The Detectives

Soft sunlight filters through tall windows, onto several desks, file cabinets and hard wood floors in the loft style office that Michael rents.  A lone man, George Devries, sits at a desk, legs propped upon it.  Slightly round, with glasses, receding hairline and cherubic face, wearing slacks, short sleeve button down shirt and a smart bow tie, George is immersed in the daily paper when Michael strolls into the room.  George looks up.

  “Good morning.”

Michael continues to walk to his desk. He tosses his keys on it and drops down into his chair.  He rubs his face.  George looks at him.

  “Or not.”

Michael looks up at the ceiling. He finally utters a few words.

  “Where are Finn and Riley?”

  “Working on something I suppose.”

Dead silence slips through the room for a moment. George takes his feet of off his desk and sets down the paper, looking intently at Michael.

  “You were there, weren’t you.”

Michael rubs his eyes and nods.  George lets out a light sigh.

  “The write up is in today’s paper.  Felix Emerson, pro tour golfer, found

   dead at Wilmington Club.  No mention of cause.”

Michael sighs, staring up at the ceiling.

  “Yeah.”

George shakes his head.

  “The guy buys it right before the open, not that he had much chance of winning

    anyway. Do you think the wife did it?”

  “She hired me, but I can’t rule that out…not likely though.”

Michael sits up in his chair, looking thoughtful.

  “While I was casing the place, the girl he was banging slipped out of the clubhouse,

   around the time he was killed, but there were several other men who left at

   various times as well.”

Michael looks at George who has been listening carefully.

  “You know a bit about this guy?”

George forms a round cheeked smile

  “Hey, you are talking to the sports library here.”

  “Good, you are coming with me.”

  “Where to boss?”

Michael gives him a good look and grabs his phone, starting to punch some buttons.

  “To the open of course.”

_______________________________________________________________________________

Spectators mingle around the golf course, quietly moving along pathways under a brilliant sun.  Pros are swinging on the driving range, chatting casually, and signing autographs. Fans gather at tees and greens watching players practice through the course.  Media members scurry to speak with players and catch a quote or a lead for their stories. From some shady trees, Michael and George emerge.  Michael, tall and slender strolls along in kaki pants, comfortable polo shirt and glasses, George still wearing his bowtie, tags along looking at a guide, sweat glistening on his brow. They stroll through the crowd of this opening day practice round. George pulls out a handkerchief and pats his brow..

  “A beer would be nice right now. Nice hook up on the passes by the way.  Didn’t

   know you had connections on the tour.”

Michael nods

  “Yes, Nicky’s a good friend.  Been meaning to come to one of these.”

  “Never been, huh?”

  “Nope.”

George looks back down at the tour guide.

  “Well, Felix was an average tour player at best. On the tour for about 10 years.  Made

   decent money, but never broke top 15 in any tournament play.”

Michael looks around as they continue along.

  “What else?”

George shrugs.

  “Well, he wasn’t well liked, by pretty much everybody.  He was a bit of an asshole.”

Michael stops for a moment, and looks up at the sky, shaking his head slightly.

  “That helps narrow things down a bit doesn’t it.”

George laughs.

  “Yeah”

Michael enters a beverage tent, George in tow.  He walks up to the bar and orders two beers.

  “We need to track down one or two of the people I saw leave last night.  Perhaps

   we can find out more from one of them.”

George takes a beer Michael handed to him and takes a long sip, looking quite satisfied.

  “How will we do that?

  “Hopefully I can recognize one here.  I believe all of them work for the club or the

    tour in some fashion.”

George nods his head.

  “Ok.  Give me a description of the ones you saw and I’ll figure it out.”

Michael smiles.

  “I knew you would.”

Take your shot

As he approaches his shot on the 18^th, the heat presses in around Guthrie.  Still as a statue the air is, and the sun a steady and constant bombardment of energy upon the mingling crowd.  Guthrie’s first shot from the tee had sailed wide right on him, into a clump of aged, bent trees.  The course staff had marked the ball and were creating a wall around it so the spectators would not interfere.

Nothing like watching a young talent struggle with a challenging shot.  What choice would he make?  How would he handle the pressure?  It’s only day one, but the leaders have struck early and hard with low scores, pressing the rest of the later field to keep up the pace.  After day two the number of entries is cut in half.

Guthrie approaches the shot.  There is one small window through a group of trees that might give him a chance to land the green about 160 yards away.  But it will require him to get the ball to arc to the left around one last tree after lofting over the first two and missing one that is leaning right in front of him..

Or he could chip out onto the fairway safely and get a better look at setting up on the green.

A crowd begins to muster around the ball as he scans his options.  It takes him little time to decide.  He is going for it.  He and his caddie discuss strategy as the onlookers shake heads, gasp, chuckle, and discuss the likelihood that his ball will survive the travel to the green.

