The Fourth Day

By Jim Quigley

The Fourth Day is about multiple murders on the PGA Tour; murders that have gone unsolved
until Jim Balfour becomes obsessed with finding answers.

A former Tour player, Balfours search leads him to suspect a serial killer is walking the fairways and he makes it his mission to convince the authorities he is right. When Balfours meddlesome actions become a threat to the killer and the lifestyle he loves, he retaliates as only he can. The retaliation and its fallout far exceeds any and all of Balfours naive expectations.

The Fourth Day deals with the pursuit of closure its costs and its implications.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 12, 2003
• ISBN: 9781469112237

Jim Quigley

Jim Quigley’s background is advertising. It is there, where over a thirty-five year career, he honed his writing skills and attempted to perfect his golf game. Mr. Quigley obtained both undergraduate and graduate degrees from Dartmouth College and currently resides in Bloomfield Hills, Michigan. The Fourth Day is his first novel.

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Copyright © 2003 by Jim Quigley.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any

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or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing

from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the

product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to

any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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Contents

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

TWENTY-FIVE

TWENTY-SIX

TWENTY-SEVEN

TWENTY-EIGHT

TWENTY-NINE

THIRTY

THIRTY-ONE

THIRTY-TWO

THIRTY-THREE

THIRTY-FOUR

THIRTY-FIVE

THIRTY-SIX

THIRTY-SEVEN

THIRTY-EIGHT

THIRTY-NINE

FORTY

FORTY-ONE

FORTY-TWO

FORTY-THREE

FORTY-FOUR

FORTY-FIVE

FORTY-SIX

FORTY-SEVEN

FORTY-EIGHT

FORTY-NINE

FIFTY

FIFTY-ONE

FIFTY-TWO

FIFTY-THREE

FIFTY-FOUR

FIFTY-FIVE

FIFTY-SIX

FIFTY-SEVEN

FIFTY-EIGHT

FIFTY-NINE

EPILOGUE

ONE

It was 7:30 p.m., the day before Good Friday. Hey Sticks, asked the Flounder, you ever miss the Tour? Flounder, that was long ago. Different person. Different life. Different world. Why?

The first speaker was Harold Plecko, known as the Flounder to just about everyone except his mother, to whom he would always be Harold. The other was Andrew James Balfour II, called Sticks by his friends and Jim by the rest of the free world.

I don’t know, Flounder answered. The Players Championship last weekend and The Masters next weekend got me to thinking.

About what? Balfour was curious.

Well, you saw what Couples did last Sunday at The Players Championship. His ball on sixteen hits the piling, bounces left instead of right into the water, he makes eagle, wins the tournament. You were his equal in college when both of you were at Houston. Don’t you ever wonder what you could’ve done?

Flounder, that ship has sailed.

Come on Sticks, you got to think about it though.

I think about a lot of things. That’s not one of them.

For April 4th in Michigan, the weather had been pretty good. There had been a frost the previous night that had the daffodils and nascent tulips shriveled-up like prepubescent dicks. However, by midday, if you were of a mind, you could have played golf in a sweater or a windbreaker.

Doesn’t make sense, said Flounder insistently, you had a great start on the Tour.

Flounder, what’s with this piranha-like persistence? John Sullivan asked with a smile. You’re supposed to be a bottom feeder, not a carnivore.

Talking about being out of character, since when did you become an ichthyologist Sully? Flounder wondered out loud. The closest you get to water is with your whiskey. Anyhow, I was just curious, Sticks.

That’s the past Flounder, and I don’t go back there much. It’s not productive. Balfour said with some finality.

George Orwell said something about whoever controls the past controls the present.

Flounder, let it go, Sullivan said not so half-heartedly. Sticks, what do you say we set up a little action tomorrow?

Jim Balfour was the Director of Golf, Head Professional and General Manager at The Stonehenge, a public course owned by his father and located in Romeo, Michigan, a suburb well to the north of Detroit. He had been doing this for eleven years, after walking away from a promising career on the PGA Tour at the tender age of twenty-seven.

