The Scarecrow (28 page)

I hesitated only briefly and then walked down the hallway and entered my bedroom. There was a musty smell here that was puzzling
because it seemed stronger than the day we had found Angela’s body. The box spring, mattress and bed frame were gone and I
assumed they were being held for analysis and as evidence.

Pausing for a moment, I studied the spot where the bed had been. I wish I could say that at that moment my heart filled with
sadness for Angela Cook. But somehow I was already past that point, or my mind was protecting itself and not allowing me to
dwell on such things. If I thought about anything, I thought about how hard it was going to be to sell the place. If I felt
anything, I felt the need to get out of there as soon as I could.

I walked quickly to the closet, remembering a story I had once written for the
Times
about a private company that offered a clean-up service at homes where murders and suicides had taken place. It was a thriving
business. I decided I would have to dig that story out of archives and give them a call. Maybe they’d give me a discount.

I pulled my big suitcase off the shelf in the closet. I put it down on the floor and a breath of stale air released as I flipped
it open. I hadn’t used it since I had moved into the house more than a decade earlier. I quickly started filling it with clothes
that were on my usual rotation. When it was maxed out, I brought down my more-often-used duffel bag and filled it with shoes
and belts and ties—even though I would soon have no use for ties. Lastly, I went into the bathroom and emptied everything
on the sink and in the medicine cabinet into the plastic bag that lined the trash can.

“Need some help?”

I almost jumped through the shower curtain. I turned around and saw that it was the driver I had left at the car ten minutes
earlier after telling him I would only be five minutes.

“You scared me, man.”

“I just wanted to see if you needed—What happened here?”

He was staring at the rubber gloves strewn on the floor and at the big empty spot where the bed used to be.

“It’s a long story. If you could get that big suitcase out to the car, I’ll get the rest. I need to check something on my
computer before we leave.”

I grabbed my racquetball racquet off a hook on the bedroom door and then followed him out with the bag and the duffel. I dumped
it all in the trunk next to the big suitcase and then headed back toward the house. I noticed the neighbor across the street
was at the bottom of her driveway, watching me. She was holding her home-delivered
Times
in her hand. I waved but she didn’t return the gesture and I realized that she wasn’t going to be friendly or neighborly
to me anymore. I had brought darkness and death to our fair neighborhood.

Back inside the house I went directly to the office. But when I entered, I immediately saw that my desktop computer was not
on my desktop. It was gone and I realized that the police or the FBI had taken it. Somehow, knowing that a bunch of strange
men were looking through all my work and personal files, including my ill-fated novel, made me feel exposed in a whole new
way. I was not the killer out there on the loose but the FBI had my computer. When Rachel got back from Washington, I was
going to ask her to get it back for me.

My shoulders sagged a little and I could feel that the hard exterior I had put on to help me get through the return to my
house was slipping. I had to get out or the horrors of what had happened to Angela would creep back into my thoughts and paralyze
me. I had to keep moving.

My last stop in the house was the kitchen. I checked the refrigerator and took all the outdated or close-to-outdated items
out and dumped them in the trash can. I dropped in the bananas from the fruit bowl and a half loaf of bread from one of the
cabinets. I then went out the back door and put the bag in the bigger can next to the garage. I went inside again, locked
up and went out the front door to the waiting car.

“Back to the Kyoto,” I told the driver.

I had almost a full day still ahead and it was time to get to work.

As we drove away I saw that my neighbor had gone back inside her safe little home. I was drawn to turn and look through the
rear window at my house. It was the only place I had ever owned and I had never contemplated not living there. I realized
that one killer had given it to me and another had taken it away.

We made the turn onto Sunset and I lost sight of it.

C
arver worked his hunch on the computer while Stone gathered the things he wanted to take with him. Between searches Carver
shredded the pages in Stone’s recycle box. He wanted to leave the FBI something that would keep its agents busy.

He stopped everything when the photo and story appeared on the screen. He scanned it quickly, then looked across the warehouse
at Stone. He was throwing clothing into a black trash bag. He had no suitcase. Carver could tell he was working gingerly and
was still in some pain.

“I was right,” Carver said. “She’s in L.A.”

Stone dropped the bag he was filling and crossed the concrete floor. He looked over Carver’s shoulder at the middle screen.
Carver double-clicked the photo to make it larger.

“Is that her?” he asked.

“I told you, all I got was a quick glance when I went by the room. I didn’t really even see her face. She was in a chair sort
of to the side. I didn’t have the angle on her face. It could be her, but maybe not.”

“I think it was her. She was with Jack. Rachel and Jack, together again.”

“Wait a minute. Rachel?”

“Yes, Special Agent Rachel Walling.”

“I think… I think he said that name.”

“Who?”

“McEvoy. When he opened the door and went in the room. When I was coming up behind him. I heard her. She said, ‘Hello, Jack.’
And then he said something and I think he said her name. I think he said something like ‘Rachel, what are you doing?’ ”

“Are you sure? You didn’t say anything about a name before.”

“I know, but you saying that brought it back. I am sure he said that name.”

Carver got excited by the prospect of McEvoy and Walling being on his trail. It raised the stakes considerably to have two
such opponents.

“What’s that story about?” Stone asked.

“It’s about her and an L.A. cop getting the guy they called the Bagman. He cut up women and put them in trash bags. This picture
was taken at the press conference they had. Two and a half years ago in L.A. They killed the Bagman.”

Carver could hear Stone breathing through his mouth.

“Finish gathering your things now, Freddy.”

“What are we going to do? Go after her now?”

“No, I don’t think so. I think we sit back and wait.”

“For what?”

“For her. She’ll come to us, and when she does, she’ll be a prize.”

