The Club at Ravenswood

[TreeWood]

Quenneville knew it was a long shot, but at this point in the investigation all he had were mere fragments, nothing he could really tie together. The detective was nothing, if not dogged, and to that end, picked up the phone to arrange the meeting.

Some 35 minutes later, he was turning his dark blue Dodge Charger through the gates of Ravenswood Country Club. Quenneville was one of the many officers on the force who couldn't help but grin when he'd heard the news that the department, like many other state enforcement agencies, had selected Dodge in the last round of procurement decisions. He loved the throaty grumble of the 392 Hemi V8, even at the 15 m.p.h. limit posted along the winding driveway. He had hoped for the Hellcat, but the 6.2 L turbocharged power plant 's 707 horsepower was a just too much for most municipal forces' needs.

Quenneville surveyed the front entrance to the place as he walked the short distance from the parking lot. The course itself was being brought back to its former glory, and so too was the main clubhouse. The slate roof, once stained with algae, had re-gained a solid grey hue. The building's siding, previously the color of faded newsprint, was now restored with a brilliant cloud-white sheen. "That Nesbit's been working overtime," he remarked to nobody in particular.

He was there to meet longtime club president, Scott Doyley, who practically lived on site. Doyley, or "Dooley", as he was often known, had been accommodating on the phone, even if a little apprehensive sounding. But that was understandable. After all, he had the club's reputation to protect, and in Detective Quenneville's experience, just about everyone got nervous when being questioned.

"Thanks for making time for me," Quenneville offered initially, as he settled into the plushness of his leather wingback armchair in the James Joyce-inspired club lounge. "Naturally, detective," came the reply, followed by an awkward silence. Even innocent witnesses often become reticent under such circumstances, fearing irrationally, that just about anything they utter will be used against them in a court of law. In a weird way, Quenneville had noted, it was the oppositional counterpart of Stockholm Syndrome. "Well, I really appreciate it," Quenneville emphasized, doing his best to make Doyley more at ease.

Producing some photos from the manila envelope he'd brought with him, Quenneville inquired, "Do you recognize this at all?" Doyley took a moment to study the pair of photos. "I believe I do, Detective," came the reply. "I'm almost sure that's our ceremonial club dagger - The Dagger of the Decade."

The detective was now at full attention, but the adrenaline rush had blocked out the moniker's name. "The what?" Quenneville asked. "It's the Dagger of the Decade. We used to award it to our top club professional every ten years. But it went missing ages ago," Doyley explained. "It was last awarded in 2000, when Remy Edwards won it. Where on earth did you find it?" Quenneville wasn't prepared to share that information yet, though he knew that Doyley must have suspected that it had something to do with the police presence out on #16 the week earlier.

"At least I've got something!" Quenneville exclaimed to himself, as he turned the Charger back onto Highway 86, building the revs, he popped the clutch and peeled out.



        
 

[xEB50x]

Norm Harlan was on his way to his first appointment with Dr. Eldred in over three months. All he could think about was how upset she would be for missing twelve straight appointments, and discontinuing his medication. The thought was creating anxiety. She was a very direct, almost motherly type of person. Strict with her treatment plans, but caring and interested in her patients.

Upon arrival to her office, Harlan was shocked that Dr. Eldred did not scold, or patronize him for his recent regressions. Instead, she got straight to the point. "Norm, after going over all of the information you've provided me over the three months we have not met, I've decided that Hypno-Therapy is our next step."

Dr. Eldred was world renown for her leading breakthroughs in the field, and Harlan was well aware. Hypnosis has been a top priority for Dr. Eldred. She first got started in her High School years, where every summer she had a job at the county fair. She honed her craft while making people act like chickens, or quack like ducks at the simplest of commands. But, those days were in the past, she now was on the cutting edge, and very respected.

Harlan agreed to the session. Maybe an hour had passed, Harlan had no clue. He did not remember a thing, but by the look on Dr. Eldred's face, he knew she knew...

Several days had past, and Dr. Eldred was very uneasy. She had completed thousands of Hypnosis sessions, but what she learned that day, with Harlan, may put her career at risk. She knew she had to say something. It would challenge her ethics and medical license.

She stopped by her favorite upscale bar after work for a martini with a friend. Half way through her drink she abruptly interrupts her friend, "Sorry, there's something I have to do."
Dr. Eldred left the bar and drove straight to the Ravenswood Police Department. She could no longer hold this secret. She approached the front desk, with an uncomfortable disposition. She was still fighting the urge to respect the rules of client confidentiality. "Can I help you." "What" responds Dr. Eldred. "What can I do for you Mam?" She gazed right through the man at the desk. "I need to speak with a detective...."

[Deleted]

Detective Quenneville wasn't the only person interested in meeting with former club president Scott Doyley, because all of this strange activity and police presence around the course lately was freaking out the Director of Golf David Andrews, even more than the dense fog the crews had worked through for the first two months of the project, and he wanted some answers. Sure, Kessler seemed to care a lot about the history of the course, but Doyley would be the one to ask about the membership and the club. After the detective sped away in his Charger, Andrews took a chair next to Doyley in the lounge, turned it so that it was directly facing him, and said, "Alright, tell me what's going on around here, because I feel like you might know more than most. Rumor in the community is that you've still been in and out of that steel gate many times in the past 17 years, and I've been very interested in contacting you about setting the club president's office back up and working on the caddie program, but this is all a little odd if you ask me."

