Amen Corner Page 4

  When Doggett reached the pond, he threw Stanwick’s body into the water. The splash was a jarring sound against the silence of the empty golf course, but Doggett knew no one could hear it. As the ripples slowly stretched across the pond and lapped against the grass bank on the other side, Doggett crossed the Hogan footbridge and walked onto the 12th green.

  He pulled the squeeze bottle of herbicide from his pants pocket and began squirting the liquid onto the green, making precise letters that in the morning would spell out a five-word message. When he was finished, he went back across the Hogan Bridge, pausing to take a final look at the body of his father. Stanwick floated face down in the now-calm pool of Rae’s Creek, his green jacket spread open around him like a halo.

  It feels good that he’s dead—that I killed him. But it’s not enough.

  Doggett headed back up the hill toward the woods, and the maintenance shed.

  Chapter Four

  Monday, April 7

  Sam Skarda’s rented Ford Taurus crawled past the gas stations, discount stores, and fast food joints along Washington Road. The speed limit sign said 45; the two lanes of traffic were doing five miles per hour at best. The smell of greasy sausage-and-egg sandwiches mingled with exhaust fumes through his open window.

  He reached into the travel bag on the passenger seat for his iPod, inserted the FM audio adapter into the player, and selected the April 1965 playlist—the year Jack Nicklaus won his second Masters.

  With the first few notes of the Kinks’ “Tired of Waiting for You,” Sam felt himself begin to relax. He wondered if The Golden Bear had sat in a traffic jam like this on the way to the 1965 Masters, listening to the Kinks on the radio. Probably not; Nicklaus seemed more like an Andy Williams kind of guy.

  “Tired of Waiting” could be the song that would stick in his head today. He always had some song going through his mind on the golf course; listening to old songs on the iPod before a round was the best way to make sure he wasn’t stuck with some annoying earworm he’d catch by accident on the radio. He let Dave Davies’ languid guitar riff sink in, taking him out of the bumper-to-bumper traffic and off to the America of 1965: astronauts orbiting, British bands invading, Nicklaus winning the green jacket…

  He was jolted back into the present by the sound of knuckles rapping on his window. A sweaty man wearing a red polo shirt and a well-worn 2002 U.S. Open cap held a cardboard sign up to the window. It said: need a badge!!

  Sam shrugged with his right shoulder and held up his palm. The man with the sign lowered it and yelled, “I’m paying top dollar!”

  “Not to me, you’re not,” Sam said. The guy with the sign moved down the line to the next car.

  He tried to recapture the mood of the Kinks song, but was distracted by the line of people hustling for tickets along Washington Road, waving signs at the passing parade of cars. A dapper couple—the man wearing pressed khakis and a Cutter & Buck wind jacket, the woman in a turquoise cashmere sweater, an expensive pair of Bermuda shorts, sunglasses, and a Masters visor—stood on the curb by an Outback Steakhouse parking lot, waving a sign that said: $$ two badge$ wanted $$!

  Sam lowered the window on the passenger side and leaned over.

  “I’m not selling,” he said. “I just wanted to know what badges are going for.”

  “Four thousand,” the man answered. The woman nodded.

  “Apiece?”

  “Yes,” the man said.

  “You can see it better on TV,” Sam said.

  “Oh, you’ve got to be there in person—we never miss it,” the woman said, walking alongside the car. “Do you know anybody with badges to sell?”

  “Sorry,” Sam said, starting to roll up the window. “Try an online broker.”

  “We did,” the man said. “It’s a tough ticket this year. Not many people selling. We’ll settle for one.”

  The woman looked at him sharply. “We will?”

  “I hope you two kids work this out,” Sam said. The line of cars crept onward.

  The Taurus inched past an Olive Garden, a Sinclair station, and a Hooters—not exactly the most picturesque run-up to America’s most beautiful golf course. Eventually he came to the water tower at the corner of Berckmans Road, and the shrubbery-covered chain-link fence surrounding the grounds of Augusta National Golf Club.

  The cars in front of him were turning right into parking lots marked gate 5—patrons parking—no walk-ins and gate 4—patrons parking—working press—no walk-ins. He kept going.

  On the opposite side of the street, in a mall parking lot, a dozen women held signs that said Admit Women NOW! and Wake up, Augusta National! It’s the 21st Century!

  Sam knew about the protest planned for this year’s Masters. Rachel Drucker of the WOFF had announced a huge rally for Tuesday. David Porter, the club chairman, had refused to acknowledge them.

  The national media kept trying to fan the flames of the protest story, but the Monday morning picketers were being ignored by the streams of golf fans walking past them—mostly paunchy, middle-aged men wearing caps with golf equipment logos, looking pleased with themselves for being in possession of the practice-round tickets that flapped from elastic strings attached to their caps, collars, or belt loops.

  He turned right when he reached the white sign with the green block lettering that said gate 2—members—players—honorary invitees—officials—no walk-ins—the club’s main entrance on Magnolia Lane.

  Three cops in flat-brimmed trooper hats stood in front of the driveway near the small brick guardhouse, painted white with one latticed window looking out onto the street. A guard wearing a white shirt with green epaulets, a dark tie, and a black baseball cap bearing a securitas logo emerged from the guardhouse and asked to see his badge.

