Evident

The Scarecrow Case

“Another case, absolutely devastating to our department, lads. We’ve really got to step it up,” the detective said, passing the binders with case information around the table. A younger lad opened the binder and read the first few words, “The Scarecrow Case,” it proceeded to describe the most recent findings—document forgery lab.

“How do we know it’s the same guy?” the younger man asked. There was silence for a moment, followed by a few sniggers from the older, more experienced men. One of them lit up a cigarette, leaning back in his chair.

“Open to page four, kid.”

The younger detective did so, and found a picture from the crime scene, next to the printer and microscopes sat a small, palm-sized plushy of a bat with bright red eyes.

“The bat?” the young man asked.

“Yeah,” the detective at the front commented, turning the board over to reveal case numbers, pictures, and other clues linked to each other in an intricate web, “Case 381, 390, 395, and so on,” he proceeded.

“The bastard always leaves that damned bat plushy behind, every time we get close, he abandons his lab and leaves that damned bat behind. The press called it the Scarecrow Case.”

The younger man nodded, jotting notes down, “Thank you, Detective Cross.”

The man at the front gave him a playful smirk, “Sure kid, we all started out like the Scooby-doo gang. Don’t worry, no ghosts here, well, unless it’s a ghost of your past.”

The group laughed, dispersing, each armed with either a cigarette or a stylish hat.

Not long after, he was out on a patrol. The radio buzzed as he adjusted the frequency of his car’s radio. A small wooden carving of a deity dangled off his rear-view mirror.

“And today [static],” the radio played.

“Ah yes, my favorite, the news about static noise. Doctor did say gray-noise helps you soothe your nerves, I’m not sure this is what he meant though,” Detective Cross joked as he continued to twist the dial.

“The weather is promising to be good to us today,” the radio cleared up at last.

“And now a short break from our usual program, let’s play a game–what is the weirdest thing you’ve found at the thrift shop? And our first call is in. Hello?”

“Hey, yeah hey hi am I live?” the voice spoke.

“Yes you are, so what’s the weirdest thing you’ve found at a thrift shop?”

There was a moment of silence before the voice spoke in a mildly hesitant manner.

“Uhm, you know those police evidence bags? Like the ones with case number, date, all that good stuff? Yeah so I once found one of those, with like a little bat plushy inside it? Weird as hell, eerie too, I just had to buy it.”

“Well that is certainly an odd one,” the radio-man continued.

“And onto the next call—”

Detective Cross furrowed his brows, ‘evidence bag?’ he shook his head, ‘Nah. That’s stupid. Probably some freezer zipper bag that looked similar.’ He dismissed it. His police radio buzzed, “Unit 1-3, unit 1-3, this is central, come in.”

“Central, this is 1-3, over,” he responded after taking his hat off and holding the radio close to his ear. There was static, “Detective’s presence is required at a crime scene in your A-O-R. Umbrella and Mitchell Street intersection, abandoned factory, over.”

He thought for a moment as to where it was, “Near the Luigi’s Pizzeria?”

The dispatch confirmed.

He pulled up to the intersection that was blocked off with patrol cars and yellow, iconic ‘do not cross’ tape. He chucked for a moment, his gaze darted to the pizzeria, “Well at least you guys got the lunch sorted, let me guess–pizza?” he asked of the police officer who lifted the yellow tape for him after he showed his badge.

“How’d you guess?” the officer asked jokingly.

“I am a detective for a reason,” he responded with a wink. As he pulled to a curb to park, he couldn’t help but shiver slightly at the sight.

It was an old piping factory. Aged, weathered concrete had moss stains and dried vines crawling up it, a scene straight out of a horror movie. The radio’s song got cut abruptly, a pleasant jazz melody replaced by a sudden voice, “The local authorities wish to remind you: tampering with police evidence is a felony punishable by up to five years. And that’s before they add the theft charges.”

A few pipes clattered to the floor as a clumsy officer accidentally touched what he wasn’t supposed to. Detective Cross sighed, “Please leave the evidence where it is and how it is. The forensics will give you hell if you keep messing with it.”