If anybody was an expert on the Club at Ravenswood, it was Scott Doyley. He had been voted in as club president in 1990 after many terms on the board in other roles (also the year he himself had won the Dagger of the Decade), but he was by far the most popular leader the club had ever had. In fact, due to a technicality in the bylaws, he was actually still the acting club president in perpetuity despite the club being abandoned in the fall of 2000 after the eery and mysterious death of Remy Edwards. The tragedy turned out to be more than the membership could handle, and many just walked away altogether, leaving such a financial burden on previous ownership that they had no choice but to close the doors and lock the gate on their way out. Doyley reached down and pulled a thick, worn out manilla folder from his cracked, antique-looking leather satchel and put it on the cocktail table between the two men, old newsletters and random clippings practically spilling from the inside of the folder as he began to open it.

"It's not very organized, but this is the history of our club in a nutshell right here. Every newsletter from the past 34 years, give or take, and a few newspaper clippings as well, you know, when a revered member was in the obituaries and such. I didn't turn this over to the detective because I'm not really sure anything in here is prudent to what they're doing, but he did seem to know something about the dagger, which really threw me. It always bothered me that the ceremonial dagger went missing, and I had even snuck back into the club 7 years ago to visit the place on the wall where the famous memento was supposed to hang, being that it would be the twentieth anniversary of my Club Championship victory, and I sat in the dreary, abandoned lounge for a few hours with a scotch, looking out over the lake and reminiscing, before calling it a night and departing the premises" Doyley said.

"Do you mind if I, um, look at this stuff?" Andrews asked nervously.

"No, suit yourself, just a bunch of boring newsletters about the happenings at the club each year really, you know, new membership, voting for board members, and tournament results. The annual club championship gets a nice writeup on the front page each year, which the members always looked forward to, especially the events on the 0's... the championships where the Dagger of the Decade is awarded. Some guys would win three or four club championships inside of the decade markers and fail to win the tenth anniversary event, which really made for some exciting drama and heated tempers," Doyley explained.

"There are a lot of names that tend to repeat themselves, I see" Andrews said upon quick perusal of the file. "It seems like Steven Wagenheim and John Raepple had some epic battles along the way, too" Andrews said.

Doyley let out a pretty significant belly laugh at the recollection of one of his own club championship appearances with Wagenheim. "Yes, you're right, those two had some fantastic battles, and a few arguments out there too, usually culminating in Steve threatening to leave the club for good. But the best was in 1998, when I battled Wagenheim in the finals of the event... his caddie that day was a man named Jerry, and he looked exactly like one of those ventriloquism dummies, it was very hard not to laugh at him the whole way around the course" Doyley said.

"So which one of you guys won that year?" Andrews wondered aloud.

"Oh, I beat him 6 & 5 that year, which oddly enough, Jerry didn't find too funny then" Doyley said proudly. "Anyway, feel free to look through the folder all you want, I doubt there's anything of consequence here, but you'll get a good sense of the membership and rivalries that existed if you read the tournament summaries."

Andrews thanked him for his time and invited Doyley to check in from time to time as the clubhouse renovations were completed, and then proclaimed, "I suppose if this course gets off the ground again, that office beyond the lounge is still yours!" before getting up from his chair, folder in hand, heading back to the proshop, where he would sit at his desk for the next few hours to read through all of the newsletters more thoroughly. But what happened next hit him like a ton of Titleists... "Edwards Wins the Dagger!" the headline read, on the newsletter dated Fall 2000. Andrews knew the name, but could it be? He continued reading the article detailing that year's club championship, which of course was an anniversary event where the ceremonial dagger would be awarded, and would soon discover that this was the first time Edwards had ever defeated his rival, despite their numerous matches in between the decade markers that he had come out of on the losing end. Reading the identity of that rival, who Edwards had defeated in 2000 for the Dagger of the Decade, sent Andrews' brain into a tailspin!

[xEB50x]

Harlan wakes up after a peaceful nights sleep. It had been several months since that had happened. He knew it was due to being back on his medications, but he can't help but wonder if it had anything to do with his hypnosis session. This thought brings a rush of emotions. His mind drifts back to the first night he spent in prison decades ago. Throughout the Court process he was consumed with fear. "Don't drop the soap" was the joke growing up, but it was no longer funny! Upon his arrival to prison, he was told by C.O.'s, the term used for Correctional Officers, that his crimes had put him on a dangerous list kept by inmates.

He was aware of the sexual abuse, and victimization placed on weaker inmates, and knew that child molesters and sex offenders were the lowest of the low. He was not sure where he fit into this sliding scale. Harlan was convicted for crimes involving Invasion of privacy. What concerned him most, was the female victim, who reported there was a camera in her bedroom and shower area. She was traumatized knowing Harlan had seen her in her most intimate moments. She stated in the court report, "I was scared the defendant planned to attack me. I feared he would rape or kill me!" "Would this put me in harms way" Harlan thought.

As it turned out, Harlan was involved in a few scuffles, but was able to pretty much keep to himself. He made it through his sentence, but not without his fair share of emotional distress. There were many nights he laid awake contemplating suicide. Those were the darkest hours of his life! These memories made him shutter! "Will I go back to prison if the truth is revealed?"

