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I’VE NEVER SEEN A HOMICIDE site investigation proceed so quietly. Ravenel later told me that the chief of police, that die-hard golf fan with his clubhouse pass, had ordered that the tournament was not to be disturbed. So instead of a phalanx of police cars arriving on the scene with sirens blaring and lights flashing, Ravenel stuffed twenty officers into three unmarked vans which drove slowly across the eleventh fairway– after waiting for a threesome to tee off – and disappeared from sight down the dirt road to the maintenance shed. A few minutes later, an ambulance followed, also silently. If anyone noticed, they probably figured a fan had been overcome by the heat.
The tournament officials knew about Jocko’s murder, of course, but they kept it quiet, too. That afternoon’s national television broadcast went off without a hitch, or a mention of the dead caddie under the burlap sacks. Tom Kite fired a nifty 67 to take a one-shot lead over Lanny Wadkins and Australian Wayne Grady. Seven more players, including the Zinger, were within five shots of the lead. The commentators were beside themselves with feigned excitement over the possibilities for an exciting final round on Sunday. Live coverage beginning at three o’clock Eastern, two Central.
In the meantime, I suffered through the usual drill. Told my story four or five times, to four or five different cops. Watched as the forensic boys dusted and photographed and catalogued. I was able to get Ravenel to allow me to telephone my editor in Boston. I told him to use the wire service copy for Saturday’s round and to hold open a nice hole for tomorrow for a story that would be forthcoming. A big story.
“Jesus, Hacker,” he yelled at me. “I need to know more than that. Whaddya got?”
Ravenel’s clear gray no-nonsense eyes were watching me like a hawk. “I can’t tell you that right now,” I said. “Just get me a front-page spot.”
“Awww, shit,” he said. “I can hold it until about seven. After that, your ass is grass.” He slammed the phone down. Such a delightful chap. For someone who’s the issue of an incestuous relationship.
Doak Maxwell helped the paramedics carry Jocko’s blanket-wrapped body out of the back shed. Doak’s standard-issue white shirt was sweat-stained under his arms and across his thick back. They loaded Jocko into the back of the ambulance. Doak pulled off his surgical gloves and tiredly wiped the sweat off his forehead. The afternoon was beastly hot, especially in the close proximity of the metal-clad shed.
Ravenel motioned to me, and I followed him into his navy blue sedan where the blessed air conditioner was chugging away.
“So, Inspector,” I chided gently. “Have we developed an- other theory for this case? Your prime suspect lies yonder still and cold.”
“Up yours, Hacker,” he growled at me. He began to stroke his chin thoughtfully. “But this does seem to put another spin on things.”
“If this was in Boston, I would begin to suspect the Mob,” I said. “Getting rid of witnesses one by one.”
Ravenel shook his head. “That was my first thought too,” he said. “They could start to get antsy about lowlifes like Rudy Hill and his friends cutting into the narcotics money machine. But I don’t like it. It doesn’t explain why John Turnbull was killed. He had nothing to do with narcotics. Secondly, neither of these killings are anything like a Mob hit. They tend to favor a pistol shot to the back of the head. Turnbull’s was much too cute for a professional hit...someone was trying to make it look like an accident. This one –” he motioned towards the storage shed where I’d found Jocko – “This one is just plain amateur. If the Mob had wanted Jocko dead, Jocko would have disappeared. No body, no clues, no evidence. They wouldn’t have left him lying around where we could find him.”
He shook his head. “No,” he sighed. “There’s another bad apple out there somewhere and I’m damned if I know where.”
“What about our favorite tavern-keeper, Mr. Hill?” I suggested. “Jocko and Lewis killed Turnbull to keep him quiet about Jocko’s business. Hill gets nervous about Jocko talking about his connection. After all, Jocko was not one of the world’s most dependable people. So Hill has Jocko killed and takes a powder himself until the storm dies down. Lewis takes the fall for Turnbull, and ...”
“And all we got to do is pick up Rudy for icing Jocko,” Ravenel concluded. “First of all, that’s too stupid even for Rudy Hill. It’s like him hanging a sign around his neck that says ‘Yo—arrest me.’ Second of all, this whole thing is way over Rudy’s head. I’m telling you, the guy’s a small-timer. His idea of crime has been to knock over parking meters. I can’t even believe the guy has gotten into dope. Fencing class rings...that’s always been his speed.”
Ravenel sighed again. “I don’t know, hacker,” he said. “We’ll find Rudy and bring him in. Assuming he’s still alive. But I still think there’s a missing piece somewhere.”
“Well,” I said, “I have to go back to work. My editor is holding a piece of the front page for tomorrow. Good luck to you and the Red Sox,” and I climbed out of the cool interior of his car.
“Hey, Hacker!” Doak called to me from the shed. I turned around.
“I don’t think I can make dinner tonight,” he said. “Too much work to do. Can you tell Trevino for me?”
I turned back around fast so he couldn’t see me laughing, and waved a hand at him in acknowledgement.