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WHEN I GOT OFF THE phone, Billy Corcoran came into the press room and announced that Ber t Lewis not only had refused to appear in the interview room to go over his magnificent round, but had left the golf course for the day. This news was greeted with groans, imprecations and muttered oaths. It meant we golf writers would have to use our own creativity to summarize the day’s events, rather than depend on the quoted remarks of the leader. It was a most unusual situation.
I sat at my desk for a while, tapping my front teeth with the eraser end of a pencil and thinking. The tapping thing was a habit I have that once drove a lady friend of mine to move out of my apartment. I always figured that if that was my worst habit, I was in pretty good shape. Besides which, I can never remember her name unless I concentrate, so I figure it was not that great a loss.
I was thinking about what I had learned from Ricky Hamilton, the agent. It seemed to put Brother Ed Durkee squarely in the middle of the picture that was beginning to form. A half million was a lot of money in anybody’s league. Many of those who had been in the God Squad tended to be the lesser-known pros who were still struggling to make good checks. Ed Durkee was only mentioned briefly for his role as leader and unofficial chaplain to the PGA Tour and facilitator of the Bible study programs. He was identified as the pastor of the Church of the Holiness in Dallas. Woody’s piece had nothing about the tithing or life insurance riders or the Christian Investment Fund.
I did some more tapping and thinking. Then I picked up the phone and placed a call to Sherman McCoy, a reporter at the Dallas Morning News. Shermie and I went way back, to those early days on the Boston city desk, before he had enough of those never-ending Massachusetts winters and opted out for the Sunbelt.
It took a bit of negotiation and some old-fashioned bribery before I could get Shermie to do a little legwork for me on the Church of the Holiness and Ed Durkee, both names that were unfamiliar to him. I promised him tickets to the Byron Nelson Classic and agreed to take him and his Texas bride, the lovely Cora Mae, out to an expensive dinner. It would go on my expense account, so who’s counting? Cackling with glee, he promised to make a few calls and call me back.
When I hung up, I started out of the press room. Suzy saw me and gave me a furtive wave to come over. Glancing around, she pulled me into the corner of the room, well out of anyone’s earshot.
“You scratch mine, I’ll do yours,” she whispered, reaching around and touching my back. “Lewis is holed up in the players’ lounge. Good luck.” She ducked away.
Armed with that hot tip, I made a beeline for the locker room. As in most other professional sports, the players’ locker room has about as much privacy as a bus station. In addition to all the players coming in and out, members of the press, players’ agents, teachers, family members, hangers-on and even caddies can be found in the place where the players change shoes, shower and dress. Recognizing the need for occasional privacy, the Tour maintains a separate room where a player can, without worrying about offending anyone, give full vent to frustrations or just sit and enjoy a few moments of peace and quiet. The lounge is private, off-limits to anyone except a player.
The press respects this small measure of sanctuary. We can enter the lounge only if invited, and only if any other player in there assents. Otherwise, we keep away. There are plenty of other places to catch up with someone.
I entered the crowded locker room and, making small talk with various players and acquaintances, made my way to the back of the room, towards the lounge door. I waited around for a few minutes until Hank Knowlton, a player I know pretty well, came out, closing the door behind him.
“Hey Hank,” I said, “Is Bert Lewis in there? I’d like to catch a word with him.”
Hank looked at me worriedly. “Ah, Hacker, can you hold off on that for a while? I dunno about Bert’s, ah, frame of mind right now.”
“Shit, Hank, what’s going on?” I asked. “The guy’s leading the tournament. He should be sitting on Cloud Nine.”
Hank sighed. “God, I know, Hacker. I’d be thinking about icing down some champagne, that’s for sure. But he’s just sitting there, kind of mumbling to himself. It’s scary. I think he’s whacked, y’know? Some of the guys want to call the doctor. This Turnbull thing...it’s got us all kind of on edge, anyway.”
“Were Bert and Turnbull close?” I wondered. “I always thought they kinda went at it.”
Hank sat down in front of a locker and began unlacing his shoes. “Well, that’s true,” he said as he carefully removed one shoe, peeling the grass off the cleats and toweled the top off. “They were in college in Texas together. Bert’s a year or two older and he was the cock-of-the-walk until John came along and took the top position on the team. Ever since, Bert’s been trying to beat his ass, and the harder he tries, the more he gets beat.”
“Sounds like an obsession,” I said.
“Yeah, something like that,” Hank nodded. “And I think Bert’s father is one of those types who lives vicariously through his son. Put a lot of pressure on Bert to win, be on top, never lose ... all that stuff. Gave him holy hell about losing his number one place to Turnbull.” He turned and looked at me. “But of course, none of us are playing each other like that. You got to beat the golf course, not the other guy. Beat the course, and what happens, happens.”
We were interrupted suddenly by a commotion at the entrance to the locker room. Turning, I saw Doak Maxwell pushing his way through the crowd, his beefy physique towering above everyone, and his blue police uniform catching attention. In his wake followed a serene-looking Lt. Ravenel.
“’Scuse me, y’all. Thanks,” Doak said, parting people left and right as he headed for the players’ lounge door. Doak pulled the door open and held it for Ravenel. Hank Knowlton and I followed, Hank hobbling with one shoeless foot.
Ravenel strode into the lounge, and went directly over to the deep, upholstered chair in which Bert Lewis was sitting, head in hands. Lewis looked up, his black hair disheveled, eyes glazed and unseeing.
“Bert Lewis,” Ravenel began in his deep baritone. Lewis tilted his head and blinked. I wasn’t sure if he was hearing and seeing anything. “I’d like you to come downtown with me for questioning concerning the murder of John Turnbull,” Ravenel said.
There was a collective gasp from all of us, as if a single fist had landed simultaneously with brute force in each of our solar plexi. But Bert Lewis didn’t move. He continued to stare up from his chair, eyes unseeing, unmoving, while Bart Ravenel recited the Miranda rights in the suddenly quiet, suddenly stunned room.