by Stephen King
Detective Anderson: How close were you?
June Morris: Gee, I don't know. He was in the parking lot and I was on the sidewalk. How far is that?
Detective Anderson: I don't know, either, but I'm sure I'll find out. Is that soda good?
June Morris: You already asked me that.
Detective Anderson: Oh, right, so I did.
June Morris: Old people are forgetful, that's what my grandpa says.
Francine Morris: Junie, that's impolite.
Detective Anderson: It's okay. Your grandpa sounds like a wise man, June. What happened then?
June Morris: Nothing. Coach Terry got into his van and drove away.
Detective Anderson: What color was the van?
June Morris: Well, it would be white if it was washed, I guess, but it was pretty dirty. Also, it made a lot of noise and all this blue smoke. Phew.
Detective Anderson: Was anything written on the side? Like a company name?
June Morris: Nope. It was just a white van.
Detective Anderson: Did you see the license plate?
June Morris: Nope.
Detective Anderson: Which way did the van go?
June Morris: Down Barnum Street.
Detective Morris: And you're sure the man, the one who told you he had a bloody nose, was Terry Maitland?
June Morris: Sure, Coach Terry, Coach T. I see him all the time. Is he all right? Did he do something wrong? My mom says I can't look at the newspaper or watch the TV news, but I'm pretty sure something bad happened in the park. I'd know if school was in, because everybody blabs. Did Coach Terry fight with a bad person? Is that how he got the bloody--
Francine Morris: Are you almost done, Detective? I know you need information, but remember that I'm the one who has to put her to bed tonight.
June Morris: I put myself to bed!
Detective Anderson: Right, almost done. But June, before you go, I'm going to play a little game with you. Do you like games?
June Morris: I guess so, if they're not boring.
Detective Anderson: I'm going to put six photographs of six different people on the table . . . like this . . . and they all look a little like Coach Terry. I want you to tell me--
June Morris: That one. Number four. That's Coach Terry.
7
Troy Ramage opened one of the rear doors of the unmarked car. Terry looked over his shoulder and saw Marcy behind them, halted at the edge of the parking lot, her face a study in agonized bewilderment. Behind her came the Call photographer, snapping pictures even as he jogged across the grass. Those won't be worth a damn, Terry thought, and with a certain amount of satisfaction. To Marcy he shouted, "Call Howie Gold! Tell him I've been arrested! Tell him--"
Then Yates had his hand on top of Terry's head, pushing him down and in. "Slide over, slide over. And keep your hands in your lap while I fasten your seatbelt."
Terry slid over. He kept his hands in his lap. Through the windshield he could see the ballfield's big electronic scoreboard. His wife had led the fund drive for that two years before. She was standing there, and he would never forget the expression on her face. It was the look of some woman in a third world country, watching as her village burned.
Then Ramage was behind the wheel, Ralph Anderson was in the passenger seat, and even before Ralph could get his door closed, the unmarked was backing out of the handicap space with a chirp of the tires. Ramage turned tight, spinning the wheel with the heel of his hand, then headed for Tinsley Avenue. They rode sans siren, but a blue bubble-light stuck to the dashboard began to swing and flash. Terry realized that the car smelled of Mexican food. Strange, the things you noticed when your day--your life--suddenly went over a cliff you hadn't even known was there. He leaned forward.
"Ralph, listen to me."
Ralph was looking straight ahead. His hands were clenched tightly together. "You can talk all you want down at the station."
"Hell, let him tell it," Ramage said. "Save us all some time."
"Shut up, Troy," Ralph said. Still watching the road unroll. Terry could see two tendons standing out on the back of his neck, making the number 11.
"Ralph, I don't know what led you to me, or why you'd want to arrest me in front of half the town, but you're totally off the rails."
"So say they all," Tom Yates remarked from beside him in a just-passing-the-time voice. "Keep those hands in your lap, Maitland. Don't even scratch your nose."
Terry's head was clearing now--not a lot, but a little--and he was careful to do as Officer Yates (his name was pinned to his uniform shirt) had instructed. Yates looked as if he'd like an excuse to take a poke at his prisoner, cuffs or no cuffs.