Carver waited to see if Stone would say anything, whether he would object or offer his opinion. But Stone said nothing, showing
he had apparently retained something from the morning’s lesson.

“How’s your back?” Carver asked.

“It hurts but it’s fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m fine.”

“Good.”

Carver cut the Internet link and stood up. He reached down behind the computer tower and detached the keyboard cable. He knew
that the bureau could gather DNA from the microscopic bits of skin that fell between the letters on a keyboard. He would not
leave this board behind.

“Let’s hurry up and finish now,” he said. “After that, we’ll go get you a massage and take care of that back.”

“I don’t need a massage. I’m fine.”

“I don’t want you hurting. I’m going to need you at full strength when Agent Walling shows up.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll be ready.”

O
n Monday morning I went on eastern daylight time. I wanted to be ready to react when Rachel called from Washington, so I got
up early and cruised into the newsroom at six
A.M
. to continue my work with the files.

The place was completely dead, not a reporter or editor in sight, and I got a stark feeling for what the future held. At one
time the newsroom was the best place in the world to work. A bustling place of camaraderie, competition, gossip, cynical wit
and humor, it was at the crossroads of ideas and debate. It produced stories and pages that were vibrant and intelligent,
that set the agenda for what was discussed and considered important in a city as diverse and exciting as Los Angeles. Now
thousands of pages of editorial content were being cut each year and soon the paper would be like the newsroom, an intellectual
ghost town. In many ways I was relieved that I would not be around to see it.

I sat down in my cubicle and checked e-mail first. My account had been reopened by the newsroom techs with a new password
the Friday before. Over the weekend I had accumulated almost forty e-mails, most from strangers in reaction to the stories
about the trunk murders. I read and deleted each, not willing to take the time to respond. Two were from people who said they
were serial killers themselves and had put me on their list of targets. These I kept to show Rachel but I wasn’t too worried
about them. One of the writers had spelled it
cereal
and I took this as a hint that I was dealing with either a prankster or someone of deficient intelligence.

I also got an angry e-mail from the photographer Sonny Lester, who said I had double-crossed him by not putting him on the
story as I had agreed. I fired back an equally angry e-mail asking him which story he was talking about, since none of the
stories on the case carried my byline. I said I had been left out to a greater extent than him and invited him to take all
complaints to Dorothy Fowler, the city editor.

After that I unpacked the files and my laptop from my backpack and got down to work. The night before, I had made a lot of
headway. I had completed my study of the records relating to the murder of Denise Babbit and had composed a profile of the
murder along with a comprehensive list of the things about the victim that the killer would have had to know in order to commit
the crime in the manner in which it was carried out. I was halfway through my study of Sharon Oglevy’s murder and was still
compiling the same sort of information.

I set to work and was undisturbed as the newsroom slowly came to life, editors and reporters trudging in, coffee cups in hand,
to start another week of work. At eight o’clock I broke for coffee and a doughnut and then made a round of calls at the cop
shop, seeing if there was anything interesting on the overnight sheets, anything that might take me away from the task at
hand.

Satisfied that all was quiet for the time being, I went back to the murder files and was just completing my profile of the
Oglevy case when my first e-mail of the day chimed on my computer. I looked up. The e-mail was from the axman, Richard Kramer.
The missive was short on content but long on intrigue.

From: Richard Kramer <
[email protected]>

Subject: Re: today

Date: May 18, 2009 9:11 AM PDT

To:
[email protected]

Jack, swing on by when you get a chance.

RK

I looked over the edge of my cubicle wall and at the line of glass offices. I didn’t see Kramer in his but from my angle I
couldn’t see his desk. He was probably in there, waiting to give me the word on who would be taking Angela Cook’s place on
the cop beat. Once more I would be squiring a young replacement around Parker Center, introducing this new reporter to the
same people I had introduced Angela to just a week before.

I decided to get it over with. I stood up and made my way to the glass wall. Kramer was in there, typing out an e-mail to
another hapless recipient. The door was open but I knocked on it before entering. Kramer turned from his screen and beckoned
me in.

“Jack, have a seat. How are we doing this morning?”

I took one of the two chairs in front of his desk and sat down.

“I don’t know about you but I’m doing okay, I guess. Considering.”

Kramer nodded thoughtfully.

“Yes, it’s been an amazing ten days since you last sat in that chair.”

I had actually been sitting in the other chair when he had told me I was downsized but it wasn’t worth the correction. I remained
silent, waiting for whatever it was he was going to say to me—or to us, if he was going to continue to refer to both of us.

“I’ve got some good news for you here,” he said.

He smiled and moved a thick document from the side of his desk to front and center. He looked down at it as he spoke.

“You see, Jack, we think this trunk murder case is going to have legs. Whether they catch this guy soon or not, it’s a story
we’re going to ride with for a while. And so, we’re thinking we’re going to need you, Jack. Plain and simple, we want you
to stick around.”

I looked at him blankly.

“You mean I’m not being laid off?”

Kramer continued as if I had not asked a question, as if he had not heard me make a sound at all.

“What we’re offering here is a six-month contract extension that would commence upon signing,” he said.

“You mean, then, I’m still laid off, but not for six months.”

Kramer turned the document around and slid it across the desk to me so I could read it.

“It’s a standard extension we will be using a lot around here, Jack.”

“I don’t have a contract. How can it be extended when I don’t have a contract in the first place?”

“They call it that because you are currently an employee and there is an implied contract. So any change in status that
is
contracturally agreed to is called an extension. It’s just legal mumbo-jumbo, Jack.”

I didn’t tell him that
contracturally
was not a word. I was speed-reading the front page of the document until I bottomed out on a big fat speed bump.

“This pays me thirty thousand dollars for six months,” I said.