He approached a very well-set-up office space. There was a computer, a few printers, and a very elaborate makeshift lab for faking paper checks.

He pulled out his camera, approaching the lab carefully, “Call the C-S-I, and get the chief here, we’ve got another case of the Scarecrow,” he commented, snapping a picture of the bat plushy with bright red eyes, sitting in a plastic clear bag on a table right beside a keyboard. Under it–a letter.

As he continued to examine the workspace, the plastic bag caught his attention. It looked eerily familiar to him. It was folded over itself, as the plushy inside far quite small. As he lifted it up by the corner, he gasped. Not just the looks, but the feel of it. It was a very particular plastic bag, the exact same kind they use to store evidence, even included space to write the case number and date on it.

“That’s, just like ours, isn’t it?” commented another detective who had arrived a few minutes prior.

“I guess Mister Scarecrow went ahead and packed the evidence for us this time, how nice of him, less work for us. Perhaps soon he’ll be solving our cases for us too?” Cross jested, setting the bagged plushy aside while pondering, “Do you reckon we have to put evidence bag with evidence inside an evidence bag?”

His gaze shifted to the letter, it had return address of this factory building, and was addressed to, “Detective Cross.” He shuddered when he read it, picking the letter up. It wasn’t sealed, and looked fresh. He pulled out the letter carefully and read it.

“Dear Detective Cross. Here you are chasing ghosts yet again. Perhaps you should look in the mirror.”

The other detective raised his eyebrow.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Cross shrugged, “I think that means that we’re a Scooby-doo gang, a bunch of fools chasing a ghost.”

He put the letter back onto the table and continued examining the lab. There were no mirrors in sight, and the letter hardly resembled a clue, more of a mockery than anything.

The day came to an unspectacular end. Another lab, another forgery, another added case number to the board, another bat plushy added to the evidence room, bagged inside two evidence bags, an oddity.

“All done for the day?”

Asked the evidence room supervisor as he signed off on the newly deposited evidence.

“Yeah. Say, the bags,” he began.

“What about them?” asked the supervisor.

“Who’s our supplier?”

The supervisor shrugged, “Not sure, some small factory, very niche. Our district is the only one that uses theirs pretty sure. Why?” the evidence room supervisor asked.

“Hm, get me the address by tomorrow,” Cross requested before leaving.

Safety First

On the way to work the morning after, the radio played gentle tunes, and gave a weather forecast. His favorite station had the most accurate forecasts, or so he believed.

“Possible showers in the afternoon, heavy traffic has been reported in the area of Mitchell and Umbrella Streets, clearly some people are being served, some delicious Pizza. Luigi’s Pizzeria, when not flooded by the blue, offers a true cheesy delight.”

Cross yawned sleepily while the radio man continued.

“And now, back to music. This song was requested for someone special. You know who you are, our dedicated listener, do enjoy this song—I Hate Myself For What I’ve Done.”

Back at his desk, the chair squeaked unwillingly, as if a grumpy old man still waking from a long nap. He shuffled some case files and folders on his desk, lit up a cigarette, threw his hat on a small hook at the side of his desk and leaned back.

“Cross?”

A young kid’s voice called out to him.

“Me,” he said without averting his gaze from the ceiling.

“Mail for you, sir,” said a young kid, leaving a letter at his desk.

“Mhmm,” he commented. As he sat upright, he froze in place, his gaze focused and brows furrowed. It was a plain white letter with no return information, addressed to ‘Detective Cross’.

He turned it around a few times—it looked familiar, oddly so. The letter wasn’t sealed—it was not mailed but handed to the kid in person. He pulled out the letter, and a faint scent of rainy forest reached his nostrils. Extinguishing the cigarette, he smelled it; the paper was rubbed with scented wax. The smell was nostalgic, damp pine and wet, mossy earth, a smell of his childhood when he used to camp out with his family a lot, where he met the man who taught him of his religion.

