The Scarecrow

by Michael Connelly

  “I was sort of hoping there would be more than that.”

  I kissed her lightly on the cheek, avoiding her bruised lips. If Agent Bantam or anybody else behind the smoked black windows of the FBI mobile command center was watching, neither one of us cared.

  It was almost a minute before Rachel and I separated. She looked into my eyes and nodded.

  “Go write your story, Jack.”

  “I will… if they let me.”

  I turned and walked toward the hotel.

  All eyes were on me as I walked through the newsroom. It had spread as quickly as a Santa Ana wind through the newsroom that I had killed a man the night before. Many probably thought I had avenged Angela Cook. Others may have thought I was some sort of danger freak who put myself in harm’s way for the thrill of it.

  As I approached my cubicle the phone was buzzing and the message light was on. I put my backpack on the floor and decided I would deal with all the callers and messages later. It was almost eleven o’clock, so I walked over to the raft to see if Prendo was in yet. I wanted to get this part over with. If I was going to give my information to another reporter, I wanted to start giving it up now.

  Prendo wasn’t in but Dorothy Fowler was sitting at the head of the raft. She looked up from her computer screen, saw me and did a double take.

  “Jack, how are you?”

  I shrugged.

  “Okay, I guess. When’s Prendo coming in?”

  “Probably not till one. Are you up to working today?”

  “You mean, do I feel bad about the guy who fell down the stairwell last night? No, Dorothy, I’m actually okay with that. I feel fine. As the cops say, NHI—no human involved. The guy was a killer who liked to torture women while he raped and suffocated them. I don’t feel too bad about what happened to him. In fact, I sort of wish he has been conscious the whole way down.”

  “Okay. I think I understand that.”

  “The only thing I don’t feel good about right now is that I’m guessing I don’t get to write the story, right?”

  She frowned and nodded.

  “I’m afraid not, Jack.”

  “Déjà vu all over again.”

  She squinted her eyes at me like she was wondering if I realized the inanity of what I had just said.

  “It’s a saying. Yogi Berra? The baseball guy?”

  She didn’t get it. I could feel the eyes and ears of the newsroom on us.

  “Never mind. Who do you want me to give my stuff to? The FBI has confirmed to me that there were two killers and they have found videos of them with several victims. At least six besides Angela. They’ll be announcing all of this at a press conference but I have lots of stuff they won’t be putting out. We’ll kick ass with this.”

  “Just what I want to hear. I’m going to put you with Larry Bernard again for continuity. You have your notes? Are you ready to go?”

  “Ready when he is.”

  “Okay, let me call and book the conference room again so you guys can go to work.”

  I spent the next two hours giving Larry Bernard everything I had, turning over my notes and filling him in off the top of my head with regard to my own actions. Larry then interviewed me for a sidebar story on my hand-to-hand battle with the serial killer.

  “Too bad you didn’t let him answer that last question,” he said.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “At the end, when you asked him why he didn’t just take off instead of going after Walling, that’s the essential question, isn’t it? Why didn’t he run? He went after her and it didn’t make a lot of sense. He was responding to you but you said you hit him with the lamp before he answered that one.”

  I didn’t like the question. It was as if he was suspicious of my veracity or what I had done.

  “Look, it was a knife fight and I didn’t have a knife. I wasn’t interviewing the guy. I was trying to distract him. If he was thinking about my questions, then he wasn’t thinking about putting the knife in my throat. It worked. When I saw my chance I took it. I got the upper hand and that’s why I’m alive and he’s not.”

  Larry leaned forward and checked his tape recorder to make sure it was still operating.

  “That’s a good quote,” he said.

  I’d been a reporter for twenty-plus years and I had just been baited by my own friend and colleague.

  “I want to take a break. How much more do you need?”

  “I actually think I’m good,” Larry said, his manner completely unapologetic. It was just business. “Let’s take a break and I’ll go through my notes and make sure. Why don’t you call Agent Walling and see if anything’s come up in the last few hours.”

  “She would have called me.”

  “You sure?”

  I stood up.

  “Yes, I’m sure. Stop trying to work me, Larry. I know how it’s done.”

  He raised his hands in surrender. But he was smiling.

  “Okay, okay. Go take your break. I have to write up a couple budget lines anyway.”

  I left the conference room and went back to my cubicle. I picked up the phone and checked messages. I had nine of them, most from other news outlets wanting me to comment for their own reports. The CNN producer I had saved from the wrath of the censors by heading off Alonzo Winslow’s interview left a message that he wanted me back on for the report on the latest turn of events.

  I would deal with all such requests the next day, after the story had run exclusively in the Times. I was being loyal to the end, even though I didn’t know why I should be.

  The last message was from my long-lost literary agent. I hadn’t heard from him in more than a year, and then it was only to tell me he had been unable to sell my latest book proposal—a year in the life of a cold case detective. His message informed me that he was already fielding offers for a book about the trunk murders case. He asked if the killer had been given a name by the media yet. He said a catchy name would make the book easier to package, market and sell. He wanted me to be thinking about that, he said, and to sit tight while he wheeled and dealed.