"Why in the hell did I let Dr. Eldred Hypnotize me!!!" He wondered if he had told her everything? "Did I mention being a caddy that day? Did I refer to the Clubs Ceremonial Dagger? and worse yet....Did I mention his name?"

[TreeWood]

Detective Andre Quenneville had worked some strange cases in his 19 years with Ravenswood P.D., but nothing had prepared him for the unexpected visit from one Dr. Linda Eldred.

When he'd first walked into the interview room, he'd expected the clinical psychologist to match his archetypal image -- a spinsterish shrew of a woman, with small round glasses, dark hair drawn back in an exceedingly tight bun, and a drab grey skirt and jacket that were tight enough to look uncomfortable, but not tailored enough to look chic. That was commonly the uniform, in his experience, of someone who wanted to know everything about you, while revealing nothing of themselves.

He was greatly mistaken.

She looked to be in her mid-40's, but that's where the similarities ended. It was Cougarville after that. Her strawberry blonde mane cascaded down around her shoulders in loose curls, trailing off in golden ripples just below them. Instead of the dark and beady eyes he'd predicted, he was met with soft emeralds that were accentuated further against the  lavender eye shadow. The white angora v-neck, crystal necklace, and the form-fitting highly distressed faded jeans completed the look. Quenneville was forced to adjust his preconceptions, and think about adjusting something else.

The interview must have lasted roughly 20 minutes, but had seemed to pass much more quickly. After he'd escorted Dr. Eldred back to the main foyer, his card in hand, Quenneville returned to Interview Room 2 to play the audio recording back again:

(Andre Quenneville) "What brings you in, Dr. Eldred?"

(Dr. Linda Eldred) "I'm, I'm... not really sure how to begin.... Or even sure that I should..."

(AQ): "I can see you're upset, Doctor. I'd like to help... please, take your time."

(LE): (deep sigh) "I have some information that I need to share. It comes from one of my patients. I can't reveal their name, of course."

(AQ): "I understand. Go on..."

(LE): "Well... my patient appears to have suffered a dissociative episode, and it -- "

(AQ) "Sorry,... a what?"

(LE) "A dissociative episode - it's a condition where a person feels detached from themselves. They see their life like it's a movie that they're watching, not participating in. These patients often have an unclear sense of identity, and it's almost always brought on by a significant stress event in their lives. In this case, it uh... might have been caused by witnessing something traumatic like ... um, a murder."

(AQ) "Like a murder? Are you telling me your patient murdered someone?"

(LE) "No. Well, I'm not sure, possibly... but it's far, far more likely that they happened to witness one -- or sincerely believes that to be the case."

(AQ) "So...you mean it's possible that your patient is just imagining everything?"

(LE) "Possible, yes...but very unlikely. Patient recall of actual events happens differently than recall where the events are imagined. In layman's terms, imagined recollections of traumatic events are exceptionally highly detailed - it's like the brain, when fabricating a construct, overcompensates by adding in a level of detail that just doesn't happen otherwise. My patient's recollections weren't like that. They almost certainly did see a murder!

(AQ) "Tell me the details. Did your patient know the victim or the killer? Where did this happen, and when?"

(LE) "It's all a bit unclear, really. I was using hypnotherapy, and all I got were fractured pieces of information - like shards from a broken mirror. But here's what I know. This all seems to have happened quite some time ago... probably 15-20 years ago. He made statements that bore time-stamps belonging to that era. Models of cars, TV shows, that kind of thing. I don't know who the killer was, but the victim seems to be someone named Edwards -- Remy Edwards. All I could gather about the location was 'The 16th' - whatever that means. Oh... and speaking of numbers... my patient kept mumbling the same sequence over and over... I have it written down here...it's : 5-2, 3-2, 7-4, 7-4, 5-3, 3-2, 7-3......"

Det. Quenneville stopped the playback. Like the shattered mirror Dr. Eldred had alluded to earlier, there were fragments to the case everywhere, but they were finally coming together. There appeared to be a witness to the Edwards murder -- a man. Eldred had slipped up - just once - but Quenneville had caught it. "He made statements that bore time-stamps belonging to that era," she had said. Then, there were those numbers again ... he'd seen them before, but couldn't recall where. Toward the end of the interview she'd mentioned that her patient had claimed to have seen everything through a telescope. Now, was that for real? Or more of that dissociative episode mumbo jumbo she'd mentioned. Quenneville now had hard leads to follow up on...



  

  

[xEB50x]

Norm Harlan's mind was spinning. He feels much better and his thoughts are well organized, but he keeps thinking about his Hypnosis session with Dr. Eldred. His next appointment is a few days away, and he's a bit nervous she will want to continue with her Hypno-therapy. Harlan has already decided he would politely refuse. He can't trust himself, and he's not sure if he's already revealed too much.

He finishes his coffee and grabs his car keys. He's been waiting weeks for Anderson's 50% off sale. Bob Anderson, has owned the only shop in town that carries top notch astronomy equipment for thirty two years. He started working there as a teenager. He never really enjoyed working there, but it was family owned, so he really had no choice. However, now that his father has passed away, he does his best to keep the store afloat. This is a big day for Bob, and his business.

