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  Contents

  Monday, March 18, Lake Jennings, California

  Chapter 1

  Phoenix, Arizona, Tuesday, March 19, The First Hole

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  East of San Diego, California, Tuesday, March 19

  Chapter 6

  Phoenix Police Department Conference Room, Phoenix, Arizona, Tuesday, March 19

  Chapter 7

  Links Motel Restaurant, La Jolla, California, Wednesday, March 20

  Chapter 8

  FBI Regional Office, Los Angeles, California, Thursday, March 21

  Chapter 9

  Carlsbad, California, Thursday, March 21

  Chapter 10

  FBI Regional Office, Los Angeles, California, Thursday, March 22

  Chapter 11

  Carlsbad, California, Friday, March 22–Saturday, March 23

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Aviara Golf Club, Carlsbad, California, Sunday, March 24 The Second Hole

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  North of San Diego, California, Monday, March 25

  Chapter 18

  FBI Office, Los Angeles, California, Monday, March 25

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Carlsbad, California, Monday, March 25

  Chapter 21

  Los Angeles FBI Office, Tuesday, March 26

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  David Steadman, En Route to Rancho Mirage, Palm Springs, California, Tuesday, March 26

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Mission Hills Country Club, Press Tent, Wednesday, April 3 The Third Hole

  Chapter 27

  Chicago, Illinois, Sunday, April 7

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Palm Spring, California, Shirley Scott’s Hotel Room, Saturday, April 6

  Chapter 30

  Chicago, Illinois, Wednesday, April 17

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 31

  FBI, Los Angeles, California, Monday, April 8

  Chapter 32

  Irving, Texas The Fourth Hole

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  FBI Violent Crimes Section, Dallas–Irving, Texas, Monday, April 29

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 42

  Mobile, Alabama, Friday, May 17 The Fifth Hole

  Chapter 42

  FBI, Heron Bay Country Club, Mobile, Alabama, Saturday, May 18

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Rogers, Arkansas The Sixth Hole

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 48

  New York Bureau, FBI Violent Crimes Unit, Tuesday, June 25

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  FBI Violent Crimes Unit, Sylvania, Ohio

  Chapter 55

  David Steadman, Sylvania, Ohio

  Chapter 56

  Sylvania, OhioThe Eighth Hole and Friday, July 19 The Ninth Hole

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  FBI Violent Crimes Unit, Sylvania, Ohio, Sunday, July 21

  Chapter 59

  Parker, Colorado The Tenth Hole

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  FBI Violent Crimes Unit

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Steadman Residence, Oak Park, Illinois, Sunday Evening

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  WiDō Publishing

  Salt Lake City, Utah

  www.widopublishing.com

  Copyright © 2015 by D. Michael Poppe

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written consent of the publisher.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, organizations and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Design by Steven Novak

  Book Design by Marny K. Parkin

  Print ISBN: 978-1-937178-61-1

  Library of Congress Control Number: available on request

  Printed in the United States of America

  Getting a book published is difficult, and I want to congratulate my wife, Ruth Ann, for her splendid editing, and acknowledge that without her support and help this book would not have been possible. It is dedicated to her.

  Monday, March 18, Lake Jennings, California

  Chapter 1

  The man stops the motor and patiently settles himself in his seat, and decides that the setup of his campsite can wait. He can hear the faint buzzing of the fly which has been tormenting him since he left El Centro. As the fly moves closer to the front, the buzzing grows louder; finally the fly is bouncing up against the windshield on the passenger side. He waits patiently and as it moves in front of him, he cups his right hand against the inside of the windshield and carefully covers the fly, closing his well-manicured fingers gently around it, careful not to injure it, but tightly enough to prevent it from escaping. He pinches its legs with his left hand. When he opens his right hand, the insect buzzes frantically, its wings only a blur.

  He waits until the wings stop, then he snaps one wing off and the fly sits motionless. After a moment, the fly moves so he steps out of the vehicle, still holding the fly. He searches for a trail of ants, and kneeling next to it, he snaps the other wing from the fly with practiced deftness and sets it in the path of the oncoming ants. In a moment the ants are attacking it. The fly struggles violently at first, but within seconds the ants are swarming over it.

  He watches until they carry away its dismembered parts. He stands and dusts the knees of his trousers and realizes he has been so intent on the fly and the ants that he has not noticed the pleasant hint of eucalyptus in the warm breeze.

  It is late afternoon and he is exhausted.

  He had been traveling west on Interstate 8 toward San Diego and exited the freeway at the sign for Lake Jennings. He had followed the road through a canyon and found his way to the lake, which deceivingly turned out to be a reservoir. The designated camping area was surrounded by eucalyptus trees blended with other vegetation.