  My agent was behind the curve, not realizing yet that there were two killers, not one. But the message made any frustration I was feeling about not getting to write the day’s story go away. I was tempted to call the agent back but decided to wait until I heard from him with significant news. I then hatched a scheme in which I would tell him I would only take a deal from a publisher who would promise to publish my first novel as well. If they wanted the nonfiction story badly enough, they would take the deal.

  After hanging up the phone, I went to my screen and looked into the city basket to see if Larry Bernard’s stories were on the daily budget. As expected, the top of the budget was weighted with a three-story package on the case.

  SERIAL— A man suspected of being a serial killer who took part in the killings of at least seven women, including a Times reporter, died Tuesday night in Mesa, AZ, after a confrontation with another reporter for the newspaper led to his falling thirteen floors down a hotel stairwell shaft. Marc Courier, 26, a Chicago native, was identified as one of two men suspected in a string of sexually motivated abductions and murders of women in at least two states. The other suspect was identified by the FBI as Declan McGinnis, 46, also of Mesa. Agents said McGinnis was the chief executive officer of a data storage facility from which victims were chosen from stored law firm files. Courier worked for McGinnis at Western Data Consultants and had direct access to the files in question. Though Courier claimed to a Times reporter that he had killed McGinnis, the FBI has listed his whereabouts as unknown. 45 inches w/mug shot of Courier. BERNARD

  SERIAL SIDE— In a life-or-death struggle, Times reporter Jack McEvoy grappled with the knife-wielding Marc Courier on the top floor of the Mesa Verde Inn before distracting him with the tools of his trade: words. When the suspected serial killer dropped his guard, McEvoy got the upper hand and Courier fell down a stairwell shaft to his death. Authorities say the suspect left behi
nd more questions than answers. 18 inches w/art BERNARD

  DATA— They call them bunkers and farms. They sit in pastures and deserts. They are as nondescript as the nameless warehouses that line industrial streets in every city in the country. Data storage centers are billed as economical, dependable and secure. They store vital digital files that remain just a fingertip away no matter where your business is located. But this week’s investigation into how two men used stored files to choose, stalk and prey on women is raising questions about the industry that has seen explosive growth in recent years. Authorities say the bottom-line question is not where or how you should store your digital information. The question is, who is minding it? The Times learns that many storage facilities hire the best and the brightest to safeguard their data. The problem is, sometimes the best and the brightest are former criminals. Suspect Marc Courier is a case in point. 25 inches w/art GOMEZ-GONZMART

  They were going all-out again. The story package would lead the paper and be the authoritative report on the case. All other media outlets would have to credit the Times or scramble to match it. It would be a good day for the Times. The editors could already smell a Pulitzer.

  I closed the screen and thought about the sidebar story Larry was going to write. He was right. There were more questions than answers.

  I opened a new document on the screen and wrote my best recollection of the exact exchange I’d had with Courier. It took me only five minutes because the truth was that not a lot was said.

  ME: Where’s McGinnis? Did he send you to do the dirty work? Just like in Nevada?

  HIM: No response.

  ME: Does he tell you what to do? He’s your mentor on murder and tonight the master won’t be happy with the student. You went oh for two.

  HIM: McGinnis is dead, you dumb fuck! I buried him in the desert. Just like I was going to bury your bitch when I was through with her. Me: Why didn’t you just run? Why risk everything to go for her?

  HIM: No answer.

  When I was finished I read it a couple of times and made a few fixes and additions. Larry was right. It came down to that last question. Courier had been about to respond but I’d used the distraction to catch him off guard. I didn’t regret that. The distraction may have saved my life. But I sure wished I had an answer to the question I had asked.

  The next morning the Times basked in the glow of national news exposure and I was along for the ride. I had written none of the stories causing the nationwide media stir but I was the subject of two of them. My phone never stopped buzzing and my e-mail box over-flowed early.

  But I didn’t answer my calls or e-mails. I wasn’t basking. I was brooding. I had spent the night with the unanswered question I had posed to Marc Courier, and no matter which way I considered it, things didn’t add up. What was Courier doing there? What was the great reward for such a large risk? Was it Rachel? The abduction and murder of a federal agent would certainly place McGinnis and Courier in the upper pantheon of killers whose deadly lore made them household names. But was that what they wanted? There had been no indication that these two were interested in harnessing public attention. They had carefully planned and camouflaged their murders. The attempt to abduct Rachel did not fit with the history leading up to it. And so there had to be another reason.

  I started to look at it from another angle. I thought about what would have happened if I had gone to Los Angeles and Courier had been successful in grabbing Rachel and getting her out of the hotel.

  It seemed likely to me that the abduction would have been discovered shortly after it occurred, when the room service waiter did not report back to the kitchen. I estimated that within an hour the hotel would have been a hive of activity. The FBI would have swarmed the hotel and the area, knocked on every door and turned over every rock in an attempt to find and rescue one of their own. But by then Courier would have been long gone.