Under his aegis, The Stonehenge had become a high-ticket, highly regarded, public golf course. Played from the tips it was a soupcon over 7,000 yards. It had enough woods to make Smoky the Bear feel at home, wetlands for Daffy and Donald and a creek that maliciously meandered through the course. Fronting one of the par 3’s was a pond that represented more of a psychological challenge than a real challenge, which made it a real challenge, since in golf the psychological was real. It wasn’t a course with an abundance of sand traps, but the traps that were there all served an unpleasant purpose. The greens were large enough to hide a pin where you’d never find it, very seldom offered a straight putt and could play like putting on wet tile. There were no gift holes, just like there were no free lunches. He made it a player’s course, equal to any private club in southeastern Michigan. It kept him busy.

His father had bought the golf course some years before at the instigation of his first wife who convinced him to purchase an out-of-the-way, goat track golf course as a combination real estate investment and big boy toy. As a successful real estate developer, the senior Balfour had an intuitive sense for anticipating where people would be moving and what they wanted when they got there. He got the goat track for nothing, Hoovered up the surrounding land, and what was to be a big boy toy became a significant part of the already significant Balfour holdings.

Just as Balfour had developed the golf course, the clubhouse at The Stonehenge had been his father’s creation. It was white, wood, and very southern plantation-like, both in appearance and flavor. The architectural style was one of the few things Balfour’s mother and father had ever agreed upon, although they got there, like they got everywhere else, from totally different points of view. She liked it for the extrinsic reasons, because it looked like Tara or Twelve Oaks from Gone With the Wind and because there was nothing else like it in Michigan. He liked it for the intrinsic reasons, because it had all of the conceivable amenities of a country club clubhouse without managing to look like one. It was elegant as well as functional.

The clubhouse was situated on the high ground of the property, allowing for views of the entire golf course from the Club Room, which was the up-scale bar; the Fireside Room, which was the dining room used to host outings, wedding receptions, and Bar-Mitzvahs; and the Grill Room, which was the restaurant/bar combination that ginned up most of The Stonehenge’s revenue.

The Grill Room, where Balfour and his friends were ensconced, was wood-paneled on three walls; the fourth wall being all glass and having views of the first tee, the second green, the par three third hole and part of the sixth fairway. There was a big screen television in one corner, and a smaller wall-mounted television in the other corner over the bar.

Balfour was standing behind the bar, and seated in the four stools across from him besides Sully and the Flounder were Michael Kutuzov and Thomas Ma, known respectively as OB Left and Nancy Drew. The four gentlemen in question had just completed a pre-opening day round of golf.

Sticks, piped up Kutuzov, Sully has a good idea. We need to exorcise our winter swing thoughts. And what are the chances of a vodka and cranberry, easy on the cranberry?

OB, with $4.25 incoming, they’d be real good.

Start me a tab. How about we do it at 2:00 p.m. tomorrow with the usual suspects? I’ll make the calls.

It’s doable, said Balfour. As a matter of fact, it’s a damn fine idea, particularly if you guys set it up.

Playing golf Friday would definitely be a good idea. In a couple of months it would be the eleventh anniversary of his sister Andrea’s murder. He realized the death of a sibling was never easy for anyone; somehow it just seemed so much worse for him. Accepting something that made no sense, that had no rhyme or reason, fought with his very nature and had proved impossible for him. He had been unable to let her death go and consequently its impact was still with him. Every anniversary brought back painful memories and this year had the potential to be worse. He wanted to keep busy and he didn’t feel like being alone.

It’s the start of the season . . . we make up teams, no tossing-the-ball shit. Two best balls of the foursome . . . front, back, double for totals. Play for ten a man. Team skins for nickels. Charles Parnell finished talking, and with no apparent disagreement from the others, had defined the terms of engagement.

Double, added Victor the Bookie Alfieri, who would bet on flies fucking and had ‘CREDIT AVAILABLE! FINANCE AT PRIME!’ navy-stenciled on his golf bag,

Low gross, low net chimed in the Flounder who felt some low gross/low net action across the foursomes to be a life-essential necessity.

Balfour ended up teamed with the Flounder, OB Left, and Nancy Drew respectively. The Flounder could really play; OB Left, a self-appointed test pilot for Stolichnaya, could sometimes play; Nancy Drew’s game was a mystery.

In recognition of Good Friday, Dermod O’Brien delivered an emotionally charged non-denominational blessing of the coolers. A ceremonial Heineken was spilled on the first tee. The games had begun. At some point in the round the action escalated. They had moved from dimes to twenties, and with three holes to go, fifties were showing up on the table.