He reached into his pocket instinctively, but it was empty. He sighed, reading the letter. There was no introduction this time. ‘The weather always did suit you best on nights like this. Nights when crimes go unpunished.’ Someone got up, a gust of wind whiffed the scent into his nostrils once more, he remembered the heavy rain-pour the night when the cameras were turned off and he was one of the last in the building.

He noticed another note on his desk, ‘Simuel’s Plastics address:’ signed by the Evidence Room Supervisor.

Later, he went up to the evidence room to pick up the plushy from the day before, and then set out to head to the factory.

Radio buzzed to life the same time his engine did.

“And in local news–wave of burglaries has struck the industrial suppliers. City officials remind business owners to secure their properties and monitor their inventory closely. This brings us to our sponsor today—Klark’s Security, top-of-the-line CCTV 24/7 monitoring systems.”

Still sitting at a stoplight, the music was interrupted by a commercial break again.

“The Church of Saint Gabriel has reopened after the restorations post arson, inviting all to reflect on their beginnings. Father Morelly says ‘It is never too late to reclaim what was lost; do not let your past go to waste.’ Something I personally couldn’t agree more with, I have a few childhood keepsakes that I just can’t let go of,” the radio man finished up the advertisement in an enthusiastic note.

Cross glanced up at his rear-view mirror, or rather–at the small wooden idol hanging beneath it, a religious symbol he held onto dearly throughout his younger days.

His mind was jerked out of the day-dreaming state when the car behind him began to honk as he was sitting through a green light. As he got up to speed, the dispatch came in.

“Unit 1-3, respond to a possible 10-100, officers on the scene reported Scarecrow connection.”

Cross glared up. The factory was just a few blocks away. He remained silent for a while, thinking, deciding, “10-4. Location?”

The dispatcher informed him of the location and Cross, despite his initial target, had to re-route. At least the location of the incident wasn’t far from his destination, just a couple of blocks away.

He arrived at the scene, a housing district—wall attached, multi-floor houses along a pretty busy street. A few officers were taking notes and talking with the landlord, who reported the situation. He approached, listening in on the conversation.

“As I said before, I was informed about a strange, chemical scent. The tenant did not answer the door, so I went in. Inside, I found a bathtub full of god-knows-what. I sounded the fire alarm out of concern for the safety of my tenants.”

People were sitting alongside the buildings on the street, some in blankets, others dressed in a funny mix of home-wear and coats, several of whom were protesting to be allowed back inside their houses.

He went inside the reported unit. The stench was so strong it burned his nostrils and made his eyes water. Breathing through a handkerchief, he made his way to the living room, where he found another forgery lab, IDs this time. As he continued to examine the space, he noticed the same plushy—palm-sized bat, with bright red eyes, that sat upon a form of sorts. As he carefully moved it out of the way, his eyes shot open.

“Evidence Inventory Sheet, for official, internal use only,” he read it out loud in disbelief. Lifting the corner of it up, he felt the paper. It was thick, the same grade that was used by the inventory and evidence departments. His gaze wandered the rest of the table, and realization settled in. It looked almost like an altar, above the form stood a candle, the same scented rainy-forest candle that the previous letter he received smelled of. Beside it stood a typewriter, and next to it a quill with ink.

He glanced down at the garbage bin. A quick rummage later revealed a shipping receipt ‘Clear Evidence Bags—Lot # B1-57’, and a letter, crumpled up, discarded, but clearly intended to be found:

“Every man has an altar, Detective Cross. Yours just so happens to be missing its idol, mine on the other hand, has wings.”

The letter then included a bible verse, describing angels and their purpose.

Cross swallowed hard, a chill ran down his spine. A single thought filled his mind: ‘He knows.’

Has Been Seen

As he slid back into the driver’s seat of his car and shut the door with a louder thud than usual, he leaned back, taking a deep breath—trying to soothe his nerves. After a moment of rest, he put his hat back on and lit a cigarette in hopes of drowning out the chemical stench of the unit.

