par 3 tournament.

Sam got out of bed and went down to the Trophy Room for a light breakfast. He expected to find a few reporters and club members, but the room was deserted except for two gold-jacketed waiters standing next to the buffet line. That's when he heard the sirens. A minute later, two Richmond County squad cars pulled up the rain-slicked circular driveway in front of the clubhouse, followed by an ambulance. Now he was more than curious. Something was going terribly wrong at this year's Masters.

He pulled on his rain jacket and golf hat and walked out the front door to the Founders Circle, where a crowd of employees and green jackets had gathered around the emergency vehicles. The sheriff's deputies got back in their cars and followed a golf cart, driven by a man in a yellow rain poncho, past the short-game practice range toward the cabins above the par 3 course. Sam walked along behind them, following the police and EMTs as they scrambled down the steep hill toward Ike's Pond. Several grounds crew members stood next to the pond, with a riding lawnmower idling a few feet away, staring at something at the water's edge.

A pair of lifeless legs—clad in tight black pants, one foot bare, the other wearing a spiked heel—protruded from the edge of the pond. The rest of the body was underwater, but Sam knew who the legs belonged to. He'd seen her yesterday, walking away from him and toward the speaker's podium at Rachel Drucker's WOFF rally, and last night leaving the dining room.

Somebody had killed Deborah Scanlon.

It was raining harder now, the drops hissing off the water. The police had already started cordoning off the area with yellow crime scene tape, but Sam was close enough to see that the killer had left the same message on the green near the body:

THIS IS THE LAST MASTERS

Whoever had done this didn't want to leave any confusion about his identity. It was the same killer, for the same reason. First Ashby speaks out about allowing women into Augusta National. Then Deborah Scanlon. Now both of them are dead. But how was the killer getting onto the grounds? How was he moving around without being noticed? It looked more and more like an insider.

The man in the yellow poncho was Bill Woodley, the club manager. He was on his cell phone, while the police radioed back to headquarters, both relating the same message: There's been another murder at the National.

“Anybody know who this is?” one of the cops asked, loud enough for Sam to hear.

“I do,” Sam said, over the yellow police tape.

“Who are you?” a cop asked.

“Sam Skarda. I'm playing in the Masters this week.”

“So who's that?” he asked, jerking his walkie-talkie over his left shoulder toward the body in the pond.

“Looks like Deborah Scanlon. Columnist for the New York Times.”

The cop led Sam across the green to the body. He couldn't quite make out her face under the water, but the hair was obviously short and blond.

“I can't tell for sure unless I see her face.”

Another cop stepped into the water, put his hand behind the body's head and lifted it out of the water.

“That's her,” Sam said.

“How do you know her?” the first cop asked.

“She interviewed me on Monday. I talked to her again yesterday at the WOFF rally.”

“I was there,” one of the cops said. “I remember her. Didn't that Rachel Drucker read from one of her columns?”

“Yeah,” Sam said. “She was criticizing the National for not allowing women members.”

The cops looked at each other.

“Harwell will want to talk to him,” the first cop said. “Skarda, is it? We need you to stick around.”

“Fine,” Sam said. “I've got a few hours before the Par 3 tournament starts.”

Bill Woodley shook his head, having just put his cell phone back in his pocket.

“The Par 3 tournament is cancelled,” Woodley said. “I just talked to Mr. Porter. He'll be here in a few minutes.”

David Porter arrived at almost the same time Leonard Garver did. Porter looked ashen; Garver just seemed bewildered, as though a train that came through town at the same time every day had suddenly jumped the tracks. They stood over the body for a few minutes while a crew of crime scene technicians took pictures, gathered grass samples from the killer's message, and scoured the hillside for Scanlon's missing shoe, footprints, or dropped objects that might be tied to the killing. David shook his head and then huddled with Garver and Woodley. The first order of business was to close the grounds and ask those spectators who were waiting at the gates to go back to their cars and buses. The Par 3 tournament would not be played, for the first time since 1960, because Augusta National Golf Club was now a crime scene.

“What should I tell the staff and volunteers?” Woodley asked, at a momentary loss as to how to handle a catastrophe during the Masters, where catastrophes weren't allowed.

“Tell them the truth,” Porter said. “There's been an accident, and we need to investigate.”

“What about tomorrow?”

“The Masters will go on as scheduled.”

“David, do you think that's a good idea?” Garver asked.

“It's the only idea we will accept,” said Porter, who glanced at Scanlon's body, still half-submerged in the pond, and quickly looked away. “It breaks my heart to cancel the Par 3 tournament. Mr. Jones and Mr. Roberts loved it. The patrons love it. I understand we have to cancel. But I will not postpone or cancel the Masters. That hasn't happened since World War II, and it will take another World War before I stop this tournament.”