For fifteen holes, Balfour’s merry band of warriors had been playing smoothly. He was even par, the Flounder and OB Left were playing to their handicaps, and Nancy Drew, as opposed to being a mechanical basket case with hands of stone, was having an out-of-body experience. Coming to sixteen as the last foursome, and with a five shot lead, it was their tournament to lose; visions of money trucks danced in their heads.

The last three holes at The Stonehenge were good finishing holes.

Sixteen was a 160-yard par 3 over a pond to a wide but not deep green gradually sloping to the water with sand traps in the back. Short and you sleep with the fishes. Long, you visit the traps and get a chance to go surfing if you blade your next shot. Left, you’re out of bounds and reloading.

The Flounder decided to visit his kin and dunked one. OB Left, undergoing a Stoli deprivation synapse attack, came over the top, and per his nickname did an Adios Mother Fucker out-ofbounds left. Nancy Drew came back to his body with a start, double pumped two into the pond, and Balfour was left on the green like the Lone Ranger in the Badlands. Flounder two putts, Balfour makes. Birdie, double . . . what had been a five shot lead was now three.

Seventeen was a 385-yard par 4 that started the climb back to the clubhouse. What made the hole was the large, heavily crowned two-tiered green; getting the ball close to the pin was a challenge, putting was the Nightmare on Elm Street.

Chaos lives. Karma is dead. Larry, Moe, and Curly up close and personal. OB Left had adapted a swing more suitable for a condemned playground. Nancy Drew had a major dick-out problem laying two on the wrong side of the ladies tees. The Flounder’s drive was a heat-seeking missile that took off low, got lower, and succumbed to gravity 100 yards out. Balfour did an Apollo launch that left him ninety-five to the hole.

Balfour was thinking deuce, and the sand wedge he hit hit nothing but net. If he didn’t know better, he would have thought the clock had just flipped back eleven years. They had their two. Flounder somehow scarfed out a six, never hitting a ball above eye level. They still lose two to the field, and the five shot lead that had become a three shot lead was now one.

Eighteen was not an easy par four. It was 405 yards up-hill, with enough sand traps in the fairway and around the sides and back of the green to make a Bedouin and his camel feel right at home. The hole was hard, the math was simple . . . they needed a net six, two under par, to cash.

Cujo Scarzini had come back with the two other foursomes to watch the final hole and wreak whatever havoc was possible within their admittedly loose definition of good sportsmanship. Pennies rattling in a tin can replaced the clinking of loose change in the pocket.

Harold, nice outfit! Does that shirt have a matching shower curtain? said Scarzini.

Hey Nancy Drew, you and OB Left are getting sugar; makes you two the go-to guys. A pair of natural pars and you got yourself some major incoming, added Parnell, getting into the act.

Charlie Parnell, said Vincent ‘Too Large’ Magliosi in a stage whisper that approximated a hundred car freight train going through a railroad crossing, mind-fucking OB Left is pointless.

Why do you say that Vincent? Parnell asked innocently.

The man knows his swing, plays within himself, he responded. Look at that practice move, it’s as repetitive as a scratched record. Firm right, not past parallel, fire out with the left . . . a thing of beauty and a joy forever.

Scarzini added for good measure, Vincent, you gotta believe Nancy Drew is a lock. Even if his swing does a Houdini and escapes, he’ll never miss that third putt coming back. Besides he knows the fourth one’s good anyhow.

Because life does not imitate art, the Force is not always with you, and Hollywood endings are in Hollywood, Balfour and Company came up short. A birdie, two net pars and a bogie worked out to a seven and a push with the North Oakland County Mafia chapter . . . Messrs. Cujo Scarzini, Vincent ‘Too Large’ Magliosi, Victor ‘the Bookie’ Alfirei, and Charlie ‘The Consigliere’ Parnell.

Everyone adjourned to the Grill Room for the settling up of individual wagers and beverages.

Sticks, I watched you play the last three holes: birdie, eagle, birdie. You’re good, but not that good. What the fuck happened?

The speaker was Dante DeMaio, close friend and confidant of Jim Balfour. Dante wasn’t sure how long he had known Balfour. He remembered meeting him at some law enforcement outing at The Stonehenge shortly after he had been transferred back from Paris to the FBI’s Detroit office, and over the years they had become fast friends. Of all the people that knew Balfour, Dante, while not knowing everything, had very good idea of what he had been through.