Harlan knows exactly what he's looking for. His plan is to get in and get out! Although he's back on his medications, he still try's to avoid social interaction. "Norm?" Harlan continues walking. "Norm it's me." Harlan turns around, and cannot believe his eyes. It's Kessler, his old friend from the Ravenswood CC days. "You look good" say Kessler. "How are you doing? Are you still living in the area?" Harlan does not know how to respond. He's cautiously avoided all people from his days at Ravenswood. He has not seen Kessler since the day Remy died. Harlan wanted to tell Kessler that he finally cracked the code, but didn't want to spend anymore time in the store then was necessary. "I'm doing well, thanks" Luckily for Harlan, Bob Anderson approaches and interjects, "How can I help you?" Kessler tells Harlan it was nice to see him and walks the other way. Harlan gets what he came for and heads for the door.

Harlan was relieved to get out of the store.  As he's walking to his car things take a turn for the worse. Sitting in a dark blue Dodge Charger, Harlan makes eye contact with Det. Quenneville. "What in the hell is he doing here?" thinks Harlan. "Did he know I would be here? Is he following me?" He did not stop and continued to his car. Right before he got into his vehicle he took one last glance....Det. Quenneville was starring right at him!

[TreeWood]

It was an early start to the day, particularly since it was a Saturday. But Quenneville, unusually for him, had stirred with the arrival of morning's first messengers streaming in between the blinds. Eyes not yet open, the detective half-waved an arm toward the beaded chain that hung to his right - taking out the empty Miller  on the night table in the process. And so, his day began. At "six frickin' forty-five," as he put it.

After Dr. Eldred had left the department last night, Quenneville knew that if the man with the telescope really did exist, he would have to be living somewhere in The Ridges. This was a rather tony neighborhood adjacent to the Ravenswood Country Club. It sat elevated on a ledge-like plateau overlooking the golf course, set back maybe half a mile, and somewhat secluded in a swath of old oaks and maples, punctuated by cedars. Only from The Ridges could someone get a glimpse of the 16th green, where Remy Edwards' body had been found.

Fortunately, it wasn't so far from Quenneville's apartment to Anderson's that he didn't have time to grab an americano and a paper along the way. Downing the last of his caffeine fix, Detective Andre Quenneville pulled up to the curb just a few yards short of the storefront. The place was a sort of one-stop science shop, catering largely to the students of Ravenswood School District #72: dissection kits, lab equipment, and the like. For the student or hobbyist, Anderson's was the place to go if you had an interest in biology, chemistry, physics, and of course, astronomy.

Quenneville knocked heavily on the glass door - the place wouldn't open for another 10 minutes, but the door was quickly opened as he held his badge up against the glass.

One of the many benefits of living in a small community was that it didn't take long to narrow down your search for anything -- or anyone. A cursory outline of the profile, male, probably mid 50s or so, long-time telescope buff, and living in The Ridges yielded a name almost immediately. "Well, you have to be talking about Norm Harlan," the man behind the counter replied. "He's been coming to me for oh, I dunno, maybe 25 years, and lives on Ridgeview Crescent," he added. "In fact, he's coming in later this morning," said the shopkeeper cheerfully.

The detective thanked the man and returned to his unmarked car -- which he then backed away a few parking spots. Quenneville remembered Harlan, both from the case notes he'd reviewed last week, and from the original Edwards investigation, but that had been 17 years ago. The man at Anderson's had said he expected Harlan in about half an hour -- thankfully, Quenneville had the Saturday sports section of the Advocate to keep him company for the next 30 minutes or so...

[Deleted]

As Det. Quenneville sat in his Charger and cracked open the newspaper to pass the time, what he found on page 2 was both coincidental and extremely informative. The Advocate was running a lead story on The Club at Ravenswood to excite the locals about all of the changes that Nesbit Golf Management had brought to the facility since purchasing the property and undertaking a massive renovation project. The initial part of the story was nothing more than a teaser, talking about the new finishings in the clubhouse, how the course had been restored to the original routing with the out-and-back layout and a halfway house, and the reinstitution of caddies rather than golf carts. The article was even bolstered by a huge color photo of the newly designed 6th hole, a short but challenging par three with a slick, undulating green and absolutely no room for error off the tee.



However, it was the second part of the article that Detective Quenneville found himself drawn to, which was a short history of the TC@R featuring snippets about past members, an entertaining rundown on some of the historic rivalries from the club championships, and a tale about where the Dagger of the Decade came from.