Someone had been eating enchiladas in this car, Terry was sure of it. Probably from Senor Joe's. It was a favorite of his daughters, who always laughed a lot during the meal--hell, they all did--and accused each other of farting on their way home. "Listen to me, Ralph. Please."
He sighed. "Okay, I'm listening."
"We all are," Ramage said. "Open ears, buddy, open ears."
"Frank Peterson was killed on Tuesday. Tuesday afternoon. It was in the papers, it was on the news. I was in Cap City on Tuesday, Tuesday night, and most of Wednesday. Didn't get back until nine or nine thirty on Wednesday night. Gavin Frick, Barry Houlihan, and Lukesh Patel--Baibir's father--practiced the boys both days."
For a moment there was silence in the car, not even interrupted by the radio, which had been turned off. Terry had a golden moment in which he believed--yes, absolutely--that Ralph would now tell the big cop behind the wheel to pull over. Then he would turn to Terry with wide, embarrassed eyes and say, Oh Christ, we really goofed, didn't we?
What Ralph said, still without turning around, was, "Ah. Comes the famous alibi."
"What? I don't understand what you m--"
"You're a smart guy, Terry. I knew that from the first time I met you, back when you were coaching Derek in Little League. If you didn't confess outright--which I was hoping for, but didn't really expect--I was pretty sure you'd offer some kind of alibi." He turned around at last, and the face Terry looked into was that of an absolute stranger. "And I'm equally sure we'll knock it down. Because we've got you for this. We absolutely do."
"What were you doing in Cap City, Coach?" Yates asked, and all at once the man who had told Terry to not even scratch his nose sounded friendly, interested. Terry almost told him what he had been doing there, then decided against it. Thinking was beginning to replace reacting, and he realized this car, with its fading aroma of enchiladas, was enemy territory. It was time to shut up until Howie Gold arrived at the station. The two of them could sort this mess out together. It shouldn't take long.
He realized something else, as well. He was angry, probably angrier than he'd ever been in his life, and as they turned onto Main Street and headed for the Flint City police station, he made himself a promise: come fall, maybe even sooner, the man in the front seat, the one he'd considered a friend, was going to be looking for a new job. Possibly as a bank guard in Tulsa or Amarillo.
8
Statement of Mr. Carlton Scowcroft [July 12th, 9:30 PM, interviewed by Detective Ralph Anderson]
Scowcroft: Will this take long, Detective? Because I usually go to bed early. I work maintenance on the railroad, and if I don't clock in by seven, I'll be in dutch.
Detective Anderson: I'll be as quick as I can, Mr. Scowcroft, but this is a serious matter.
Scowcroft: I know. And I'll help all I can. There's just, I don't have much to tell you, and I want to get home. I don't know how well I'll sleep, though. I haven't been in this station since a drinking party I went to when I was seventeen. Charlie Borton was chief then. Our fathers got us out, but I was grounded for the whole summer.
Detective Anderson: Well, we appreciate you coming in. Tell me where were you at seven PM on the night of July 10th.
Scowcroft: Like I told the gal at the desk when I came in, I was at Shorty's Pub, and I seen that white van, and I s
een the guy who coaches baseball and Pop Warner over on West Side. I don't remember his name, but his picture's in the paper all the time because he's got a good City League team this year. Paper said they might go all the way. Moreland, is that his name? He had blood all over him.
Detective Anderson: How was it you happened to see him?
Scowcroft: Well, I got a routine for when I clock off work, not having a wife to go home to and not being much of a chef myself, if you know what I mean. Mondays and Wednesdays, it's the Flint City Diner. Fridays I go to Bonanza Steakhouse. And on Tuesdays and Thursdays, I usually go to Shorty's for a plate of ribs and a beer. That Tuesday I got to Shorty's at, oh, I'm gonna say quarter past six. Kid was already long dead by then, wasn't he?
Detective Anderson: But at around seven, you were out back, correct? Behind Shorty's Pub.
Scowcroft: Yeah, me and Riley Franklin. I ran into him there, and we ate together. Out back, that's where people go to smoke. Down the hall between the restrooms and out the back door. There's an ash bucket and everything. So we ate--I had the ribs, he had the mac and cheese--and we ordered dessert, and went out back to have a smoke before it came. While we were standing there, shooting the shit, this dirty white van pulled in. Had a New York plate on it, I remember that. It parked beside a little Subaru wagon--I think it was a Subaru--and that guy got out. Moreland, or whatever his name is.
