The Scarecrow by Michael Connelly Page A

much and the leaning into my personal space was uncomfortable and seemed completely phony since he
     had never done it with me before. I didn’t like the way this was going.
    “What is it, Alan?”
    “What if it wasn’t just about how a boy became a murderer? What if it was also about how a girl became a murder victim?”
    I thought about it for a moment and slowly nodded. And that was my mistake, because when you start by saying yes, it becomes
     hard to put the brakes on and say no.
    “It’s just going to take me more time when I split the focus of the story like that.”
    “No, it won’t because you won’t have to split your focus. You stay with that kid and give us a kick-ass story. We’ll put Cook
     on the vic and she’ll cover that angle. Then you, Jack, weave both strands together and we’ve got a column-one story.”
    Column one on the front page was reserved each day for the signature story of the paper. The best-written piece, the one with
     the most impact, the long-term project—if the story was good enough, it went out front, above the fold and in column one.
     I wondered if Prendergast knew he was taunting me. In seven years with the
Times
I had never had a column-one story. In more than two thousand days on the beat, I had never come up with the best piece of
     the day. He was waving the possibility of going out the door with a column-one at me like a big fat carrot.
    “Did she give you this idea?”
    “Who?”
    “Who do you think? Cook.”
    “No, man, I just thought of it. Right now. What do you think?”
    “I’m wondering who’s going to cover the cop shop while we’re both running with this.”
    “Well, you both can trade off on it. Like you’ve been doing. And I can probably get some help from time to time from the GA
     group. Even if it was just you on this, I couldn’t cut you loose completely, anyway.”
    Whenever general assignment reporters were pulled in to work the crime beat, the resulting stories were usually superficial
     and by the numbers. It wasn’t the way to cover the beat, but what did I care anymore? I had eleven days left and that was
     it.
    I didn’t believe Prendergast for a moment and was not swayed by his column-one overture. But I was smart enough to know that
     his suggestion—whether truly his or Angela Cook’ s—could lead to a better story. And it had a better chance of doing what
     I wanted it to do.
    “We could call it ‘The Collision,’” I said. “The point where these two—killer and victim—came together and how they got there.”
    “Perfect!” Prendergast exclaimed.
    He stood up, smiling.
    “I’ll wing it in the meeting, but why don’t you and Cook put your heads together and give me something for the budget by the
     end of the day? I’m going to tell them you’ll turn the story in by the end of the week.”
    I thought about that. It was not a lot of time but it was doable, and I knew I could get more days if needed.
    “Fine,” I said.
    “Good,” he said. “I gotta go.”
    He headed on to his meeting. In a carefully worded e-mail I invited Angela to meet me in the cafeteria to get a cup of coffee.
     I gave no indication that I was upset with or suspicious of her. She responded immediately, saying she would meet me there
     in fifteen minutes.
    Now that I was free of the daily story and had fifteen minutes to fill, I pulled the stack back over to the center of the
     desk and started reading the confession of Alonzo Winslow.
    The interview was conducted by the lead detectives Gilbert Walker and William Grady at the Santa Monica Police Department
     beginning at eleven A.M ., Sunday, April 26, about three hours after Winslow had been taken into custody. The transcript was in Q&A format with very
     little description added. It was easy and fast to read, the questions and answers mostly short at first. Back and forth like
     Ping-Pong.
    They began by reading Winslow his rights and having the sixteen-year-old acknowledge that he