Authors: Michael Connelly
“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.”
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.
“What about the story?” Larry asked.
“It’s your story. You’ve got a handle on it.”
“Yeah, through you. Who am I going to get to give me the inside stuff?”
“You’re a reporter. You’ll figure it out.”
“Can I call you?”
“No, you can’t call me.”
Larry frowned, but I didn’t let him swing too long.
“But you can take me to lunch on the
Times
expense account. Then I’ll talk to you.”
“You’re the man.”
“See you around, Larry.”
I headed for the elevator alcove, the security man trailing behind me. I took a wide look around the newsroom but made sure
my eyes never caught on anybody else’s. I didn’t want any good-byes. I walked along the row of glass offices and didn’t bother
to look in at any of the editors I had worked for. I just wanted to get out of there.
“Jack?”
I stopped and turned around. Dorothy Fowler had stepped out of the glass office I had just passed. She beckoned me back.
“Can you come in for a minute before you go?”
I hesitated and shrugged. Then handed the box to the security man.
“Be right back.”
I stepped into the city editor’s office and slipped off my backpack as I sat down in front of her desk. She had a sly smile
on her face. She spoke in a low voice, as if she was worried that what she said might be heard in the next office down.
“I told Richard he was kidding himself. That you wouldn’t take the job back. They think people are like puppets and they can
play with the strings.”
“You shouldn’t have been so sure. I almost took it.”
“I doubt that, Jack. Very much.”
I thought that was a compliment. I nodded and looked behind her at the wall covered with photos and cards and newspaper clips.
She had a classic headline from one of the New York tabs on the wall: “Headless Body in Topless Bar.” You couldn’t beat that
one.
“What will you do now?”
I gave her a more expansive version of what I had told Kramer. I would write a book about my part in the Courier-McGinnis
story, then I would get a long-awaited shot at publishing a novel. All the while, I would be on the masthead at
velvetcoffin.com
and free to tackle the investigative projects of my choosing. It wouldn’t pay much but it would be journalism. I was just
making the jump to the digital world.
“That all sounds great,” she said. “We’re really going to miss you around here. You are one of the best.”
I don’t take compliments like that well. I’m cynical and look for the angle. If I was that good, why did I get put on the
thirty list in the first place? The answer had to be that I was good but not good enough and she was just blowing smoke. I
looked away from her, as I do when someone is lying to my face, and back at the images taped to the wall.
That’s when I saw it. Something that had eluded me before. But not this time. I bent forward so I could see it better and
then I stood up and leaned across her desk.
“Jack, what?”
I pointed to the wall.
“Can I see that? The photo from
The Wizard of Oz
.”
Fowler reached up and pulled it off the wall and handed it to me.
“It’s a joke from a friend,” she said. “I’m from Kansas.”
“I get that,” I said.
I studied the photo, zeroing in on the Scarecrow. The photo was too small for me to be completely sure.
“Can I run a search on your computer real quick?” I asked.
I was coming around her desk before she answered.
“Uh, sure, what is it that—”
“I’m not sure yet.”
She got up and got out of the way. I took her seat, looked at her screen and opened up Google. The machine was running slowly.
“Come on, come on, come on.”
“Jack, what is it?”
“Let me just…”
The search window finally came up and I clicked over to Google Images. I typed
Scarecrow
into the search block and let it fly.
My screen soon filled with sixteen small images of scarecrows. There were photos of the lovable character from
The Wizard of Oz
movie and color sketches from Batman comic books of a villain called the Scarecrow. There were several other photos and drawings
of scarecrows from books and movies and Halloween costume catalogs. They ranged from the benign and friendly to the horrible
and menacing. Some had cheerful eyes and smiles and some had their eyes and mouths stitched closed.
I spent two minutes clicking on each photo and enlarging it. I studied them and, sixteen for sixteen, they all had one thing
in common. Each scarecrow’s construction included a burlap bag pulled over the head to form a face. Each bag was cinched around
the neck with a cord. Sometimes it was a thick rope and sometimes it was basic household clothesline. But it didn’t matter.
The image was consistent and it matched what I had seen in the files I had accumulated as well as the lasting image I had
of Angela Cook.
I could see now that in the murders a clear plastic bag had been used to create the face of the scarecrow. No burlap, but
this inconsistency with the established imagery didn’t matter. The construction was the same. A bag over the head and a rope
around the neck were used to create the same image.
I clicked to the next screen of images. Again the same construction. This time the images were older, going back through a
century to the original illustrations in the book
The Wonderful Wizard of Oz
. And then I saw it. The illustrations were credited to William Wallace Denslow. William Denslow as in Bill Denslow, as in
Denslow Data
.