"The story has only been shared via word of mouth and passed down through the generations, but apparently in the inaugural club championship contested in 1930, one of the founding members of the Club at Ravenswood, Daxon Blaze, found himself locked in a tight match play battle for the victory with a new member who had just come in from overseas, Ian Sweeney" Quenneville read. "The two went back and forth through the front nine, mostly trading 1up advantages, until Sweeney won holes 14 and 15 to take a 2up lead heading into the difficult par 3 16th hole. Sweeney teed off first and put it in the greenside bunker, while Blaze hit a beautiful approach to about 15' for a makable birdie attempt. Unfortunately for him, Sweeney hit a miraculous bunker shot 2 feet past the hole, catching the slope, and backspinning right back into the cup, which meant even if Blaze sank his 15 foot birdie putt, the match would be dormie. What happened next is the stuff of lore" the article continued, as the detective sat up a bit straighter in his front seat with interest. "Blaze lined up his birdie putt, certain he couldn't find any break in the green, and stroked the ball with confidence, but the ball edged the cup and never dropped, giving Sweeney a 3&2 victory right then and there, rather than the dormie situation Blaze had settled for. After seeing the ball miss the cup, Blaze was instantaneously enraged with the game of golf, walking briskly to his caddie and ripping the golf bag from his hands, which he proceeded to throw into the pond, along with the ball that had just eluded the cup. He then returned back to that spot on the green where he had just putted from, unsheathed the dagger that he always mysteriously wore on his left hip, and plunged it right into the green. As he stood up from his agricultural stabbing, he vowed to never play the game again, and upon leaving the premises, he was indeed never seen at Ravenswood again."

"Well, seems that dagger has a history with that hole," Quenneville said audibly, despite being alone in his vehicle. He appreciated the opportunity to learn more about the implement that was so meaningful to the club, and how the membership decided that the dagger would make a unique trophy of sorts to commemorate the ten year anniversaries of that day. He also couldn't miss the irony that it was allegedly that dagger used to kill Remy Edwards on or near the green of that same hole in 2000. The club's prized possession from its inaugural club championship in 1930 was also the very same thing that caused it to become abandoned 70 years later, some 17 years ago.

The detective looked up from the paper to do a quick visual scan of Anderson's and the surrounding parking lot and didn't see anything of interest, so he returned to the article to finish the story, which wasn't as interesting as the history of the dagger, and read more like the book of Numbers in the Bible for the fact that it was a huge list of past championship battles, caddies, and prominent club members. Nonetheless, he continued on.

As with most golf clubs across the country, what he found was that each decade seemed to have the same battles repeat themselves on a fairly regular basis, as local players hit their prime and contend for country club prominence for a few years. The 40's and 50's were filled with battles between Rob Dallas and Brian May, Steve Sloan and Ryan Hammond, and some epic contests between Matt Comley and Ola Ericsson, who had been dubbed the "Dusty Lion" by his competitors for his gritty resolve in winning 4 in a row at one point. The 60's were a bit quieter with rivalries, as John Yates hit a hot streak and beat a different opponent in 7 out of the 10 years in the decade, but the 70's and 80's got hot once again with phenomenal matches between Gavin McCabe and Mark Custard, Bradley Garcia and Bob Balzhiser, and Brian Murphy and John Ives. The Club at Ravenswood was not in need of any more drama, but it certainly got it in the 90's, when a young up-and-comer on the local golf scene, Jacob Kessler, joined the club and immediately began contending for championships. He found himself in the final few days of the club championship on 8 occasions, with many of them being contested with his club rival Remy Edwards, but what made Kessler so aggravating to most of the old guard at the club is that he didn't use the caddie service of the club, but instead insisted on using his own contact, Bam Harlan. For most of the 90's, the two of them were an unstoppable duo, which really got under many people's skin, especially Remy's. Remy played by the rules, supported the club's caddies, and always met his food and beverage requirement in the clubhouse, but he was very competitive and got quickly tired of Kessler's hot-shot mentality. Truth be told, he also got tired of losing to him. "I always wondered how those two made it through their match each year without one of them storming off," the article quoted former member Chris Saunders to have said in 1998 after one of their championship matches.

Quenneville's mind was spinning, as he was starting to piece together some of these names with the history of the club and the ongoings of the last few weeks. But he realized he had lost track of time whilst reading the paper, and looked up to the front door of Anderson's just in time to see Norm Harlan leaving the store. The two made eye contact and Quenneville noted that Harlan looked a bit shaken by the fact that they were in the same place at that moment, meanwhile Quenneville himself was bit lost for words as his instincts subconsciously began solving the mystery.

[xEB50x]

Det. Quenneville, quickly looks back down at the article. "Bam" he says. "This can't be a coincidence. Could Bam Harlan be Norm Harlan?" He looks up just in time to see Harlan drive away. With a slight smirk on his face he exclaims, "I got you!"

Quenneville feels he has his man. He starts putting the pieces together in his mind. The unexpected visit from Dr. Eldred. She was unwilling to provide a name, but gave him a lot of information. Her client either witnessed the murder through his telescope, or used it as an alibi? Harlan would not have been at  Andersons today, and I would not be sitting in this hot car, if he was not here to buy something related to his hobby of astronomy. The Dr. also mentioned the code, or series of numbers. She did not know I had a copy of those numbers found on Remy Edwards that fateful night.  Finally, She mentioned his mental illness, indicating he is somewhat disturbed. Why else would he being seeing a psychiatrist. Then he looked at the relationship with Kessler. Harlan had been his caddie throughout all of the Club Championship matches, and it was a known fact that Kessler and Remy did not get along. Will the shoe prints left at the scene match Harlan?  "But why"... "Why would Harlan want to kill Remy Edwards?"

[TreeWood]

Back at his desk, Detective Quenneville absently twiddled and squished his stress ball... his mind going over every aspect of the case so far. 

He was sure he could tie Norm Harlan to the scene. The guy practically lived on top of the Ravenswood course, he knew Remy well enough, and was part of the golfing team that didn’t exactly like Edwards - especially after the controversy surrounding the “found” ball on the 16th that fateful day. 