This is no small time tournament.  Here, Guthrie stands on the big stage, in a pivotal moment that may decide a number of things for this potential emerging star.  He has talent and skill.  Can he make the shot when he needs it the most?

Knowing that keeping himself in the tournament might require him to take risks, he grabs his club and sets his sights on the 18^th green.  People who were mingling in front of where he might be are ushered out of the way.

“You might want to move back a little” Guthrie mentions with a slight smile to a few nearby onlookers.  The crowd chuckles, swooshing out the half held breaths of the people watching, as if they were the ones taking the swing.

The course staff holds up their hands to silence and still the crowd.  People stop moving.  Guthrie looks intently at the ball and lines up his club. Time stops moving.  He cocks his arms back and swings gracefully through.   His ball lifts out of the pile of bark chips within which it had landed, flies past the bent tree, lofts over the clump of trees and arcs to the left around a last tree slightly along a path that lands right on the green.

The crowd cheers and incredulous smiles break out on many of the spectator’s faces.  Truly a remarkable shot.  With the heat, the crowd, the pressure, Guthrie pulled out a shot that defines focus and perseverance.

In our moments, do we have the ability to focus our talents and do the best we can, when it matters most?  Indeed we all do.  It may not come in the spotlight of national TV.  It may not come with the reward and adulation that we all hope we can have every day.  And it may not always work out the way you had intended.  But it will come, when you believe in yourself and you trust the energy and talent that swells from within you. 

Some days it may be harder than others to reach for that energy and belief--to instead succumb to insecurity and self-doubt.  But without the drive to succeed, we would have long ago perished into obscurity.

That is not our destiny, and it is not yours either.  Live for today and take the shot that you know you can make.

Two Swans

Club House Murder

Michael knew what to expect as Detective Wilson entered the Wilmington club house changing room. Wilson draws a crooked smile and shakes his head. 

  “Any reason I shouldn’t just arrest you now?”

Michael passes a blank look

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you.”

Wilson walks right up into the face of Michael, both men standing about the same height. “Oh yeah.”

  “Enough.” Barks a voice from beyond the two. “Back it off Wilson.”

Michael smiles back at Wilson as his face transforms to a sneer. He turns to Lieutenant Dane. Dane, a tall, slim gentleman, with a receding hairline, and two other police officers enter the room.  He scans the area.

  “Let’s see what we have here.”

Wilson grimaces and makes his way over to a corner where a male body lays crumpled in a corner.  The other officers start scanning other areas.  Dane walks over to Michael who leans against a wall.  

  “I know.”

Dane walks up next to Michael, looking around the scene. “So…”

  “I found him here just like that”

  “And how was it, that you happened to find him”

  “Just lucky I guess”

  “Some guys have all the luck. How do you know him?”

  “I don’t really.”

Dane shakes his head.

  “Come on now, we’ve been down this road before.”

Michael straightens up.

  “I was recently employed by someone known to him.”

Wilson, crouched over the body, is looking intently at the corpse.

  “Looks like several traumatic blows to the head.”

Dane looks back at Michael.  One of the officers pokes his head back in the room. 

  “Detective Smith found something.”

Another plainclothes detective enters the room, in a gloved hand carrying a golf club, the end of which has blood covering the metal edge.

  “I believe we have a murder weapon.”

Detective Wilson stands up and walks over to the other detective.  He glances at the club.  “4 iron, lefty. You play?”

Smith chuckles. “Minigolf with my kid.”

Wilson looks over at Michael and Dane.

  “How about you wise ass.  You play, don’t ya?”

Michael looks on and Dane glances down, shaking his head slightly.  Wilson walks over to Michael.

  “So we have a murderer with a left handed swing.”

Dane looks at Wilson. The other officer has returned to the room.

  “ The area is secure, The special investigations unit has arrived as well.”

 The room goes silent. Michael smiles.

  “Or at least that’s what the murderer would like you to think.”

Dane twists his head toward Michael. Wilson snorts. “Right.”

Michael walks across the room and looks down at the body. “Exactly.” Dane follows him across.

  “It appears that the blows to the head are on his left temple.”

Dane nods. “Yes.”

  “Well, based on the angle, it would be more likely that the swing came from

    someone who was right handed.”

Dane cracks a faint smile as he looks over at Wilson, steaming. Michael strolls toward the door.  A few more people enter the room carrying equipment.  Michael looks back and nods toward the new people.

  “I suspect these folks will tell you the same.  You know where to find me if you need

   me.”

Dane belts back 

  “ Michael, you are not going anywhere just yet, let’s chat outside.”  Beckoning to one of the officers, “detain him if you have to.”

Michael exits and Dane turns to Wilson who is staring down the door through which Michael passed.

  “Wilson! Snap to it.  Here’s what I want you to do…”