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THE PRESSROOM WAS ABUZZ all morning. I wrote and filed a terse report on Turnbull’s death, then worked intermittently on a background piece. My editor thought the story had possibilities.
“Can you dig up any dirt on this Turnbull?” he wondered. “You know...drugs? Women? Maybe he cheated at golf once or twice.”
I sighed into the telephone and told the dumbass that John Turnbull was just a few points shy of qualifying for sainthood.
“C’mon, Hacker,” he cajoled. “Where’s that reporter’s instinct? Guy running around on a golf course in the middle of the night is not a Boy Scout. I want you to find out what gives with this story. I can smell a Pulitzer.”
I refrained from telling him what I smelled every time I talked to him. Job security and all that. Billy Corcoran came rushing in to announce an official press conference for 11:00 A.M. and then rushed out again. The man was a heart attack waiting to happen and a pure breeding ground for a peptic ulcer. My compatriots were doing what I was: reducing John Turnbull’s life into a handful of short, pithy paragraphs, using the PGA Tour press guide as the Baedeker to this person’s life. I could overhear snippets as some of the other reporters called in their stories.
“...win at Honda earlier this year heralded his emergence from anonymity...”; “...had an excellent amateur record while in college, winning –”; “...leaves behind a grieving widow, age thirty-one.”
There was a good deal of speculation about John Turnbull’s last hours on earth. “Okay...what do you think he was doing out there in the middle of the night?” Corky Willingham of the L.A. Times asked aloud, to nobody in particular.
“Woman.”
“He was drunk.” “Checking pin positions.” “Fishing.”
“Getting away from the wife for a few minutes. Women can be such godawful nags.”
“Star-gazing.”
“He dropped a quarter during the shootout and was trying to find it.”
Yes, most of us were being cynical. That’s how we usually deal with tragedy. Repression and cynicism. Otherwise, we’d probably go nuts.
Corky looked over at me. “No opinion, Hacker?” he chided.
“Fresh air,” I said. “He needed some fresh air.”
Corky snorted. “That wins the prize for the lamest guess yet. Personally, I think Finchem had him offed. Got rid of yet another blond clone clogging up the tour these days.”
Like I said, cynicism rules the press room.
“C’mon,” Corky said. “Let’s go hear the official police version.”
We dutifully filed into the interview room and took a seat in the rows of chairs facing a slightly raised stage. Two TV crews were already in there, setting up their tripods, lights and running microphones to the podium on the stage.
Bart Ravenel came striding in and took one of the three chairs set up behind the podium, along with tournament director Ned Barnacle, impeccable as always in his gray flannel trousers and double-breasted blue blazer. They were followed by Billy Corcoran, trying to tuck in his flapping shirt tails, straighten his necktie and plaster down his flyaway hair style while he waited for a signal from the television crews that they were rolling. I noticed Doak Maxwell hovering in the background standing along the wall. He seemed to be furtively looking for someone famous.
The TV guys nodded and Barnacle stood up and began to speak.
“Thanks for coming,” he started. “As you know, we’ve suffered a terrible tragedy in the PGA Tour family this morning with the death of John Turnbull, one of the tour’s brightest up-and-coming stars. Our hearts and prayers go out to his wife and his family. I’ve got a couple of announcements and then we’ll take some questions.”
He consulted his notes. “First, there will be a memorial service this evening and everyone is invited to attend. The Reverend Ed Durkee will officiate. Second, in deference to this terrible tragedy, and to allow the local police to complete their work out on the golf course, today’s pro-am will be postponed. We’re planning a shotgun start at 2:00 P.M. Finally, the Player’s Board has asked me to announce that the tour membership, which is all the players, has voted unanimously to donate ten per cent of this week’s purse, or $120,000, to a special fund for Mrs. Turnbull.”
He waited while we all wrote this down. “Now, I think I’ll let Lieutenant. Ravenel tell you what he knows, and then we’ll take your questions. Lieutenant?”