  It is dusk on Monday and the grounds appear appropriately deserted for the middle of March. He finds a shielded campsite within a grove of small trees and decides to pitch his tent. He prefers to not have neighbors, but as he backs his SUV into position, he notices an older pickup truck and a camping trailer in the adjacent site. Both vehicles are dented and primer spotted. Irritated by the knowledge he will not be alone, he hopes the occupant will leave before darkness falls.

  He needs to wash his hands. He pulls his keys from the ignition, locks the door and heads for the restroom. It is a simple concrete block building with a metal roof; everything is the color of the landscape. The odor of the men’s room fills his nostrils and the subsequent nausea
triggers the memory of torture by his high school classmates. They would throw him against the filthy bathroom walls then squeal with pleasure as they held his head in a toilet until he was sure he would drown.

  He whispers, curses and realizing his fists are clenched, he shakes off the horrible memories. The restroom is a typical campground setup; a row of toilets on one wall and sinks opposite on the other. He walks to an opening in the back wall that contains a public shower; he hates the lack of privacy. Turning to the sink, he thoroughly washes his hands.

  He uses the urinal, a trough type with the dripping pipe across the back; then again washes his hands and face. When he reaches for a paper towel, there are none. He curses himself for not having anticipated this typical issue. Dripping and angry, he heads back to his vehicle as he removes a hand sanitizing wipe from its wrapper and finishes his hand cleansing ritual.

  A man is walking outside the trailer he had noticed earlier. He purposely doesn’t look but before he can activate the power for the rear liftgate with his key, the man is waving and mouthing something. He nods but continues with his task, opens the liftgate and surveys his equipment. He pulls the tent out and makes sure the ice chest is still covered with the blanket.

  The man from the trailer is approaching. “Howdy, I guess we’re gonna be neighbors. You sure have a nice car here; it’s one of those SUVs, ain’t it?”

  He is repulsed by the odor of the intruder. “Yes, it is,” he curtly replies.

  “An’ it’s a Lincoln too; must a cost you a bundle! Funny color…what a ya call that? Is it leather inside?” The man is adjacent to him, causing him to step back. “My name is Foster, Burl Foster. I been livin’ here about a month, so I got to move in a couple a days. You stay’n long?” He’s holding out his hand.

  The irritation mounts; he’s just sterilized his hands. He takes Mr. Foster’s hand and shakes it tentatively. He can feel the calluses and grime and sweat, and he notices tattoos on the man’s forearm. He thinks about the sterile wipes in his pocket. He is astonished by the tufts of white hair growing out of the top of the man’s nose.

  “I’m John Dixon,” he lies. “I’ll just be here overnight and if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to get my campsite set up before dark.”

  “Yeah, sure,” says Foster while peering in the back of the SUV. “Say, it’s leather inside, pretty fancy. Golf clubs seem pretty fancy too.”

  “Yes, well, if you’ll excuse me?” he says as he picks up his tent.

  “Yeah, sure. Gets pretty cold up here after dark and if the marine layer comes in, kinda wet. If ya want a beer, stop over when you’re done, we can visit a bit,” he says as he moves away, still glancing at the car. “What color did you say this is?”

  “It’s green.”

  Foster is near the front of the vehicle. “And tinted windows, you can’t even see inside. Say! You’re from Illinois. I never been there. You’re a long way from home. This a vacation?”

  “Yes.” He abruptly turns and carries the tent to the area he has selected.

  “Well, I’ll see ya later,” says Foster, finally heading back to his own vehicle.

  The man immediately opens a single use sterile wipe and vigorously cleanses his hands. He unrolls the tent and proceeds to stake the corners. As he completes the setup, the tent pops into its igloo shape. He unzips the doorway and returns to his vehicle to retrieve the sleeping bag, duffel bag, an electric lantern and a book on anatomy. He crawls halfway into the tent and unrolls the sleeping bag, setting the lantern and book within easy reach. He places a rubber mat outside the opening of the tent. Finally satisfied that he can sleep, he thinks of bathing, then eating dinner.

  He crawls into the back of his vehicle to retrieve his soft luggage tightly packed against two sets of golf clubs and other golf equipment. Placing the clubs laterally behind the front seats with the second seat laid down makes his golf equipment easily accessible from either of the side doors. He finds the bag containing his toiletries and bath towel. He retrieves a change of clothing from another larger bag, closes everything and makes certain all is in its place. He slides to the tailgate, checks his gear again and steps out. He closes the tailgate, locks the car and heads for the restroom, deliberately avoiding eye contact with Foster.

  He is relieved the restroom is vacant. The smell of urine assaults his senses. He moves to the shower area and sets his belongings on a bench. A board above the bench has metal hooks for clothing. Two are intact, the others are broken off leaving them sharp and jagged, but at least the area is out of range for most of the spray from the showerheads.