Sam was still standing inside the police tape, though several feet away from Porter, Garver, and Woodley. He wondered when Garver was going to bring up the obvious: that it looked like an inside job. It was time to question those who were most likely to be angry with the club's critics: the members. The grounds crew didn't care one way or the other if the club admitted women. The same was likely true of the clubhouse staff and cleaning people. They'd all have to be questioned, of course, but any detective with half a brain would be demanding from Porter a complete accounting for the members who were on the grounds that week—their whereabouts and their gender politics.

Garver was thinking the same way.

“David, we're going to interview your members,” he said to the club chairman. “An agent from the Atlanta office of the Georgia Bureau of Investigation is on his way here to help Dennis Harwell with the investigation. You'll need to tell them whatever they want to know.”

Porter appeared to be thinking over his options—which in this case were limited. Two dead bodies in three days on the grounds of a private club tended to eliminate the club's wiggle room, no matter how much power they had over the local authorities. This was a scandal in the making, and refusing to cooperate with police would only make matters worse. But Porter had handled potential scandals before.

“Do what you've got to do, Leonard,” Porter said, a heavy note of resignation in his voice. He turned and began walking back up the hill, but noticed Sam standing nearby. He paused and said something quietly to Woodley, then continued walking back to the clubhouse, Porter's shoulders slumped in a way that made him seem far less imperious. Woodley watched them go, and then approached Sam.

“Mr. Porter would like to see you in his office when you have a moment,” Woodley said.

Bill Woodley was a small, clean-shaven man with thinning, neatly combed hair who exuded efficiency and devotion to the National. He'd been everywhere around the club in the previous two days, fielding members' requests and promptly conveying them to the employees, who listened to Woodley as though hearing from God's messenger. Yet Woodley did nothing to call attention to himself. Like any good manager, he made it his business to eliminate problems before they became problems. It had to be unbearable for Woodley to see the Masters marred by two murders.

“What does he want to see me about?” Sam asked.

“He didn't say.”

“The cops want me to stay here until I've talked to the investigators,” Sam said.

“Of course,” Woodley said. “After that, then.”

“I'll be there.”

Sam waited with the police until the investigator from the Sheriff's department arrived. Lt. Dennis Harwell, the same detective Sam had talked to at the 12th hole on Monday, slipped and skidded down the steep, soggy hillside, getting mud on his tan raincoat. He looked anxious, and he had reason to be. He was responsible for solving what would be the most talked-about crime in the country, and possibly hanging a murder rap on some big-shot member.

Harwell asked the cops what time the call came in, what they'd seen when they arrived, and whether there were any witnesses. He examined the position of the body, spoke to the technicians, and knelt down to inspect the grass where the this is the last masters message had been left. Eventually he walked over to Sam.

“The officers tell me you know her,” Harwell said, motioning to Scanlon's body. “A New York Times columnist?”

“That's right,” Sam said. “Deborah Scanlon.”

“And who are you again?”

Sam didn't like the way Harwell asked the question, as though he wasn't inclined to believe anything Sam told him.

“Sam Skarda. I'm an amateur golfer, playing in the Masters this year. I talked to you on Monday.”

Harwell seemed to be struggling to recall their brief conversation at the murder scene on the 12th hole. He looked at Sam suspiciously.

“The Masters is a pro tournament,” he said. “How long have they been letting amateurs play?”

“Since 1934,” Sam said.

It sounded like a smartass answer, but it was the truth: From the beginning, the Masters had always invited amateurs to play. Bobby Jones himself was an amateur. Sam couldn't help it if this cop didn't know the first thing about the Masters.

“How did you know—Scranton, was it?” Harwell asked.

“Scanlon. I met her Monday when she interviewed me after my practice round,” Sam said. “Then I saw her at a press conference on Tuesday, and later at the WOFF rally down the road.”

“What were you doing there?” Harwell asked.

“I was curious,” Sam said.

“About what?” Harwell said.

“I just wanted to see what was going on.”

It was the cop in Sam that had checked out the rally, not the golfer. As far as he knew, he was the only player who'd bothered to go. If Harwell knew anything about golf or golfers, he would have picked up on that. But apparently he'd managed to live in Augusta for some time without ever developing an interest in the city's most important enterprise.

“Did you see her after that?” Harwell asked.

“I saw her having dinner in the clubhouse dining room last night.”

“When was that?”

“Around nine o'clock.”

“Did you talk to her?”

“No.”

“Was she with someone?”

“Yeah, a couple of people I didn't know. They looked like TV types.”

“Were they friendly conversations?”

“Looked like it to me,” Sam said. “I didn't pay much attention.”

“What time did she leave?”

“Around nine, like I said.”

“Did she leave alone?”

“I think so.”

“Can anyone account for your whereabouts last night?”

Sam wasn't irritated by the line of questioning; it was standard and proper. It was just the tone of Harwell's voice that grated on him. Sam had always tried to make witnesses and suspects feel he was on their side until and unless they started being evasive or confrontational. Sam had been neither, but Harwell still sounded as though he were looking to trip him up somehow. He occasionally jotted Sam's answers in a small spiral-bound notebook.