Cruel Justice

18

BEN WAS AMAZED AT how Mitch’s demeanor relaxed the instant they were away from Pearson. He had previously been stiff and obedient—the perfect flunky. A few minutes out of Pearson’s office, however, and he was casual, lighthearted—almost impish. Ben wondered if he just put on an act for his boss, or if he put on an act for whomever he was with at any given moment.

Mitch started the tour in the main dining room. The word impressive did not do justice to the immense majesty of this room. The walls were oak, on all sides. Huge bay windows with burnished drapes provided a breathtaking view of the course. The raised ceiling gave the room a feeling of almost infinite size. The enormous bricked-in fireplace was taller than Ben.

Mitch waltzed Ben through a series of smaller areas—offices and conference rooms. A music room with a grand piano Ben would die for. A stereo system he would die twice for. And the obligatory pro shop overlooking the putting green. Ben quickly surveyed the leisurewear, all sporting the Utica Greens crest. Not a price tag under seventy-five bucks. Not even the sun visors.

They descended a staircase to the main locker room, which Ben was informed was referred to as “Chambers.” Huge bathing areas, rows of spacious showers, a Jacuzzi, implacable attendants, sky-high mirrors, wall-attached hair dryers, and forty different bottles of cologne and aftershave. The faucets and handles were made of brass; the countertops were solid black marble.

Not someplace you’d drop by just to clip your toenails.

It occurred to Ben that this might be an appropriate time to milk Mitch for whatever information he could provide. “So how long have you been working for Pearson? Uh, Captain Pearson, I mean.”

“Now there’s a captain who never sailed the stormy seas. I don’t think he could pilot a paddleboat.” Mitch laughed. “It’s an honorary title, I guess. To answer your question, I came onboard fresh out of business school, a little less than ten years ago, not long after that murder. All the bad publicity that incident generated convinced the board members they needed someone to manage the grounds on a full-time basis. So they hired me. As you may have guessed, I do the work that keeps this Disneyland-for-dilettantes afloat.”

“Does the job pay well?”

“Not as well as having rich parents does.”

Mitch spun Ben through the locker room. The lockers were of carved pine. None of them had locks; Ben surmised that would be considered bad taste. Such a measure would suggest it was possible that one of the esteemed members might actually commit theft, perish the thought.

“Not a bad place to take a leak, huh?” Mitch said dryly.

“It’d do in a pinch,” Ben concurred.

They left the building and walked outside to survey the perfectly trimmed greens. The sun was still blazing; Ben found himself feeling nostalgic for the air-conditioned paradise of the locker room.

At Ben’s request, Mitch showed him the caddyshack. The scene of the ancient crime. After a short walk, Mitch removed a key and opened the door.

“Who has keys to this place?” Ben asked.

‘Ten years ago all the board members. Today, just me. After the murder, when the keys turned them into suspects, the board didn’t want anything to do with it anymore. They turned in their keys and put me in charge of the shack. Actually, I requested the assignment. I figured I couldn’t do any worse than those guys had.”

Together, they entered. The shack was a well-constructed building more spacious than Ben’s apartment. Benches and chairs lined the walls; golf magazines cluttered every table.

“I don’t see many caddies around today,” Ben observed.

“Right. Welcome to the post-golf cart era. Caddies are not essential anymore to ensuring that you can play eighteen holes without the least bit of physical exertion. It’s mostly just the old codgers who use caddies these days.”

Well, thank goodness someone is preserving those grand old traditions, Ben thought. “You know, I’m kind of surprised that this club would hire Leeman Hayes as a caddy. Or anything else.”

“What’s wrong with this picture, huh? Well, I think I can explain that mystery. You read the papers much?”

“Almost never.”

“Then you wouldn’t know. About every five years or so, some crusading-journalist type decides to rail against the gross inequities represented by the old boys’ country-club system. ‘How dare they live in such grand opulence, when less than ten miles away you can find the poorest, most impoverished families of north Tulsa?’ Or: ‘Why are all the board members men?’ Or: ‘Why are the employees all the same color?’ ”

“So the board indulges in a little equal-opportunity sham,” Ben murmured.

“Right the first time.” Mitch picked up some golf shoes and slid them under a bench. “Leeman was a perfect face-saving hire. Not only was he black, not only was he from a bitterly poor family—he was retarded as well. Now how could anyone say Utica Greens was heartless after they made a magnanimous gesture like hiring him?”

“No comment,” Ben said.

“Hey, don’t spare my feelings. I’ve been living with it for a good long time.”

“And it doesn’t bother you?”

“What, you mean like, do I have a conscience?” He grinned. “Naaaaah. I checked that in my locker my first day here and I haven’t seen it since.”

Ben walked to the far north corner of the shack. “This is where it happened, isn’t it?”

“Yup. That’s where they found her, slammed against the wall, the club shaft rammed through her throat.”

Ben stared at the empty corner. “I suppose all traces have been long since eliminated.”

“Obviously. In fact, that was a major source of controversy. The board wanted her removed and the room repainted immediately after she was found. They were having a big tournament the next day, and the last thing they wanted was a murder scene. The police, however, insisted on roping off the shack, taking pictures, and scouring the room for evidence. Put the board members’ noses extremely out of joint.”

“And the four members of the board back then …”

“Are the same four who compose the board today.”

“Did they ever try to find out who committed the murder?”

“Who? The board?” Mitch laughed. “You must be joking. Leeman was arrested at the scene. That was good enough for them. Once they cleaned up the mess and got their tournament back on schedule, I doubt if any of them ever thought about it again.”

“Didn’t they try to protect Leeman? He was their employee, after all.”

“Protect him? Hardly. I think they were glad to feed him to the wolves, to resolve the mystery before it attracted any more attention. He was the perfect scapegoat, for the board and the police. Ever since then, the board has used Leeman as an object lesson in what happens when you bring ‘one of them’ into the hallowed halls of Utica Greens.”

“Mitch,” Ben said, his teeth clenched, “would you get me the hell out of here?”

“My pleasure.” He opened the door and together they walked back into the blinding sunlight.