He was also keenly aware of Harlan’s checkered past, the criminal record, and the fact that he was still into voyerism. The guy was a whack job seeing a shrink — it all added up.

”I’ve got the who, and the how....but motive’s still an issue,” he thought to himself. “Christ, if not liking someone were enough, half of the TGC Tour would be suspects.” And there was something still nagging him about the crime scene... why at the course, and at that time of night?

”It’s time to turn up the heat on that weasel,” Quenneville vowed, grabbing his jacket.

It was early evening, and the sun had already set. Approaching The Ridges, the detective directed his Charger through the “s” curve approaching the exit from Irving R. Levine Parkway. It always struck him as odd that you drive on a parkway, but park on a driveway.

Now on Ridgemont Drive, the Charger rumbled slowly up the slope heading to The Ridges, the hemi complaining that its driver wasn’t putting it through its paces. Ravenswood was on his right, and he was surprised by just how much light the streetlights cast onto the course. He had no way of knowing that the subdivision above him had successfully petitioned the city to install a high-lumen solution down here — ostensibly for safety reasons, but in truth the nighttime view of an attractive golf setting only increased property values.

Just two minutes later, the midnight blue Dodge turned onto Ridgeview Crescent, and eased to a halt in front of Harlan’s residence. Quenneville hoped the chirp of the door locks wouldn’t give away his arrival. He’d have left it unlocked, were it not for the data terminal, and of course the spare Glock under the passenger seat.

He surveyed the tidy little townhome as he approached. A low boxwood hedge lined the front street, curving gently parallel to the Crescent. The lawn was manicured on both sides of the brick walkway leading to the house, and Harlan was clearly a fan of Fuscias, as they lined the flowerbeds running along the walk.

Quennville rang the doorbell. It took longer than he would have liked, but Norm Harlan opened the door. “Good evening, Mr. Harlan,” Quenneville said, as he flashed his badge, “Remember me? Detective Quenneville, Ravenswood P.D.”

”Yeah, I know who you are. What do you want?” came the reply.

”I’ve got a few questions I’d like to ask you... can I come in,” Quenneville stated, rather than asked. As he stepped forward, he noted the oversized Nikes by the front door. Without much in the way of protestation, Harlan stepped back into the home, and Quenneville shut the door behind him. “What’s this about, detective? I was just on my way out.” Beads of sweat had already formed on Harlan’s balding head, and he crossed is arms in a subconscious display of insecurity.

”Well, I’m following up a few things... I seem to remember you have a back patio overlooking Ravenswood, we could sit there.” Again, more of a command than a suggestion. Quenneville took note of the three-foot white tube mounted on a tripod in the far corner of the living room adjacent to the patio.

”I see you’ve got a telescope, again. See anything interesting lately?” Quennville started off innocuously. “Not really.” “What about 17 years ago?, what did you see then?” The sweating increased noticeably. “Look Harlan... I know you’re the one who killed Remy Edwards, and this time I’ve got evidence to prove it,” Quenneville fudged. 

Harlan squirmed in his chair, beginning to rock back and forth almost imperceptibly. “Look, make it easy on yourself, Harlan. We’re going downtown anyways, so you might want to save us a little time now.” The rocking increased, and rivulets started to trickle down along his temples. “Why’d you do it, Harlan!” “5-2, 3-2, 7-4, 7-4, 5-3, 3-2, 7-3,” came out in a raspy whisper.

”I need to speak to Dr. Eldred....I need to talk to her now!,” Harlan wailed. “Who?,” Quenneville pretended. “She’s my psychiatrist... she can make this stop!”

[Deleted]

Director of Golf, David Andrews, was beginning to get really excited about the completion of work around the course, and even had the opportunity to tee it up on a few of the holes that the crews deemed to be finished so that he could lay a critical eye on the final design elements and landscaping. On the afternoon of October 31st, when most people in the small town of Ravenswood were out trick-or-treating, Andrews was opening cardboard boxes filled with shirts, vests, and hats featuring the Club at Ravenswood logo and stocking the small retail area of the proshop with new clothing for purchase. Before he was finished, he heard the main door to the lounge open and in walked Scott Doyley, with an edge of confidence in his walk like he owned the place, perhaps practicing for his soon to be reinstated presidential duties around the club. Doyley spotted Andrews kneeling in front of a shelving unit in the proshop and headed his way to see what he was up to.

"David... how've you been the past few weeks? Is the course finished yet?" Doyley inquired in a pretty forward manner.

"I'd say it's gone pretty well actually, Scott. The weather has cooperated, other than the fog that just won't seem to clear, and the landscapers are just about done with the plantings on each hole. We'll put up all the signage and finalize everything in the halfway house behind the 9th, and then we should be good to go for the Grand Opening on the 15th. All we'll need is new members, and I hope to God they come back, or it's all for naught and I'll be out of a job" Andrews opined.

"Oh, they'll be back, especially with all the buzz around town with your decision to return the course to its original routing... people are very intrigued" Doyley said. "But, what have you decided about the 16th hole?" he asked.

