Michael Connelly - The Scarecrow

“Sure. I have it done. I was just waiting for you to see it before I sent it to the desk.”

“Let me get a chair.”

I pulled a chair away from an empty cubicle. Angela made room for me next to her and I read the twelve-inch story she had written. The news budget had slugged it in at ten inches, which meant it would likely be cut to eight, but you could always write long for the web edition because there were no space restrictions. Any reporter worth his or her salt would naturally go over budget. Your ego dictated that your story and your skill in telling it would make the ladder of editors who read it realize it was too good to be anything less than what you had turned in, no matter what edition it was written for.

The first edit I made was to take my name off the byline.

“Why, Jack?” Angela protested. “We reported this together.”

“Yeah, but you wrote it. You get the byline.”

She reached over to the keyboard and put her hand on top of my right hand.

“Please, I would like to have a byline with you. It would mean a lot to me.”

I looked at her quizzically.

“Angela, this is a twelve-inch story they’re probably going to cut to eight and bury inside. It’s just another murder story and it doesn’t need a double byline.”

“But it’s my first murder story here at the Times and I want your name on it.”

She still had her hand on mine. I shrugged and nodded.

“Suit yourself.”

She let go of my hand and I typed my name back into the byline. She then reached over again and held my right hand once more.

“Is this the one that got hurt?”

“Uh…”

“Can I see?”

I turned my hand over, exposing the starburst scar in the webbing between my thumb and forefinger. It was the place the bullet had passed through before hitting the killer they called the Poet in the face.

“I saw that you don’t use your thumb when you type,” she said.

“The bullet severed a tendon and I had surgery to reattach it but my thumb’s never really worked right.”

“What’s it feel like?”

“It feels normal. It just doesn’t do what I want it to do.”

She laughed politely.

“What?”

“I meant, what’s it feel like to kill somebody like that?”

The conversation was getting weird. What was the fascination this woman-this girl-had with killing?

“Uh, I don’t really like to talk about that, Angela. It was a long time ago and it wasn’t like I killed the guy. He kind of brought it on himself. He wanted to die, I think. He fired the gun.”

“I love serial killer stories but I had never heard about the Poet until some people said something about it today at lunch and then I Googled it. I’m going to get the book you wrote. I heard it was a bestseller.”

“Good luck. It was a bestseller ten years ago. It’s now been out of print at least five years.”

I realized that if she had heard about the book at lunch, then people were talking about me. Talking about the former bestseller, now overpaid cop shop reporter, getting the pink slip.

“Well, I bet you have a copy I could borrow,” Angela said.

She gave me a pouting look. I studied her for a long moment before responding. In that moment I knew she was some sort of death freak. She wanted to write murder stories because she wanted the details they don’t put in the articles and the TV reports. The cops were going to love her, and not just because she was a looker. She would fawn over them as they parceled out the gritty and grim descriptions of the crime scenes they worked. They would mistake her worship of the dark details for worship of them.

“I’ll see if I can find a copy at home tonight. Let’s get back to this story and get it in. Prendo is going to want to see it in the basket as soon as he’s out of the four o’clock meeting.”

“Okay, Jack.”

She raised her hands in mock surrender. I went back to the story and got through the rest of it in ten minutes, making only one change in the copy. Angela had tracked down the son of the elderly woman who had been raped and then stabbed to death in 1989. He was grateful that the police had not given up on the case and said so. I moved his sincerely laudatory quote up into the top third of the story.

“I’m moving this up so it won’t get cut by the desk,” I explained. “A quote like that will score you some points with the cops. It’s the kind of sentiment from the public that they live for and don’t often get. Putting it up high will start building the trust I was telling you about.”

“Okay, good.”

I then made one final addition, typing - 30 - at the bottom of the copy.

“What does that mean?” Angela asked. “I’ve seen that on other stories in the city desk basket.”

“It’s just an old-school thing. When I first came up in journalism you typed that at the bottom of your stories. It’s a code-I think it’s even a holdover from telegraph days. It just means end of story. It’s not necessary anymore but-”

“Oh, God, that’s why they call the list of everybody who gets laid off the ‘thirty list.’ ”

I looked at her and nodded, surprised that she didn’t already know what I was telling her.

“That’s right. And it’s something I always used, and since my byline’s on the story…”

“Sure, Jack, that’s okay. I think it’s kind of cool. Maybe I’ll start doing it.”

“Continue the tradition, Angela.”

I smiled and stood up.

“You think you are okay to make the round of police checks in the morning and swing by Parker Center?”

She frowned.

“You mean without you?”

“Yeah, I’m going to be tied up in court on something I’m working on. But I’ll probably be back before lunch. You think you can handle it?”

“If you think so. What are you working on?”

I told her briefly about my visit to the Rodia Gardens projects and the direction I was going. I then assured her that she wouldn’t have a problem going to Parker Center on her own after only one day’s training with me.

“You’ll be fine. And with that story in the paper tomorrow, you’ll have more friends over there than you’ll know what to do with.”

“If you say so.”

“I do. Just call me on my cell if you need anything.”

I then pointed at the story on her computer screen, made a fist and banged it lightly on her desk.

“Run that baby,” I said.

It was a line from All the President’s Men, one of the greatest reporter stories ever told, and I immediately realized she didn’t recognize it. Oh, well, I thought, there is old school and then there is new school.

I headed back to my cubicle and saw the message light on my phone flashing at a fast interval, meaning I had multiple messages. I quickly pushed the strange but intriguing encounter with Angela Cook from my mind and picked up the receiver.

The first message was from Jacob Meyer. He said he had been assigned a new case with an arraignment scheduled for the next day. It meant he had to push back our meeting a half hour to 9:30 the next morning. That was fine with me. It would give me more time to either sleep in or prepare for the interview.

The second message was a voice from the past. Van Jackson was a rookie reporter I had trained on the cop beat at the Rocky Mountain News about fifteen years before. He rose through the ranks and got all the way up to the post of city editor before the paper shuttered its doors a few months earlier. That was the end of a 150-year publishing run in Colorado and the biggest sign yet of the crashing newspaper economy. Jackson still hadn’t found a job in the business he had dedicated his professional life to.

“Jack, it’s Van. I heard the news. Not a good thing, man. I’m so sorry. Give me a call and we can commiserate. I’m still here in Denver freelancing and looking for work.”