Read Online The Scarecrow by Michael Connelly - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Michael Connelly
Ads: Link
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.”
There was a long silence and I guess Jackson was looking for words that would prepare me for what was ahead.
“I’ve gotta tell you the truth, man. There’s nothing out there. I’m just about ready to start selling cars, but all the car
dealers are in the toilet, too. Anyway, give me a call. Maybe we can watch out for each other, trade tips or something.”
I played the message again and then erased it. I would take my time about calling Jackson back. I didn’t want to be dragged
down further than I already was. I was hitting the big three-oh but I still had options. I wanted to keep my momentum. I had
a novel to write.
J acob Meyer was late to our meeting on Tuesday morning. For nearly a half hour I sat in the waiting room of the Public Defender’s
Office surrounded by clients of the state-funded agency. People too poor to
“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.”
There was a long silence and I guess Jackson was looking for words that would prepare me for what was ahead.
“I’ve gotta tell you the truth, man. There’s nothing out there. I’m just about ready to start selling cars, but all the car
dealers are in the toilet, too. Anyway, give me a call. Maybe we can watch out for each other, trade tips or something.”
I played the message again and then erased it. I would take my time about calling Jackson back. I didn’t want to be dragged
down further than I already was. I was hitting the big three-oh but I still had options. I wanted to keep my momentum. I had
a novel to write.
J acob Meyer was late to our meeting on Tuesday morning. For nearly a half hour I sat in the waiting room of the Public Defender’s
Office surrounded by clients of the state-funded agency. People too poor to
Similar Books