Andrews had called Doyley a few weeks back after going through all of the old newsletters and newspaper clippings that were given to him in the beat-up manila folder because he had a lot of questions, especially with all of the odd activity around the grounds since he's been on the project, including the random appearance of Detective Quenneville to periodically ask questions, which Andrews can rarely answer completely since he wasn't around in 2000, the year in which most of Quenneville's inquiries are focused. One of the things the two of them discussed on that call a few weeks ago was that final club championship, and the discovery of Remy Edwards' dead body the following day. Andrews had read that final newsletter from the club, the one with the headline "Edwards Wins Club Championship," but that publication was scheduled to go to the club the following week, and never really made it to very many hands, because after all, it didn't tell the whole story and nobody at the club felt like they could celebrate Edwards' championship post-humusly. Andrews had the town's newspaper clipping from the edition that followed that weekend, so it supplemented the club's newsletter to tell a bit more of the story.

"I don't want to ignore what allegedly happened on that green in 2000, but I also feel like this club needs to move on" Andrews said. "It's not likely that many of the members in the months ahead will be former members who will have known Edwards personally, so I'm not sure we need to make a big deal of it."

"You've got to do something!" Doyley said, voice a bit raised.

"Help me understand things as you know them... or better yet, tell me what it is YOU think we should do" Andrews barked back.

"I won't consider this course finished unless you do something to honor my friend Remy. I've told everybody who will listen, I don't know what happened to him, but when Timmons found him dead first thing on Monday morning under the hickory tree, it had all the makings of a murder" Doyley explained, referring to head greenskeeper at the time, Ben Timmons.

"Well, we've redone all of the rock-work around that green and rebuilt the wooden bridge, but we left the large hickory tree alone because we didn't want to disturb that area at all" Andrews said.

"Why don't you build a memorial or reflection spot under the tree then?" Doyley asked.

Andrews thought for a minute, considering in his mind if that would be a distraction to current members or an appropriate gesture to any and all at the club who may have had a friendship with Edwards. "I feel like that's something we can do. Let's take a ride down there on the maintenance cart and you can show me where you think it would be best" Andrews agreed. He casually folded the top of the box down a bit and closed the door to the proshop on their way out, and the two men went outside and hopped on the gator and headed toward the shed to grab a shovel. "If we find an agreeable spot under the tree to put a plaque, why don't you do the honor of marking the area so my landscapers can put something together" Andrews suggested to Doyley, who at this point, seemed caught up in emotion as he reflected on the day Edwards was discovered.

[TreeWood]

Officially, it went down as "detained", not "arrested". But in Detective Andre Quenneville's eyes, this was good as a collar. In his holding cell, Norm Harlan was busy fending off nightmarish visions of doing time in a real prison, not the country club where he'd been assigned following the invasion of privacy conviction. Harlan knew what happened to men of his stature once behind the penitentiary walls, and it terrified him. Though an average height of 5' 10", Harlan was a lightweight who tipped the scales at no more than 135 lbs. His slender hands and narrow frame were not the tools he could rely on to survive incarceration. Neither was the ridiculously thin pencil mustache that he'd somehow managed to grow. 

"I'm gonna let him stew in there for now," Quenneville said to the booking officer, a grizzled old guy who'd seen better days - and much better shifts. It was just after 10:00 p.m., which meant he'd be on shift for another 11 hours. Ravenswood P.D.'s holding area wasn't glamorous, unless you enjoyed minimalist concrete design concept, and had a thing for vending machines and the piping black swill they dispensed that purported to be coffee.

Quenneville knew that he'd have a better crack at Harlan once Dr. Eldred was there. As a patient under her care, Harlan had every right to demand access to Eldred. It was a wish that the detective was only too happy to comply with. He was eager to see her again, but had to admit that his interest wasn't purely professional.

His call had come in just as she was returning from her condo's workout room, and she needed a shower in the worst way. She'd told him she'd need an hour, but he was betting she'd be quicker. He turned out to be right.

They met briefly in the front foyer. The distress in her eyes spoke volumes. And he was there to listen. "How's Harlan? Wait! You didn't tell him anything about our meeting, did you?"

"He's pretty worked up," Quenneville said, smiling inwardly. "And no, I didn't betray your confidence." He guided her to Interview Room #1, where Harlan was still cuffed and now waiting. They walked the 40 feet in silence, each busy preparing their game face before reaching the door...
    

[xEB50x]

"Wait" says Dr. Eldred. "I think there's a few things I should tell you." Quenneville was intrigued. They went to the observation room. They could see Harlan through the two way glass. He was rocking back and forth, mumbling words and occasionally shaking violently. "What do I need to know?" Dr. Eldred tells Quenneville that Harlan suffers from Multiple Personality Disorder, and since he went off his medications a few months back, his episodes have been much more frequent. "You mean some Sybil sh%$....oh stuff" responds Quenneville. Referring to the 1976 Emmy award winning movie starring Sally Fields.
"That's exactly what I mean"...Dr. Eldred goes on to explain that over her ten plus years working with Norm Harlan, she has come to know his alter personality...Bam Harlan. "You mean to tell me that Bam is a real person in Harlan's mind?"..."Yes" She continues, Norm has very little control or understanding of what Bam thinks or does.

