The Scarecrow

I headed for the elevator alcove, the security man trailing behind me. I took a wide look around the newsroom but made sure my eyes never caught on anybody else’s. I didn’t want any good-byes. I walked along the row of glass offices and didn’t bother to look in at any of the editors I had worked for. I just wanted to get out of there.

“Jack?”

I stopped and turned around. Dorothy Fowler had stepped out of the glass office I had just passed. She beckoned me back.

“Can you come in for a minute before you go?”

I hesitated and shrugged. Then handed the box to the security man.

“Be right back.”

I stepped into the city editor’s office and slipped off my backpack as I sat down in front of her desk. She had a sly smile on her face. She spoke in a low voice, as if she was worried that what she said might be heard in the next office down.

“I told Richard he was kidding himself. That you wouldn’t take the job back. They think people are like puppets and they can play with the strings.”

“You shouldn’t have been so sure. I almost took it.”

“I doubt that, Jack. Very much.”

I thought that was a compliment. I nodded and looked behind her at the wall covered with photos and cards and newspaper clips. She had a classic headline from one of the New York tabs on the wall: “Headless Body in Topless Bar.” You couldn’t beat that one.

“What will you do now?”

I gave her a more expansive version of what I had told Kramer. I would write a book about my part in the Courier-McGinnis story, then I would get a long-awaited shot at publishing a novel. All the while, I would be on the masthead at velvetcoffin.com and free to tackle the investigative projects of my choosing. It wouldn’t pay much but it would be journalism. I was just making the jump to the digital world.

“That all sounds great,” she said. “We’re really going to miss you around here. You are one of the best.”

I don’t take compliments like that well. I’m cynical and look for the angle. If I was that good, why did I get put on the thirty list in the first place? The answer had to be that I was good but not good enough and she was just blowing smoke. I looked away from her, as I do when someone is lying to my face, and back at the images taped to the wall.

That’s when I saw it. Something that had eluded me before. But not this time. I bent forward so I could see it better and then I stood up and leaned across her desk.

“Jack, what?”

I pointed to the wall.

“Can I see that? The photo from The Wizard of Oz.”

Fowler reached up and pulled it off the wall and handed it to me.

“It’s a joke from a friend,” she said. “I’m from Kansas.”

“I get that,” I said.

I studied the photo, zeroing in on the Scarecrow. The photo was too small for me to be completely sure.

“Can I run a search on your computer real quick?” I asked.

I was coming around her desk before she answered.

“Uh, sure, what is it that-”

“I’m not sure yet.”

She got up and got out of the way. I took her seat, looked at her screen and opened up Google. The machine was running slowly.

“Come on, come on, come on.”

“Jack, what is it?”

“Let me just…”

The search window finally came up and I clicked over to Google Images. I typed Scarecrow into the search block and let it fly.

My screen soon filled with sixteen small images of scarecrows. There were photos of the lovable character from The Wizard of Oz movie and color sketches from Batman comic books of a villain called the Scarecrow. There were several other photos and drawings of scarecrows from books and movies and Halloween costume catalogs. They ranged from the benign and friendly to the horrible and menacing. Some had cheerful eyes and smiles and some had their eyes and mouths stitched closed.

I spent two minutes clicking on each photo and enlarging it. I studied them and, sixteen for sixteen, they all had one thing in common. Each scarecrow’s construction included a burlap bag pulled over the head to form a face. Each bag was cinched around the neck with a cord. Sometimes it was a thick rope and sometimes it was basic household clothesline. But it didn’t matter. The image was consistent and it matched what I had seen in the files I had accumulated as well as the lasting image I had of Angela Cook.

I could see now that in the murders a clear plastic bag had been used to create the face of the scarecrow. No burlap, but this inconsistency with the established imagery didn’t matter. The construction was the same. A bag over the head and a rope around the neck were used to create the same image.

I clicked to the next screen of images. Again the same construction. This time the images were older, going back through a century to the original illustrations in the book The Wonderful Wizard of Oz. And then I saw it. The illustrations were credited to William Wallace Denslow. William Denslow as in Bill Denslow, as in Denslow Data.

I felt no doubt that I had just found the signature. The secret signature that Rachel had told me would be there.

I killed the screen and stood up.

“I have to go.”

I went around her desk and grabbed my backpack off the floor.

“Jack?” Fowler asked.

I headed toward the door.

“It was nice working with you, Dorothy.”

The plane landed hard on the tarmac at Sky Harbor but I barely noticed. I had gotten so used to flying in the last two weeks that I didn’t even bother to look out the window anymore to psychically nurse the plane to a safe touchdown.

I had not called Rachel yet. I wanted to get to Arizona first so that whatever happened with my information included my involvement. Technically, I was no longer a reporter, but I was still protecting my story.

The delay also allowed me to think more about what I had and to work out an approach. After picking up a rental and getting to Mesa, I pulled into the lot of a convenience store and went in to buy a throw-away phone. I knew Rachel was working in the bunker at Western Data. When I called her, I didn’t want her seeing my name on the ID screen and then answering with it in front of Carver.

Finally ready and back in the car, I made the call and she answered after five rings.

“Hello, this is Agent Walling.”

“It’s me. Don’t say my name.”

There was a pause before she continued.

“How can I help you?”

“Are you with Carver?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, I’m in Mesa and about ten minutes away. I need to meet you without anybody else in there knowing.”

“I’m sorry, that’s not going to be possible. What is this about?”

At least she was playing along.

“I can’t tell you. I have to show you. Did you eat lunch yet?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, tell them you need a latte or something you can’t get out of one of their machines. Meet me at