Michael Connelly - The Scarecrow

“A mistake? How so?”

“He should never have called you. He should never have made contact. He gave us information and a location. It’s very unlike what we’ve seen before from him.”

“But you were the one who wanted to bet me that he would make contact. Why is it so shocking? You were right.”

“Yes, but I said that before I knew all I know now. I think, based on what we now have in the profile of this man, that it was out of character for him to call you.”

I thought about all of that for a few moments before asking the next question.

“What else is the bureau doing?”

“Well, we’re profiling Babbit and Oglevy. We know they fit into his program and we need to figure out where they intersect and where he came across them. We’re also still looking for his signature.”

I sat up and wrote signature down in the notebook and then underlined it.

“The signature is different from his program.”

“Yes, Jack. The program is what he does with the victim. The signature is something he leaves behind to mark his turf. It’s the difference between a painting and the artist’s signature marking it as his work. You can tell a van Gogh just by looking at it. But he also signed his work. Only with these killers the signature is not so obvious. Most times we don’t see it until after. But if we could decipher the signature now, it might help lead us to him.”

“Is that what they have you doing? Working on that?”

“Yes.”

But she had hesitated before answering.

“Using your notes off my files?”

“That’s right.”

Now I hesitated, but not too long.

“That’s a lie, Rachel. What is going on?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Because I have your notes right here, Rachel. When they finally cut me loose Thursday, I demanded that they give me all of my files and notes back. They gave me your notes, thinking they were mine. On your legal pad. I have them, Rachel, so why are you lying to me?”

“Jack, I am not lying. So what if you have my notes, you think I can’t-”

“Where are you? Right now. Where exactly are you? Tell me the truth.”

She hesitated.

“I’m in Washington.”

“Shit, you’re zeroing in on See Jane Run, right? I’m coming up there.”

“Not that Washington, Jack.”

This totally puzzled me and then my internal computer spit out a new scenario. Rachel had parlayed uncovering the Unsub into a return to the job she wanted and was best suited for.

“Are you working for Behavioral?”

“I wish. I’m at Washington Headquarters for an OPR hearing Monday morning.”

I knew that the OPR was the Office of Professional Responsibility, the bureau’s version of Internal Affairs.

“You told them about us? They’re going after you for it?”

“No, Jack, I didn’t tell them anything about that. It’s about the jet I took to Nellis on Wednesday. After you called me.”

I jumped off the bed and started pacing again.

“You have to be kidding me. What are they going to do?”

“I don’t know.”

“Doesn’t it matter that you saved at least one life-mine-and in the process brought this killer to law enforcement attention? Do they know that they released a sixteen-year-old kid falsely accused of murder from jail yesterday because of you? Do they know an innocent man who has spent a year in a Nevada prison will get out soon? They should be giving you a medal, not a hearing.”

There was silence and then she spoke.

“And they should be giving you a raise instead of laying you off, Jack. Look, I appreciate what you are saying, but the reality is, I made some bad judgments and they seem more concerned about that and the money it cost than anything else.”

“Jesus Christ! If they do one thing to you, Rachel, it’s going to be all over the front page. I will burn-”

“Jack, I can take care of myself. You have to worry about yourself right now, okay?”

“No, it’s not okay. What time is the hearing Monday?”

“It’s at nine.”

I was going to alert Keisha, my ex-wife. I knew they wouldn’t let her into a closed-door personnel hearing, but if they knew a Times reporter was hovering outside, waiting on the results, they might think twice about what they did inside.

“Jack, look, I know what you’re thinking. But I want you to just cool your jets and let me deal with this. It’s my job and my hearing. Okay?”

“I don’t know. It’s hard to just sit back when they are fucking with somebody… somebody I care about.”

“Thank you, Jack, but if that is how you really feel about me, then I need you to stand down on this one. I’ll let you know what happens as soon as I know.”

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

I yanked open the curtain again and a blast of sunlight entered the room.

“Okay.”

“Thank you. Are you going to your house? If you really want it, I can get somebody to meet you there.”

“Nah, I’ll be all right. I was just making a play for you. I want to see you. But if you’re not even in town… When did you get there, anyway?”

“This morning on a red-eye. I tried to delay it so I could stay on the case. But that’s not the way the bureau works.”

“Right.”

“So I’m here and I’m meeting with my defense rep to go over everything. In fact, he’s going to be here any minute and I need to put some stuff together.”

“Fine. I’ll let you go. Where are you going to be staying?”

“The Hotel Monaco on F Street.”

We ended the call after that. I stood at the window, looking out but not seeing what was there. I was thinking about Rachel fighting for her job and the one thing that seemed to keep her tethered to the world.

I realized she wasn’t that much different from me.

Carver watched the home in Scottsdale from the darkness of his car. It was too early to make his move. He would wait and watch until he was sure it was safe. This didn’t bother him. He enjoyed being alone and in the dark. It was his place. He had his music on the iPod and the Lizard King had kept him company his whole life.

I’m a changeling, see me change. I’m a changeling, see me change.

It had always been his anthem, a song to set his life by. He turned the volume up and closed his eyes. He reached his hand down to the side of the seat and pushed the button that reclined him further.

The music transported him back. Past all the memories and nightmares. Back to the dressing room with Alma. She was supposed to be watching him but she had her hands full with the thread and needlework. She couldn’t watch him all the time and it wasn’t fair to expect it. There were house rules about mothers and children. The mother was ultimately responsible, even while onstage.

Young Wesley made his move, slipping through the beaded curtains as quiet as a mouse. He was so small he only disturbed five or six strands. He then went down the hall past the foul-smelling bathroom to where the flashing lights emanated from.

He made the turn and there was Mr. Grable in his tuxedo, sitting on a stool. He was holding the microphone, waiting for the song to end.

The music was loud at this end of the hall, but not so loud that Wesley didn’t hear the cheers-and some of the jeers. He crept up behind Mr. Grable and looked out between the legs of the stool. The stage was splashed with harsh white light. He saw her then. Naked in front of all the men. The music pulsing through him.

Girl, you gotta love your man…

She moved perfectly with the music. As if it had been written and recorded just for her. He watched and felt entranced. He didn’t want the music to stop. It was perfect. She was perfect and he-