  “Player,” Sam said, handing his laminated plastic badge to the guard, who looked at the photo and then ducked to get a better look at him.

  “Driver’s license,” the security guard said.

  Sam’s license said he was 5-11, 175 pounds, 37 years old. The guard was satisfied that the picture and the statistics matched the man in the car. He handed the license back to Sam.

  “Wait here, please,” said the guard. He turned and walked inside the guardhouse and picked up a clipboard.

  Sam had been aware of sirens approaching from somewhere in the distance, but as he prepared to drive down Magnolia Lane, he looked in his rear-view mirror and saw squad cars converging behind him.

  “Excuse me,” the guard at the gate said. “Move your car to the side. Emergency vehicles coming through. You can follow them in.”

  “What’s going on?” Sam asked the guard.

  “I don’t know, sir,” he said. “Enjoy your week.”

  Sam pulled the car to the edge of the lane as five Richmond County Sheriff’s squad cars, an ambulance, and a fire department rescue truck drove past him.

  He followed the last squad car through the canopy of magnolia trees to the Founders Circle, and got his first look at the famous white manor house with the green shutters, the second-story wrap-around balcony, and the twin white chimneys on either side of the cupola atop the roof. On golf’s most recognized front lawn, two maps of the USA made entirely of yellow pansies were laid out on either side of a raised mound in the grass, one map facing the gates to the club, the other facing the clubhouse. A flagstick with a green Masters flag protruded from the lower right corners of the flower beds to mark the location of Augusta National. The not-so-subtle message: This is the capital of American golf.

  The emergency vehicles turned left at the circle and took a service road that led past the short-game practice range to the cabins left of the 10th hole. Sam was curious, but whatever was happening, he figured he’d find out soon enough.

  He was directed to turn right at the clubhouse, and followed the driveway around the west practice
range to the unpaved player’s parking lot. As he got out of the car, he was greeted by a valet who took the keys to the Taurus, loaded Sam’s clubs and travel bags onto a golf cart, and handed him another set of car keys.

  “These are for your courtesy car,” the valet said. “It’s the first one in that row.”

  He pointed to a row of identical white Cadillac STS sedans.

  The young man, whose green name badge identified him as Darrell, said he’d drop Sam at the registration desk, take his clubs to the bag room, and have his luggage sent up to the Crow’s Nest.

  “What’s with all the cops?” Sam asked Darrell as he was putting the clubs on the golf cart.

  “All I know is one of the guys on the grounds crew came running up the 10th fairway this morning just after sunup and went straight into the clubhouse,” Darrell said. “Then we started hearing sirens. Something happened down by Amen Corner, I guess.”

  Darrell drove Sam down the tree-shaded lane to the tournament headquarters building, a green, two-story wooden house that doubled as the club’s administration building. Another squad car drove down Magnolia Lane to the Founders Circle, followed by the kind of vehicle Sam had seen too many times—a hearse from the county medical examiner’s office.

  At the tournament headquarters building Sam handed his player’s badge to one of the attendants, a young woman who welcomed him to the club and located his registration packet. She handed him his player I.D. badge—number 55, the same number that would appear on his caddie’s uniform.

  “Your accommodations are ready in the Crow’s Nest,” the young woman.

  Sam walked up the sidewalk to the main clubhouse entrance, shaded by a green-and-white striped awning. The lobby area was surprisingly simple and unpretentious, with creaky floorboards and a front desk and switchboard where members could check into their rooms, pick up the day’s newspapers, or buy a cigar. Sam could feel the layers of history in the 150-year-old building as he looked at the portraits of the founding members that lined the wall of the winding staircase that led to the second floor. Each face seemed to convey the same message: This isn’t just another PGA Tour stop, pal—or, as a former Augusta chairman had famously and derisively said, “We will never be the Pizza Hut Masters.”

  On the second floor, Sam found a guard standing in front of a room labeled Masters Club Room—Private. The door swung open, and Tiger Woods walked out, giving Sam a slight smile as he went by. Sam smiled back and nodded. Just a couple of Masters participants exchanging regards.

  “This is the champions’ locker room,” the guard informed him. Sam nodded as though he’d known that all along.

  “I’m looking for the Crow’s Nest.”

  The guard told him to walk through the library next door and follow the narrow hallway to the right. He’d find the stairway up to the Crow’s Nest.

  Sam climbed to the top of the stairs and entered the 30-by-40-foot room, bathed in sunlight that poured through the windows of the 11-foot-square cupola overhead. Cream-colored wood paneling partitioned the room into four sleeping cubicles. The open common area had a card table and four wooden chairs, a leather couch, a garish plaid-patterned armchair, a telephone and lamp on an end table, and a small TV sitting on a stand next to the closets. There was plenty of reading material; the club had placed books on golf history around the room and lined the walls with photos and sketches from the Masters. Off to the side was a full bathroom to be shared by all the residents of the suite.