Dante, beats the shit out of me, Balfour replied, clearly happy to see his friend. Here you are standing in the middle of seventeen about to hit a shot you’ve hit more times than you can remember and all of a sudden time stood still and it was ‘déjà vu all over again,’ as Yogi was want to say. Pretty stupid, huh?

Nothing is stupid or unbelievable when it comes to golf, responded Dante, adding as an afterthought, maybe the Open coming back to town connected some long dormant synapses. Who knows? Just enjoy the moment and remember while you were the dog today, tomorrow you could be the hydrant.

What a beautiful, understated affirmation, Balfour said with a smile, but I get the message. By the way, do you moonlight for Hallmark?

Yup, answered DeMaio, it’s called the ‘Hardass Collection.’ Now are we going to jerk-off or drink?

What’s your poison pal?

TWO

Looking forward to the U.S. Open. Last time it was at Oakland Hills, didn’t play as well I would have liked. This time should be better.

Past few weeks have been a good tune up. Memorial was better than the Kemper, and the Buick better still. Don’t want to jinx myself, but I’m hitting it pure right now. Should be peaking at just the right time.

Get into town on Monday. Play a practice round Tuesday and again Wednesday morning. Can’t be too ready for that course.

THREE

The only people, besides ducks, rooting for a wet spring that year in Southeastern Michigan were the officers and members of the United States Golf Association. They had been running U.S. Opens since 1895 and over the years had perfected the perverse art of making a difficult course impossible. They would take a year to plan how to modify tees, modify greens, make fairways narrower, and roughs longer. They would claim it was challenging and suitable for a national championship.

With Oakland Hills, for the 1996 Open, they had what they wanted.

Thanks to the aforementioned wet spring, conditions would be even more difficult than the last time the event had been played there. The ‘85 Open, if one were prone to keep track of such things, was where T.C. Chen attained a brief taste of immortality with a double eagle on the second hole to take the lead, realized a lasting dose of infamy by double hitting a chip shot on Sunday to lose the lead, and suffered the ignominious distinction of letting Andy North, despite an utterly forgettable career, win his second Open title.

Jennifer Gates couldn’t wait for the Open to begin.

As a member of Oakland Hills, she had played the course numerous times so she had knowledge of what the pros were facing, and as a card-carrying ten handicap, an appreciation of what they had to overcome. She was going to be an on-course volunteer at the event; a participant as opposed to a spectator in her country’s national championship. To her way of thinking she was living a Kodak moment and had planned her week around it.

Jennifer was thirty-five years old, divorced, and had been so for the last ten years. She worked at Michael Roberts, a large national advertising agency headquartered in Detroit. The agency was a Detroit anomaly having no automotive business and wanting none. They prided themselves on their creative product and believed ‘good automotive advertising’ was an oxymoron. They also believed in the old adage that clients get the advertising they deserve and sought out those clients whose minds were open to fresh thinking with businesses that could be measurably impacted by advertising. Michael Roberts did very well, and Jennifer Gates did very well at Michael Roberts. She was one of their key players managing several of their key accounts.

She also loved Jim Balfour.

She had met him some years before when Michael Roberts had a client agency outing at The Stonehenge. When she first showed up that day Balfour was in his Director of Golf and former PGA Tour player mode laying one-liners and talking male speak to an appreciative audience of otherwise intelligent males. Watching him in action, all she could think of was Carly Simon’s song You’re So Vain.

Balfour had sought her out after golf, and much to her amazement, she discovered that not only could he walk and chew gum, he could conduct a multi-syllabic conversation that was humorous and interesting. She was intrigued enough to see him again and again over golf, dinner, cocktails or whatever the mood called for. She found she could talk, rant, and rave about the lunacy of the agency business and the vagaries of clients and he would listen, just as her dog had always done in the pre-Balfour days. What made him different, besides the fact he didn’t chase cars or lick his balls, was that if asked, he would offer a point of view that she hadn’t thought of and a perspective she might have overlooked. One thing led to another and eventually the again and again became permanent.

Hon, Jennifer was asking, do you know who Roger Carville is?

He’s a guy on the tour, replied Balfour. Why?

I know that. I’ve been assigned to be his scorekeeper.

At any golf tournament, it was the responsibility of the opponent to record the score and it was the responsibility of the player to verify the accuracy of the score recorded. It was the scorekeeper’s role to independently record the score and there was a scorekeeper for each player. It was a system of checks and balances that would have made the Founding Fathers proud.