Bart Ravenel stood up in front of the microphone. He waited while photographers crowded in and flashes exploded. “Right now,” he said finally, “We don’t have a whole lot of information you don’t already know. We are conducting a preliminary investigation into Mr. Turnbull’s death to discover how this tragic accident occurred. As soon as we have some hard information, we will, of course, release it to the press.”
“Are there any conclusions as to what Turnbull was doing when he died?” Corky Willingham asked, throwing me a sideways wink. Ravenel looked down. “Not at this time,” he said in flat officialese. “We are attempting to retrace Mr. Turnbull’s steps prior to the accident in order to gain some understanding of that.”
“Will there be an autopsy?” I asked.
Ravenel seemed to squirm. “South Carolina law requires a forensic laboratory report in all cases involving accidental or suspicious deaths,” he said carefully. “That procedure will be carried out this afternoon as required, and said report from the medical examiner will be filed within 48 hours.”
“You said ‘suspicious,’” piped in one of the TV guys. “Is there any indication of foul play in this death?”
“No,” Ravenel said flatly.
“Lieutenant,” purred one of the other TV reporters, a short woman with straight black hair. “Is there any indication of drug or alcohol abuse that might have contributed to this accident?”
“No,” Ravenel said. “The medical examiner’s report will let us know if there was anything in the victim’s system, however.”
Ned Barnacle jumped up and grabbed the microphone. “Those of you who follow the tour regularly know that drug use is virtually nonexistent on tour. Besides which, John Turnbull was one of the most outstanding and upright members of our family, just a fine young man. I don’t want to sound overly righteous, but I think we ought to let the authorities complete their investigation without interjecting these absurd conjectures, and in the meantime mourn the loss of a truly fine athlete and sportsman. And I just want to add that I think the players’ selfless gesture of financial support is truly laudatory and an indication of the closeness that exists between these fine competitors.”
Barnacle had succeeded in numbing us into submission and the press conference quickly concluded. The TV folks clamored for their six-second stand-ups and sound bites, while the rest of us left in search of some lunch. Lt. Ravenel was hauled off to a corner of the room to provide clips for the six o’clock news. I sidled up to Doak Maxell who was reading a copy of the tour’s media guide. I’m sure he was fascinated by reading, say, the names and birth dates of the children of Tom Purtzer. I know I always am.
“Tell you what, Doak,” I said to him. “I’ll get you a genuine autographed visor from anybody in that book if you’ll get me a peek at the autopsy report on John Turnbull.”
“Really?” Doak said happily. “Geez, I dunno what to say.” He began thumbing through the book frantically, trying to decide which PGA star’s autograph he’d really like to have.
“I know what to say,” said a cold voice behind us. “I’d say that sounds suspiciously like an attempt to impede and/or interfere with an official police investigation, which in South Carolina is a felony crime punishable by up to five years’ sentence in the state penitentiary. That’s what I’d say.”
I turned to face Bart Ravenel. “Hey, c’mon, lieutenant,” I protested. “That report’s gotta be public information. I’m just trying to get a little jump on the competition.” I motioned at the room full of reporters.
“You can get your information the same way everyone else does,” he said coldly. “And that’s by waiting until we decide what to give y’all.”
“Excuse me, Ravenel,” I retorted. “It’s my job to get information, and your job to provide me with it. I think it’s called the First Amendment and unless I missed something in the news, I believe that still exists even down here in South Carolina.”
We glared at each other for a long moment. “We’ll see,” he muttered and stalked away. “What’s eating his ass?” I wondered aloud.
Doak Maxell watched his boss leave, started to follow him, paused and looked back at me.
“The boys downtown want him to wrap this one up fast and quiet and drop it in the bucket,” he said. “He’s still got some questions about what happened, but he’s kinda been tole to file them under ‘Ferget It.’ Kinda gripes his butt, y’know?”
“Well, tell him that I don’t have to stop asking questions. Maybe we can help each other out here a little.”
Doak snapped off a smart salute. “Yes-suh!” he said.