This case was getting personal, too personal. As he flipped down the sunshade to check himself in the mirror, to see if he looked as shaken up as he felt, a neatly folded piece of paper fell out of it, fluttering down like a lazy butterfly before settling down in his lap. It wasn’t an envelope, nor a square folded paper, it was an elaborate origami in the shape of a wing. His breath hitched, he froze in place, and the time seemed to stand still. Only when the ash of his cigarette fell onto his hand did he finally unfreeze and reach for the piece of paper. He picked it up carefully, as if a bomb diffuser about to make a life-or-death decision, though a faint tremble of his hand betrayed his collected expression.

His throat went dry, and the stench of the lab no longer bothered him. When he unfolded the paper, to his surprise, it was empty, but the paper felt familiar. It was the same paper on which the letters addressed to him were written. He glanced around the car carefully. Whoever the Scarecrow was, he had been in his car.

Deciding to skip the factory, deciding it was no longer necessary to go there after finding the receipt, he made it back to the station to update the case. As he walked through the halls of the station, and the sound of his steps echoed like the whispers of his doubts. Something didn’t sit right with him—instead of heading back to the office, he went toward the evidence room.

The supervisor sat behind the counter, as he seemingly always did. Calm, distracted but focused, either filling out forms, checking something, or minding his own business, whatever it may have been, Cross never bothered to actually ask.

Cross leaned against the counter after eyeing the evidence room for a moment, then shifted his focus to the supervisor who was fiddling with a thin piece of paper, folding it neatly with practiced precision. Slow, deliberate and calculated moves, running finger up and down each crease.

“You look like you’ve seen better days,” the supervisor spoke up after briefly glancing up at Cross before returning his focus to the paper.

“Long morning,” Cross replied casually, watching him with a curious gaze.

After a long silence, the supervisor folded the last corner, the paper had now assumed a shape of a beautiful origami wing, “So, what do you think?” he asked casually, turning the folded-up wing over. The glossy shine of the paper glistened in the low-hanging light, catching Cross’s attention. He gazed down at it.

What he saw made his stomach turn and his heart skip a beat. His face turned pale as if seeing a ghost—his own face stared back at him. His iconic hat that covered his eyes, the chiseled jaw line. The rest of the wing, made out of photo paper, revealed the evidence room.

“Funny thing about photo paper,” the supervisor spoke softly, examining his work, “It folds good, and remembers quite well, the shape that is,” he mocked. Cross swallowed at last, his hand trembled but he pushed it down on the counter with his other, managing to utter at last.

“W-where’d you get that?”

His mind tumbled, memories surfacing. The forest, camping trip. A religious man he met in the forest who carved him an idol out of wood, an idol he held dearly to, the same one he sold one day. Case number 157—a murdered pawn-shop owner, the idol he re-discovered.

“This? Oh, I’ve had it for a while. Evidence is to be kept, isn’t it?” the supervisor chuckled, looking up for the first time. Their eyes met. Cross’s throat tightened as realization settled in. The clues—they were all there.

“You—” he began.

The supervisor sneered, “So, did you need something, Detective Cross?”

Cross took a shaky step back, his jaw agape in disbelief. He was toyed with, played like a child who was promised candy but then got denied. His breath caught as he turned away. Behind him, he heard the supervisor’s voice, “You know where to find me should you need anything.”

A soft sound of paper being scrunched followed a moment later.

Cross’s Diary

T he supervisor knew… of my past deeds. He knew that I had stolen that idol, my idol. I prefer to use the phrase ‘reclaimed what was rightfully mine’ but that’s beside the point. I sold it… then, as the fate would have it-the thrift shop owner wound up dead, and that’s when I saw my idol in the evidence room. What are the chances huh?

H e knew of it, even though I thought I took it when the cameras were down, he had a picture of me taking it. A small misdemeanor, but it’d jeapordize my career.

T hat bastard, he was the Scarecrow all along, and he made it his point to show to me just how powerless I was.

I won’t give up…

THE END