Detective Anderson: What was he wearing?
Scowcroft: Well, I'm not sure about the pants--Riley might remember, they could've been chinos--but the shirt was white. I remember that because there was blood down the front of it, quite a bit. Not so much on the pants, just some spatters. There was blood on his face, too. Under his nose, around his mouth, on his chin. Man, he was gory. So Riley--I think he must have had a couple of beers before I showed up, but I only had the one--Riley says, "How's the other guy look, Coach T?"
Detective Anderson: He called him Coach T.
Scowcroft: Sure. And the coach, he laughs and says, "There was no other guy. Something let go in my nose, that's all, and it went like Old Faithful. Is there a doc-in-the-box anywhere around here?"
Detective Anderson: Which you took to mean a walk-in facility, like MedNOW or Quick Care?
Scowcroft: That's what he meant, all right, because he wanted to see if he needed it cauterized up there inside. Ouch, huh? Said he had it happen to him once before. I told him to go down Burrfield about a mile, turn left at the second light, and he'd see a sign. You know that billboard by Coney Ford? It tells you about how long you'll have to wait and everything. Then he asked if he could leave his van in that little parking area behind the pub, which is not for customers--as the sign on the back of the building says--but for employees. And I said, "It's not my lot, but if you don't leave it too long, it should be all right." Then he says--and it struck both of us as weird, times being what they are--that he'd leave the keys in the cup holder in case somebody had to move it. Riley said, "That's a good way to get it stoled, Coach T." But he said again that he wouldn't be long, and about how someone might want to move it. You know what I think? I think maybe he wanted someone to steal it, maybe even me or Riley. You think that could be, Detective?
Detective Anderson: What happened then?
Scowcroft: He got into that little green Subaru, and off he went. Which also struck me as weird.
Detective Anderson: What was weird about it?
Scowcroft: He asked if he could leave his van for a little while--like he thought it might get towed, or something--but his car was there all along, safe and sound. Weird, right?
Detective Anderson: Mr. Scowcroft, I'm going to put six photographs of six different men down in front of you, and I want you to pick out the man you saw behind Shorty's. They all look similar, so I want you to take your time. Can you do that for me?
Scowcroft: Sure, but I don't need to take my time. That's him right there. Moreland, or whatever his name is. Can I go home now?
9
No one in the unmarked said anything else until they turned into the police station lot and parked in one of the spaces marked OFFICIAL VEHICLES ONLY. Then Ralph turned to survey the man who had coached his son. Terry Maitland's Dragons cap had been knocked slightly askew, so it sat in a kind of gangsta twist. His Dragons tee-shirt had come untucked on one side, and his face was streaked with sweat. In that moment he looked guilty as hell. Except, maybe, for his eyes, which met Ralph's dead-on. They were wide and silently accusing.
Ralph had a question that couldn't wait. "Why him, Terry? Why Frankie Peterson? Was he on the Lions Little League team this year? Did you have your eye on him? Or was it just a crime of opportunity?"
Terry opened his mouth to reiterate his denial, but what was the point? Ralph wasn't going to listen, at least not yet. None of them were. Better to wait. That was hard, but it might save time in the end.
"Go on," Ralph said. He spoke softly, conversationally. "You wanted to talk before, so talk now. Tell me. Make me understand. Right here, before we even get out of this car."
"I think I'll wait for my lawyer," Terry said.
"If you're innocent," Yates said, "you don't need one. Put a pin in this, if you can. We'll even give you a ride home."
Still looking into Ralph Anderson's eyes, Terry spoke almost too softly to hear. "This is bad behavior. You never even checked on where I might have been on Tuesday, did you? I wouldn't have thought it of you." He paused, as if thinking, then said: "You bastard."
Ralph had no intention of telling Terry that he had discussed that with Samuels, but not for long. It was a small town. They hadn't wanted to start asking questions that could get back to Maitland. "This was a rare case where we didn't need to check." Ralph opened his door. "Come on. Let's get you booked and printed and photographed before your lawyer gets h--"
"Terry! Terry!"