  It was clear the abduction would have drawn the bureau in and caused a massive distraction from its investigation of McGinnis and Courier. But it was also clear that this would be only a temporary shift. My guess was that before noon the next day, agents would be coming in by the planeload in a federal show of might and determination. This would allow them to overcome any distraction and put even more pressure on the investigation, all the while maintaining a suffocating effort to find Rachel.

  The more I thought about it, the more I wished I’d given Courier the chance to answer that last question: Why didn’t you run?

  I didn’t have the answer and it was too late to get it directly from the source. So I kept working it around in my head until it was all there was to think about.

  “Jack?”

  I looked over the wall of my cubicle and saw Molly Robards, the secretary to the assistant managing editor.

  “Yes?”

  “You’re not answering your phone and your e-mail box is full.”

  “Yeah, I’m getting too many—is that a problem?”

  “Mr. Kramer would like to see you.”

  “Oh, okay.”

  I didn’t make a move but neither did she. It was clear she had been sent to retrieve me. I finally pushed my chair back and got up.

  Kramer was waiting for me with a big, phony smile on his face. I had a feeling that whatever he was about to tell me was not his idea. I took this as a good sign, since his ideas were seldom good ones.

  “Jack, sit down.”

  I did. He straightened things up on his desk before proceeding.

  “Well, I’ve got some good news for you.”

  He gave me the smile again. The same one he’d had on when he told me I was out.

  “Really?”

  “We’ve decided to withdraw your termination plan.”

  “What’s that mean? I’m not laid off?”

  “Exactly.”

  “What about my pay and benefits?”

  “Nothing’s changed. Same old same old.”

  It was just like Rachel getting her badge back. I felt a trill of excitement but then reality hit home.

  “So what’s that mean, you lay somebody else off instead of me?”

  Kramer cleared his throat.

  “Jack, I’m not going to lie to you. Our objective was to drop one hundred slots in editorial by June first. You were number ninety-nine—it was that close.”

  “So I keep my job and somebody else gets the ax.”

  “Angela Cook will be the ninety-ninth slot. We won’t be replacing her.”

  “That’s convenient. Who is the big one hundred?”

  I swiveled in the chair and looked out through the glass at the newsroom.

  “Bernard? GoGo? Collins—”

  Kramer cut me off.

  “Jack, I can’t discuss that with you.”

  I turned back to him.

  “But somebody else is about to get the hook because I got to stay. What happens after this story winds down? Will you call me back in here and can me all over again?”

  “We’re not expecting another involuntary reduction in force. The new owner has made it—”

  “What about the next new owner? And the one after that?”

  “Look, I didn’t bring you in here so you could preach to me. The news business is undergoing serious changes. It’s a life-and-death struggle. The question is, do you want to keep your job or not? I’m offering it to you.”

  I swiveled all the way around so my back was to him and I was looking out at the newsroom. I wouldn’t miss the place. I would only miss some of the people. Without turning back to Kramer I gave him my answer.

  “This morning my literary agent in New York woke me up at six. He said he had gotten me an offer for a two-book deal. A quarter million dollars. It would take me almost three years to make that here. And on top of that, I got a job offer from the Velvet Coffin. Don Goodwin is starting an investigations page on his website. To sort of pick up the slack where the Times drops the ball. Doesn’t pay a lot but it pays. And I can work from home—wherever that may be.”
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br />   I stood up and turned back to Kramer.

  “I told him yes. So thanks for the offer but you can put me down as number one hundred on your thirty list. After tomorrow, I’m gone.”

  “You took a job with a competitor?” Kramer said indignantly.

  “What did you expect? You laid me off, remember?”

  “But I’m rescinding that,” he sputtered. “We already made our quota.”

  “Who? Who’d you fire?”

  Kramer looked down at his desk and whispered the latest victim’s name.

  “Michael Warren.”

  I shook my head.

  “It figures. The one guy in the newsroom I wouldn’t give the time of day and now I’m saving his job. You can hire’m back, because I don’t want your job anymore.”

  “Then I want you to clear your desk out right now. I’ll call security and have you escorted out.”

  I smiled down at him as he picked up the phone.

  “Fine by me.”

  I found an empty cardboard box in the copy shop and ten minutes later was filling it with the things I wanted to keep from my desk. The first to go in was the worn red dictionary my mother had given me. After that, there wasn’t much else worth keeping. A Mont Blanc desk clock which somehow had never been stolen, a red stapler and a few files containing call sheets and source contacts. That was it.

  A guy from security watched over me as I packed and I got the feeling it wasn’t the first time he had been placed in such an awkward position. I took mercy on him and didn’t blame him for just doing his job. But having him standing at my desk was like waving a flag. Soon Larry Bernard came over.

  “What’s going on? You have till tomorrow.”

  “Not anymore. Crammer told me to hit the road.”

  “How come? What did you do?”

  “He tried to give me my job back but I told him he could keep it.”

  “What? You turned—”

  “I got a new job, Larry. Two of them, actually.”

  My box was as full as it was going to get. It looked pitiful. Not much for seven years on the job. I stood up, slung my backpack over my shoulder and picked up the box, ready to go.