  There was no sign of U.S. Amateur runner-up Brady Compton from Oklahoma State or U.S. Mid-Amateur champ Thomas Wheeling III from Newport, R.I., the two players who would be sharing the room with Sam. His luggage had been put in the first cubicle to the right of the stairway. He unpacked his bags, hung up his clothes, and then went back downstairs. Before stopping at the pro shop to set up his practice round, he thought it would be a good idea to introduce himself to chairman David Porter and thank him for the invitation.

  He returned to the tournament headquarters building, went up the stairs, and found Porter’s secretary, a woman in her mid-50s wearing a white blouse, a green vest, and a motherly expression. She nodded at him when he introduced himself, but she looked upset.

  “I just thought I’d stop by and thank Mr. Porter for inviting me,” Sam said.

  “I’m sorry,” she said in a strong Southern accent. “Mistuh Porter is speaking with a gentleman in his office. He might be busy for a while. We’ve had some trouble this morning.”

  “What sort of trouble?”

  “I’m afraid one of our members has died,” she said in a tremulous voice. She brushed a tear away with the palm of her hand.

  “I’m sorry,” Sam said. “Maybe I’ll stop by later.”

  He thanked her and went back down the stairs to the pro shop.

  Masters Week was getting off to a rough start.

  *

  Richmond County Sheriff Leonard Garver felt like an unwelcome guest, rather than an authority figure, as he sat across the desk from David Porter in the chairman’s office. Garver was a wiry man with narrow-set eyes, bushy eyebrows, and short, graying hair that he could feel getting grayer with each day of this year’s Masters.

  Aside from an occasional trespassing call, Augusta National normally didn’t need his department’s services. Garver had been invited to play the course several times, but had politely turned down the offers. He didn’t have time for golf. Nevertheless, David Porter had made sure to have a bottle of George Dickel, Garver’s favorite bourbon, delivered to his office every Christmas—a token gift that Garver politely accepted. In addition, the sheriff was given the opportunity to buy two Masters Badges each year at the face value of $200—just as the mayor, the city council president, the district attorney, and the local judges were offered the same opportunity.

  Cordial relations between the club and the local officials were thus maintained. But this quiet enclave of American power-brokers—a source of deep pride for a small city in northern Georgia one week per year, nearly invisible the other 51 weeks—was suddenly becoming a headache.

  First it was the women’s group causing problems during Masters Week, and now there was a very suspicious death. The body had not yet been taken to the morgue, but the medical examiner had already detected signs of trauma.

  “Looks like he was strangled,” Garver told Porter. “It could have been one of your members.”

  Porter, a slightly heavy man with a thick head of short, graying hair, fixed Garver with a stare that contained all of the dignity and authority that the Augusta National chairman could muster.

  “That’s horseshit, Leonard,” Porter replied.

  “Now, it’s not an accusation, David,” Garver said. “How many cabins do you have on the property?”

  “Ten. Between the cabins and the residence wings of the clubhouse, we have beds for 105 guests on the grounds.”

  “You got somebody in each one this week?”

  “We’re always filled during the Masters.”

  “How many security guards patrolling overnight?”

  “A dozen.”

  “So you got more than one hundred members, family, players, and employees spending the night here. Could have been any one of them.”

  “I’m telling you, Leonard, we’re looking for an intruder here.”

  “So tell me how this intruder got on the grounds.”

  “My guess is he climbed the fence between our 12th hole and the Augusta Country Club. You should be talking to them about their security.”

  “We’re looking at that, David. But we got to eliminate any suspects who were already on your grounds, too. Now, I need you to be dead honest with me here: Do you know of any individual at the club who had a grudge against this guy?”

  “Leonard, our members are not killers,” Porter said. “For Christ’s sake, ha
lf the members here are too old to strangle a chicken.”

  “You know how this looks, David. First Drucker announces she’s going to hold another one of her protests. Everybody knows you got members who don’t want women, and some who do. Then one of your boys turns up dead in Rae’s Creek. My investigators are going to need to talk to your people.”

  “I don’t want you conducting some goddamn witch hunt, Leonard. We’re a private club. Our members expect confidentiality when they join, and as chairman, I intend to protect their privacy.”

  “Hell, David, this ain’t a church and you ain’t a priest,” Garver said.

  David Porter paused to form the answer that would most directly address the sheriff’s objection. Finally, he said:

  “As far as our members are concerned, this is the Vatican, and I am the pope.”

  Garver rolled his eyes. He’d rather be dealing with an uneducated car thief than these high-and-mighty tycoons.

  “I could subpoena you and force you to give me names,” Garver said.

  “You don’t want to do that, Leonard,” Porter said. “We want this bastard caught more than you do. But nobody here is a killer.”

  “It ain’t for you to decide who did it,” Garver said. “That’s our job.”

  “Then I suggest you do it, Leonard.”

  “Dammit, how’m I supposed to do my job when you won’t cooperate? You think a bottle of George Dickel and a couple of Masters Badges lets you people hold yourselves above the law?”

  “I can’t stop you from talking to our members,” Porter said. “But you’ll be wasting your time.”

  “You’re tellin’ me,” Garver said. “You’ve got 300 members.”

  “Now it’s two hundred ninety-nine,” Porter corrected him. “And I’ll vouch for every one of them.”