Instead of taking Ralph's advice, Marcy Maitland had followed the police car from the field in her Toyota. Jamie Mattingly, a neighbor, had stepped up and taken Sarah and Grace to her house. Both girls had been crying. Jamie had been, too.
"Terry, what are they doing? What should I be doing?"
He twisted momentarily free of Yates, who had him by the arm. "Call Howie!"
It was all he had time for. Ramage opened the door marked POLICE PERSONNEL ONLY and Yates hustled Terry inside, none too gently, with a hand planted in the middle of his back.
Ralph stayed behind for a moment, holding the door. "Go home, Marcy," he said. "Go before the news people get there." He almost added I'm sorry about this, and didn't. Because he wasn't. Betsy Riggins and the State Police would be waiting for her, but it was still the best thing she could do. The only thing, really. And maybe he owed her. For her girls, certainly--they were the true innocents in all of this--but also . . .
This is bad behavior. I wouldn't have expected it of you.
There was no reason for Ralph to feel guilty at the reproach of a man who had raped and murdered a child, but for a moment he still did. Then he thought of the crime scene pictures, photos so ugly you almost wished you were blind. He thought of the branch sticking out of the little boy's rectum. He thought of a bloody mark on smooth wood. Smooth because the hand that left the print had shoved down so hard it had peeled the bark away.
Bill Samuels had made two simple points. Ralph had agreed, and so had Judge Carter, to whom Samuels had gone for the various warrants. First, it was a slam-dunk. There was no sense waiting when they already had everything they needed. Second, if they gave Terry time, he might take off, and then they'd have to find him before he found another Frank Peterson to rape and murder.
10
Statement of Mr. Riley Franklin [July 13th, 7:45 AM, interviewed by Detective Ralph Anderson]
Detective Anderson: I'm going to show you six photographs of six different men, Mr. Franklin, and I'd like you to pick out the man you saw behind Shorty's Pub on the evening of July 10th. Take your time.
Franklin: I don't need to. It's that one there. Number two. T
hat's Coach T. I can't believe it. He coached my son in Little League.
Detective Anderson: It so happens he also coached mine. Thank you, Mr. Franklin.
Franklin: The needle's too good for him. They ought to hang him with a slow rope.
11
Marcy pulled into the parking lot of the Burger King on Tinsley Avenue, and took her cell phone out of her purse. Her hands were trembling, and she dropped it on the floor. She bent over to get it, thumped her head on the steering wheel, and began to cry again. She thumbed through her contacts and found Howie Gold's number--not because the Maitlands had a reason to keep a lawyer on speed-dial, but because Howie had coached Pop Warner with Terry during the last two seasons. He answered on the second ring.
"Howie? This is Marcy Maitland. Terry's wife?" As if they hadn't had dinner together once every month or so since 2016.
"Marcy? Are you crying? What's wrong?"
It was so enormous that at first she couldn't say it.
"Marcy? Are you still there? Were you in an accident or something?"
"I'm here. It's not me, it's Terry. They've arrested Terry. Ralph Anderson arrested Terry. For the murder of that boy. That's what they said. For the murder of the Peterson boy."
"What? Are you shitting me?"
"He wasn't even in town!" Marcy wailed. She heard herself doing it, thought she sounded like a teenager throwing a tantrum, but couldn't stop. "They arrested him, and they said the police are waiting at home!"
"Where are Sarah and Grace?"
"I sent them with Jamie Mattingly, from the next street over. They'll be okay for now." Although after just seeing their father arrested and led away in handcuffs, how okay could they be?
She rubbed her forehead, wondering if the steering wheel had left a mark, wondering why she cared. Because there might be news people waiting already? Because if there were, they might see the mark and think Terry had hit her?
"Howie, will you help me? Will you help us?"
"Of course I will. They took Terry to the station?"
"Yes! In handcuffs!"
"All right. I'm on my way. Go home, Marce. See what the police want. If they have a search warrant--that must be why they're there, I can't think of anything else--read it, see what they're after, let them in, but don't say anything. Have you got that? Don't say anything."