I felt no doubt that I had just found the signature. The secret signature that Rachel had told me would be there.
I killed the screen and stood up.
“I have to go.”
I went around her desk and grabbed my backpack off the floor.
“Jack?” Fowler asked.
I headed toward the door.
“It was nice working with you, Dorothy.”
T
he plane landed hard on the tarmac at Sky Harbor but I barely noticed. I had gotten so used to flying in the last two weeks
that I didn’t even bother to look out the window anymore to psychically nurse the plane to a safe touchdown.
I had not called Rachel yet. I wanted to get to Arizona first so that whatever happened with my information included my involvement.
Technically, I was no longer a reporter, but I was still protecting my story.
The delay also allowed me to think more about what I had and to work out an approach. After picking up a rental and getting
to Mesa, I pulled into the lot of a convenience store and went in to buy a throw-away phone. I knew Rachel was working in
the bunker at Western Data. When I called her, I didn’t want her seeing my name on the ID screen and then answering with it
in front of Carver.
Finally ready and back in the car, I made the call and she answered after five rings.
“Hello, this is Agent Walling.”
“It’s me. Don’t say my name.”
There was a pause before she continued.
“How can I help you?”
“Are you with Carver?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, I’m in Mesa and about ten minutes away. I need to meet you without anybody else in there knowing.”
“I’m sorry, that’s not going to be possible. What is this about?”
At least she was playing along.
“I can’t tell you. I have to show you. Did you eat lunch yet?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, tell them you need a latte or something you can’t get out of one of their machines. Meet me at
Hightower Grounds
in
ten minutes. Take their latte orders if you have to. Sell it and get out of there and meet me. I don’t want to come near Western
Data because of the cameras all over that place.”
“And you can’t give me any idea what this is all about?”
“It’s about Carver, so don’t ask questions like that. Just make the excuse and meet me. Don’t tell anyone that I’m here or
what you’re really doing.”
She didn’t respond and I grew impatient.
“Rachel, will you be there or not?”
“That will be fine,” she finally said. “I’ll talk to you then.”
She clicked off the call.
In another five minutes I was at
Hightower Grounds
. The place had obviously been named for the old desert observation tower
that rose behind it. It looked like the tower was closed now but it was festooned on top with cell repeaters and antennas.
I went in and found the place almost empty. A couple of customers who looked like college students sat by themselves with
laptops open in front of them. I went to the counter and ordered two cups of coffee and then set my computer up on a table
in a corner away from the other customers.
After I picked up the two cups I had ordered, I doused mine liberally with sugar and milk and returned to my table. Through
the window I checked the parking lot and saw no sign of Rachel. I sat down and took a sip of steaming coffee and connected
to the Internet through the coffee shop’s free WiFi.
Fifteen minutes went by. I checked messages and thought about what I would say to Rachel—if she showed up. I got the page
of scarecrow images up on my screen and was ready to go. I was down to reading the receipt that had come with the coffee.
Free WiFi with every purchase!
Check us out on the net
I crumpled it and threw it toward a trash can and missed. After getting up and putting in the rebound, I opened my throwaway
and was about to call Rachel again, when I finally saw her pull into the lot and park. She came in, saw me and diverted directly
to my table. She was holding a piece of paper with coffee orders written down on it.
“The last time I went out for coffee I was a rookie agent at a hostage negotiation in Baltimore,” she said. “I don’t do this,
Jack, so this better be good.”
“Don’t worry, it is. I think. Why don’t you just sit down?”
She did and I pushed the cup of black coffee across the table to her. She didn’t touch it. She was wearing sunglasses but
I could see the deep line of purple under her left eye. The swelling of her jaw was completely gone now and the split in her
lip was hidden beneath her lip gloss. You had to look for it to see it. I had been wondering if it would be proper to lean
over and try to hug or kiss her but took the hint from her all-business demeanor and kept my distance.
“Okay, Jack, I’m here. What are you doing here?”
“I think I found the signature. If I’m right, McGinnis was just a cover. A fall guy. The other killer is the Scarecrow. It’s
got to be Carver.”
She stared at me for a long moment, her eyes revealing nothing through the shades. Finally, she spoke.
“So you jumped on a plane, frequent flier that you are, to come over here and tell me the man I’m working beside is also the
killer I’ve been chasing.”
“That’s right.”
“This better be good, Jack.”
“Who’s back in the bunker with Carver?”
“Two agents from the EER team, Torres and Mowry. But never mind them. Tell me what’s going on.”