Read Online The Scarecrow by Michael Connelly - Free Book Online
Authors: Michael Connelly
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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
“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
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