Det. Quenneville thinks about the News article he read early that day. Bam Harlan was Kessler's caddie, and must have had a relationship with him. They had won championships together, and were in contention for the "Dagger of the Decade." He asks Dr. Eldred, "Could Norm Harlan become Bam Harlan and actually stay in that personality for long periods of time." ..."Yes, and in fact, Bam could be the dominant personality as long as needed. It's a form of coping, or dealing with any given situation."

Quenneville, is a bit confused, but in the back of his mind he begins to question his theories. Was it Norm or Bam that was the astronomer? He knew Bam was the caddie, but now needs to know more...... "Maybe I need to talk with Kessler?" But before that could happen, he still needed answers from Norm, or Bam, or whoever the hell he thinks he is today!!!

[xEB50x]

The two of them enter the room. "I knew you'd come" exclaims Harlan. "They think I killed Remy Edwards, tell him it's not me!" Dr. Eldred calmly speaks to Harlan. She has a soft voice and shows concern for Harlan. Quenneville was already infatuated with Dr. Eldred, but listening to her soft tone made his "unit" stand at attention. Dr. Eldred is playing with the cross on her necklace while talking to Harlan. This goes on for a few minutes. She then turns to Det. Quenneville and says "He's under, what do you want to know?" Quenneville is amazed, "how did she do that?"

Quenneville gets focused. He starts to write questions on a piece of paper. He knows this information will never be allowed in Court, but none the less he needs answers. She says "who am I speaking with" "Norm is the response. "Do you like astronomy?" "Yes"..."Do you like golf" "no", "yes I do"..."Yes or no Norm" asks Dr. Eldred. "Yes, and this is not Norm." "Bam is this this you?" "Yes" responds a proud confident image of what was once Norm. "I know why we're here, and you've got this all wrong. Norm knows what happened that night, and I know what happened that night. I did what I had to do! Norm saw it I fixed it." "What do you mean?" asks Eldred. "Remy was a cheat. He even slept with Timmons wife. Everyone knew this. Timmons was a great greenskeeper, and a good guy." "What about Remy, What happened that night?" asks Eldred. "That's between you and Norm, He saw everything!"

Suddenly the interview is interrupted! "Quenneville, get your ass out here....We got an all call...Shooting in progress!" Quenneville tells the front desk to release Harlan as he quickly exits the station!!!!

[Deleted]

Andrews and Doyley continued their ride on the gator toward the pond on the back nine of the property, finally coming to rest just before the foot bridge that carries golfers from the tee to the green on the 16th hole. Doyley grabbed the shovel out of the cargo area and the two headed across the water in search of a good location for the Edwards memorial. The 16th is a large island green, surrounded by a rock wall, a greenside bunker in the front right, and a huge hickory tree on the left. There is a bit more room to miss the green on the left than there is on the right, and after surveying the easement and thinking through the overall design of the hole, Andrews agreed that there was ample room to designate for a reflection area and memorial for Remy Edwards. After all, he was willing to do anything that might bring honor to his untimely death in the hopes that it would lift the incessant fog that hung over the course every single day. Andrews didn't personally know Edwards, but he was willing to concede to Doyley's wishes on this one.

"What about right here?" Andrews asked, pointing to a spot in the rough that seemed to get plenty of regular shade from the large hickory tree. "I think this would be a good spot."

"Yea, I think this looks fine, but what is the overall landscaping goal here?" Doyley wanted to know, testing Andrews' commitment to this whole memorial concept.

"I'm willing to do whatever you think is best, Scott. You're the acting club president, and there's no membership to vote on this kind of motion yet, so whatever we agree on will stand" Andrews said.

"I'd like to see a marker, with some kind of plaque, and a mixture of his mother's favorite flowers around it, with some benches for anybody to sit for a moment to reflect. Maybe we mulch the whole area, add some texture with some common plantings you've been using around the course to tie it all together, and put a small fence around the area to set it apart" Doyley suggested.

"Wow, you sound like you have a real passion for this, I guess it means a lot to you." Andrews remarked.

"Well, I'll never forget that championship, and the days that followed, that's for sure." And with that, Doyley raised the shovel and spiked it into the turf, but no sooner did the blade get two inches deep before the two men heard an audible "tink," followed by reverberation through the shovel that Doyley felt all the way up to his wrist. "What the heck was that?" Scott shouted.

"No clue, but I definitely heard it too" Andrews said as he dropped to his hands and knees to start dissecting the dirt with his fingers. It only took a moment to find it, as it wasn't buried very deep at all, but when Andrews rose to his feet he was holding some sort of implement with a necklace-like chain attached. "It looks like some kind of jewelry or necklace" he thought out loud, "but nobody has been on this ground over the past few months except the workers who finished the green, the rock-work, and the new bridge, and it's buried a bit too deep for it to have been lost recently" Andrews suspected. He handed the item to Doyley for further inspection.

Doyley started wiping the dirt from the round piece attached to the chain, about a quarter's size, and quickly started to reveal a much shinier surface beneath the grit. As he did, he also discovered an engraving on one side, causing his face to turn pale with a cold sweat starting to develop on his wrinkled forehead. Andrews noticed this sudden change in Doyley's demeanor and comfort, and yelped "What is it Scott?"

Doyley had already begun walking back toward the bridge, abandoning the shovel right where it lay, and as he fled back to the gator he murmured, "We've got to get this to Quenneville!"