  He undresses quickly, using what hooks are available to hang his clothing and towel, and steps up to the closest shower, soap and razor in hand. To his surprise, the water is almost immediately hot and after tempering it with the cold, he steps in. He scrubs his body, feels the stubble of body hair emerging, but is too weary to shave anything but his face. He stares into the shower and rubs his face, then lathers his cheeks and neck and begins to shave.

  He hears someone using the restroom and is alarmed by the intrusion. He keeps a continual eye on his belongings and as he brushes his teeth, feels a sudden change in the water temperature, informing him he should soon end his shower. He finishes rinsing, turns off the water, and steps to the bench where his towel and clothing are waiting. While he is drying his chest, he feels the fatigue seep into his bones.

  He dresses and rolls his dirty clothing into a ball with the towel, packs his toiletries, and heads back to camp. Foster is sitting by his campfire, drinking a can of beer and motioning to him with another. He hesitates, then resigns himself to joining the old man. He does not want to be rude and solidify Foster’s memory of him; that could be dangerous.

  He opens the liftgate of the Navigator and sets his things carefully inside. Leaving his belongings in disorder aggravates him, but he forces himself to suppress the feelings. He turns and walks toward the warmth of the fire, which somehow soothes his irritation. As he takes the beer from Foster he thanks him, turns slightly and wipes the top of the can before opening it. He sits on the edge of the picnic table. Foster is sitting in a lawn chair that has molded itself to his contours. Thankfully, he is downwind.

  Foster is staring at him, one hand rubbing his chin, making that rasping sound even over the crackling of the fire. Eventually he interrupts the calm and quiet with another question. “So what ya do in Illinois?”

  He sits there a moment and then says, “I’m a salesman for a large auto dealership; that’s how I acquired this great car.” He nods toward the Navigator.

  “Oh,” says Foster. “And you like to play golf, I guess?”

  “Yes, it’s rather an obsession.” For once he’s not lying, but he wishes he hadn’t said that.

  Foster is opening another beer.

  “I’m traveling and playing at some of the better courses around the country,” he offers very casually. “It’s just an indulgence.”

  “Never did understand that game, chasing a ball around, and it cost a damn arm and leg to play. I’d rather go fishin’ anytime.” He swallows another huge gulp of beer and belches.

  “Well, I enjoy it.” He thinks of the Mark Twain quote, Golf is a pleasant walk spoiled, but does not bother to confound Foster by sharing it. “Do you fish around here?” he asks.

  “I been over to the ocean a few times but didn’t do no good. It’s the wrong time of year.” He finishes the beer with another gulp and reaches for the plastic cooler at his feet. “Ya want another?”

  “No, this is fine, thanks. I really need to get some sleep. I drove quite a lot of miles today.”

  Foster squints. “Yeah? Where from? I’ve drove all over this country.” Foster glances at the man’s hands, and says sarcastically, “Them sure is purty hands!”

  “Sacramento,” he says. “I’m going to play a few courses in Southern California and then head home. Well, thanks for the beer. I’ve really got to eat dinner and get some sleep. Good night.” He hurriedly stands an
d moves toward his camp.

  “Yeah, okay. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” Foster scratches his belly; it is apparent he is getting quite drunk.

  The man walks to his car, relieved Foster is drinking; he will remember less that way. He wants to check the cooler before he retires. It has been a long day and he is certain most of the ice has melted. He opens the liftgate, the interior light comes on, and he squirts some hand sanitizer into his hands, rubs them together, then crawls inside and uncovers the cooler. He takes in his surroundings before opening the lid.

  He is surprised by the amount of water in the bottom; some of his food containers are floating and the baby food jar is submerged. He closes the lid, slides the cooler to the edge of the car, tilts it to the rear and opens the drain plug. The water pours out, splashing, then finally dripping; he curses himself for the mess it makes. He reinserts the plug, dries the bottom and slides the cooler back into place.

  He reaches in his pocket and removes a small foldable knife. He cuts a large piece of Havarti cheese and grabs a handful of grapes. He stares momentarily at the baby food jar; the alcohol has taken on an ethereal shade of pink and the nipples bob about as if dancing for his pleasure.

  He closes the lid of the cooler and covers it with the blanket. He locks up his vehicle and heads for his tent. He glances over at Foster; the fire is low and the old man appears to be sleeping.

  Once he is settled in the tent, he shuts off the light, opens a window for some fresh air and begins to relax. He wants to edge his big knife but it is too dark and he is weary. He sits on his sleeping bag, careful to lay out a paper towel to catch crumbs, cleanses his hands with a sterile cloth, and eats the cheese and grapes in the darkness.

  He reviews the first hole.

  Debbie Beatty was forty-three years old. The first hole had been a par 4 and he had made birdie, 4;3.

  He smiles to himself. He is satisfied with his standing in the match.

  Finally, he slips into the sleeping bag and after a few moments he thinks of Joan.

  Phoenix, Arizona, Tuesday, March 19,

  The First Hole