The Scarecrow Read Online Free PDF Page B

had no
     relationship with Walker, as Santa Monica didn’t come up very often on the news radar. It was a relatively safe beach town
     between Venice and Malibu that had a pressing homeless problem but not much of a murder problem. The police department investigated
     only a handful of homicides each year and most of these weren’t newsworthy. More often than not they were body dump cases
     like Denise Babbit’s. The murder occurs somewhere else—like the south end of L. A.—and the beach cops are left to clean up
     the mess.
    My call found Walker at his desk. His voice seemed friendly enough until I identified myself as a reporter with the
Times
. Then it went cold. That happened often. I had spent seven years on the beat and had many cops in many departments that I
     counted as sources and even friends. In a jam, I could reach out. But sometimes you don’t get to pick who you have to reach
     out to. The bottom line is you can never get them all in your corner. The media and the police have never been on comfortable
     terms. The media views itself as the public watchdog. And nobody, the police included, likes having somebody looking over
     their shoulder. There was a chasm between the two institutions into which trust had fallen long before I was ever around.
     Consequently, it made things tough for the lowly beat reporter who just needs a few facts to fill out a story.
    “What can I do for you?” Walker said in a clipped tone.
    “I’m trying to reach Alonzo Winslow’s mother and I was wondering if you might be able to help.”
    “And who is Alonzo Winslow?”
    I was about to say,
Come on, Detective,
when I realized I wasn’t supposed to know the suspect’s name. There were laws about releasing the names of juveniles charged
     with crimes.
    “Your suspect in the Babbit case.”
    “How do you know that name? I’m not confirming that name.”
    “I understand that, Detective. I’m not asking you to confirm the name. I know the name. His mother called me on Friday and
     gave me the name. Trouble is, she didn’t give me her phone number and I’m just trying to get back in—”
    “Have a nice day,” Walker said, interrupting and then hanging up the phone.
    I leaned back in my desk chair, noting to myself that I needed to tell Angela Cook that the nobility I mentioned earlier did
     not reside in all cops.
    “Asshole,” I said out loud.
    I drummed my fingers on the desk until I came up with a new plan—the one I should have employed in the first place.
    I opened a line and called a detective who was a source in the South Bureau of the Los Angeles Police Department and who I
     knew had been involved in the Winslow arrest. The case had originated in the city of Santa Monica because the victim had been
     found in the trunk of her car in a parking lot near the pier. But the LAPD became involved when evidence from the murder scene
     led to Alonzo Winslow, a resident of South L.A.
    Following established protocol, Santa Monica contacted Los Angeles, and a team of South Bureau detectives intimately familiar
     with the turf were used to locate Winslow, take him into custody and then turn him over to Santa Monica. Napoleon Braselton
     was one of those South Bureau guys. I called him now and was flat-out honest with him. Well, almost.
    “Remember the bust two weeks ago for the girl in the trunk?” I asked.
    “Yeah, that’s Santa Monica,” he said. “We just helped out.”
    “Yeah, I know. You guys took Winslow down for them. That’s what I’m calling about.”
    “It’s still their case, man.”
    “I know but I can’t get a hold of Walker over there and I don’t know anybody else in that department. But I know you. And
     I want to ask about the arrest, not the case.”
    “What, is there a beef? We didn’t touch that kid.”
    “No, Detective, no beef. Far as I know, it was a righteous bust. I’m just trying to find the kid’s house. I want to go see
     where he was living, maybe talk to his