It’s funny you got him, Balfour said a little more interested in the conversation than he had been. He’s a fellow University of Houston grad, and out of idle curiosity, I keep track of how they do.

Did you know him?

"Not real well. He was getting in as I was getting out, so we only played a year together. As I recall, he was like most freshmen on golf team and thought of himself as god’s fucking gift to golf.

That’s a male thing, not a freshmen thing, she said jokingly, half to herself and half to Balfour. What’s his program?

Jen, I have no idea what he’s like.

Jennifer continued her questioning in the hopes that at some point Balfour might have some insight. Does he talk, can he play, is anybody home or is this going to be like a client staff meeting? Assuming he makes the cut, I’m going to be with him for four days. It’d be nice to know something up front about him.

All I can tell you, Balfour replied is that he’s a tour regular. He’ll average twenty-five tournaments a year, almost always make the cut, and knock down $300-$350 large each year like an annuity.

Has he ever won?

He hasn’t, and no one knows why he hasn’t. Watch him, you’ll see he has a silky smooth golf swing that’s like butter melting on corn.

Has he ever even come close?

Yeah, said Balfour. He’s had his chances to win, but any time he’s had the chance he’s come up short. For whatever the reason the guy can’t close. But like they say, once he does win he’ll probably win a lot. He’s got the game.

Jennifer’s threesome had teed off just before noon on Thursday and would do so again at 7:30 a.m. on Friday.

Who was in your threesome today? Balfour asked.

Lorna Gillette and Judy Bostwick, Jennifer said, identifying her fellow scorekeepers with a smirk.

Honey, the players.

I knew what you meant. Besides Carville, there was Tommy Armstrong and Jack O’Neil.

What were they like?

"Carville surprised me. He was pleasant and attractive, sort of a tall Robert Redford. Quiet, just went about his business. Not anywhere near as talkative as Armstrong. How can you flirt in the

U.S. Open?"

Some people have to be quiet, others have to talk, responded Balfour. People deal with stress differently. How did your Carville play? I heard on the news he was even par.

He’s got that molasses swing just like you described. Makes a bonehead mistake early, shrugs it off, comes back with a birdie and finishes the day, ‘thank you very much’ even par, three shots off the lead. I didn’t pay attention to what the other two guys did. I think one shot seventy-two and the other one like seventy-six. Jennifer lit a cigarette before continuing. It was slower than shit out there though. There were worms out there moving faster than we were. When we got to sixteen two groups were waiting on the tee. Your mind, your body, your feet start turning to mush; how you could do what you did out there is amazing to me.

I think putting up with clients is just as amazing. Balfour got out of his chair to light the grill. While I’m up, you want a beverage?

Do me a cranberry and orange with Meyers, easy on the cranberry and orange. And explain to that god damned basset hound that the fact I don’t want him near me does not mean he is not an equal in the eyes of God and that I don’t love him. Tell him I have a headache and duly note that fact yourself.

Balfour returned with the drinks. We’ll eat in half an hour. By the way, do you know why they always have the Open this week? It’s because it’s the week with the longest light of the year. That way they can make the course impossible, keep you on the course until your kids have kids and not worry about getting the round in.

Boy, am I going to be smart tomorrow, Jennifer said. Whom will I share this factoid with?

Very funny wise ass. Watch Carville tomorrow. The guy is due. He can’t keep putting up good numbers and getting bupkus for results.

Jennifer and Lorna Gillette were in the ladies locker room changing shoes following Friday’s round.

Jen, Lorna said as she put shoetrees in her golf shoes, Carville’s playing well. That sixty-nine he shot could put him in the hunt this weekend.

Armstrong’s no slouch either. His sixty-eight today sure as shit isn’t chopped liver.

I know. Aren’t you glad I talked you into this? Being out on the course is more exciting than I anticipated.

If and when I have my fifteen minutes of fame, I’ll acknowledge you, Jennifer said with a smile.

What are you guys doing tonight? Lorna asked changing the subject.

I don’t know, probably lay low with Balfour. Somehow this walking around is more tiring than playing.

Me too, said Lorna. I going to lay low and not be found.

Bishop problems? asked Jennifer.

Yup, answered Lorna, clearly not wanting to discuss the subject. Good luck tomorrow, hope Carville plays well. Maybe we could be paired-up again on Sunday.