The Scarecrow by Michael Connelly Page B

understood them. Then they went
     through a series of questions employed at the start of interviews with juveniles. These were designed to elicit his knowledge
     of right and wrong. Once that was established, Winslow became fair game.
    For his part, Winslow fell victim to ego and the oldest flaw in the human book. He thought he could outsmart them. He thought
     he could talk his way out of it and maybe pick up some inside information about their investigation. So he readily agreed
     to talk to them—what innocent kid wouldn’t?—and they played him like a three-string bass guitar.
Dum-de-dum-de-dumb.
Getting every implausible explanation and outright lie on record.
    I breezed through the first two hundred pages, skipping page after page of Winslow’s denials of knowing anything or seeing
     anything pertaining to Denise Babbit’s murder. Then, in very casual conversation, the detectives turned the questions toward
     Winslow’s whereabouts on the night in question, obviously trying to get either facts or lies on the record, because either
     way they would be helpful to the case—a fact was a marker that could help them navigate through the interview; a lie could
     be used like a club on Winslow when revealed.
    Winslow told them that he was at home sleeping and his “moms”—Wanda Sessums—could vouch for him. He continually denied any
     knowledge of Denise Babbit, repeatedly rejected knowing her or anything about her abduction and murder. He held up like a
     rock, but then on page 305 the detectives started lying to him and setting traps.
    W ALKER : That’s not going to work, Alonzo. You gotta give us something here. You can’t just sit there and say no, no, no, I don’t
     know anything, and expect to walk out of here. We know you know something. I mean, we know it, son.
    W INSLOW : You don’t know shit. I ain’t ever seen that girl you been talking about.
    W ALKER : Really? Then how come we got you on tape dropping her car in that parking lot by the beach?
    W INSLOW : What tape you got?
    W ALKER : The one of the parking lot. We got you getting out of that car and nobody else goes near it until they find the body in
     it. That puts this whole thing on you, man.
    W INSLOW : Nah, it ain’t me. I didn’t do this.
    As far as I knew from the discovery documents the defense lawyer had given me, there was no video that showed the victim’s
     Mazda being left in the parking lot. But I also knew that the U.S. Supreme Court had upheld the legality of the police’s lying
     to a suspect if the lie would reasonably be seen as such by an innocent person. By spinning everything off the one piece of
     evidence they did have—Winslow’s fingerprint on the rearview mirror—they were within bounds of this guideline and they were
     leading Winslow down the path.
    I once wrote a story about an interrogation where the detectives showed the suspect an evidence bag containing the gun used
     in the murder. It wasn’t the real murder weapon. It was an exact duplicate. But when the suspect saw it, he copped to the
     crime because he figured the police had found all the evidence. A murderer was caught but I didn’t feel too good about it.
     It never seemed right or fair to me that the representatives of our government were allowed to employ lies and tricks—just
     like the bad guys—with full approval of the Supreme Court.
    I read on, skimming another hundred or so pages, until my cell phone rang. I looked at the screen and realized I had read
     right through my coffee meeting with Angela.
    “Angela? Sorry, I got tied up. I’m coming right down.”
    “Please hurry. I need to finish today’s story.”
    I hustled down the steps to the first-floor cafeteria and joined her at a table without getting any coffee. I was twenty minutes
     late and I saw her cup was empty. On the table next to it was a stack of paper turned print-side down.
    “You want another latte?”
    “No, I’m fine.”
    “Okay.”
    I looked around. It was