by Stephen King
‘Troy?’ Terry could hardly hear his own voice. He felt as if the wind had been punched out of him. ‘What in God’s name is this?’
Ramage took no notice. ‘Do you understand?’
Marcy came to the chickenwire, hooked her fingers through it, and shook it. Behind her, Sarah and Grace were crying. Grace was on her knees beside Sarah’s lawn chair; her own had fallen over and lay in the dirt. ‘What are you doing?’ Marcy shouted. ‘What in God’s name are you doing? And why are you doing it here?’
‘Do you understand?’
What Terry understood was that he had been handcuffed and was now being read his rights in front of almost sixteen hundred staring people, his wife and two young daughters among them. It was not a dream, and it was not simply an arrest. It was, for reasons he could not comprehend, a public shaming. Best to get it over as fast as possible, and get this thing straightened out. Although, even in his shock and bewilderment, he understood that his life would not be going back to normal for a long time.
‘I understand,’ he said, and then: ‘Coach Frick, get back.’
Gavin, who had been approaching the cops with his fists clenched and his fat face flushed a hectic red, lowered his arms and stepped back. He looked through the chickenwire at Marcy, raised his enormous shoulders, spread his pudgy hands.
In the same rolling tones, like a town crier belting out the week’s big news in a New England town square, Troy Ramage continued. Ralph Anderson could hear him from where he stood leaning against the unmarked unit. He was doing a good job, was Troy. It was ugly, and Ralph supposed he might be reprimanded for it, but he would not be reprimanded by Frankie Peterson’s parents. No, not by them.
‘If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided to you before any questioning, if you desire. Do you understand?’
‘Yes,’ Terry said. ‘I understand something else, too.’ He turned to the crowd. ‘I have no idea why I’m being arrested! Gavin Frick will finish coaching the game!’ And then, as an afterthought: ‘Baibir, get back to third, and remember to run in foul territory.’
There was a smatter of applause, but only a smatter. The leather-lung in the bleachers yelled again, ‘What’d you say he did?’ And the crowd responding to the question, muttering the two words that would soon be all over the West Side and the rest of the city: Frank Peterson’s name.
Yates grabbed Terry by the arm and started hustling him toward the snack shack and the parking lot beyond. ‘You can preach to the multitudes later, Maitland. Right now you’re going to jail. And guess what? We have the needle in this state, and we use it. But you’re a teacher, right? You probably knew that.’
They hadn’t gotten twenty steps from the makeshift dugout before Marcy Maitland caught up and grabbed Tom Yates’s arm. ‘What in God’s name do you think you’re doing?’
Yates shrugged her off, and when she tried to grasp her husband’s arm, Troy Ramage pushed her away, gently but firmly. She stood where she was for a moment, dazed, then saw Ralph Anderson walking to meet his arresting officers. She knew him from Little League, when Derek Anderson had played for Terry’s team, the Gerald’s Fine Groceries Lions. Ralph hadn’t been able to come to all the games, of course, but he came to as many as possible. Back then he’d still been in uniform; Terry had sent him a congratulatory email when he was promoted to detective. Now she ran toward him, fleet over the grass in her old tennis shoes, which she always wore to Terry’s games, claiming there was good luck in them.
‘Ralph!’ she called. ‘What’s going on? This is a mistake!’
‘I’m afraid it isn’t,’ Ralph said.
This part he didn’t like, because he liked Marcy. On the other hand, he had always liked Terry, as well – the man had probably changed Derek’s life only a little, given the boy just a smatter of confidence-building, but when you were eleven years old, a little confidence was a big deal. And there was something else. Marcy might have known what her husband was, even if she didn’t allow herself to know on a conscious level. The Maitlands had been married a long time, and horrors like the Peterson boy’s murder simply did not come out of thin air. There was always a build-up to the act.
‘You need to go home, Marcy. Right away. You may want to leave the girls with a friend, because there will be police waiting for you.’
She only looked at him, uncomprehending.
From behind them came the chink of an aluminum bat making good contact, although there were few cheers; those in attendance were still shocked, and more interested in what they’d just witnessed than the game before them. Which was sort of a shame. Trevor Michaels had just hit the ball harder than ever before in his life, harder even than when Coach T was throwing meatballs in practice. Unfortunately, it was a line drive straight to the Bears shortstop, who didn’t even have to jump to make the catch.
Game over.
6
Statement of June Morris [July 12th, 5:45 PM, interviewed by Detective Ralph Anderson, Mrs Francine Morris in attendance]
Detective Anderson: Thank you for bringing your daughter down to the station, Mrs Morris. June, how’s that soda?
June Morris: It’s good. Am I in trouble?
Detective Anderson: Not at all. I just want to ask you a couple of questions about what you saw two evenings ago.
June Morris: When I saw Coach Terry?
Detective Anderson: That’s right, when you saw Coach Terry.
Francine Morris: Since she turned nine, we’ve let her go down the street by herself to see her friend Helen. As long as it’s daylight. We don’t believe in being helicopter parents. I won’t after this, you can be sure of that.
Detective Anderson: You saw him after you had your supper, June? Is that right?
June Morris: Yes. We had meatloaf. Last night we had fish. I don’t like fish, but that’s how it goes.
Francine Morris: She doesn’t have to cross the street, or anything. We thought it would be okay, since we live in such a good neighborhood. At least I thought we did.
Detective Anderson: It’s always hard to know when to start giving them responsibilities. Now June – you went down the street, and that took you right past the Figgis Park parking lot, is that right?
June Morris: Yes. Me and Helen—
Francine Morris: Helen and I—
June Morris: Helen and I were going to finish our map of South America. It’s for our day camp project. We use different colors for the different countries, and we were mostly done, but we forgot Paraguay, so we were going to start all over again. That’s also how it goes. After that we were going to play Angry Birds and Corgi Hop on Helen’s iPad until my daddy came to walk me home. Because by then it might be getting dark.
Detective Anderson: This would have been at what time, Mom?
Francine Morris: The local news was on when Junie left. Norm was watching while I did the dishes. So, between six and six thirty. Probably quarter past, because I think the weather was on.
Detective Anderson: Tell me what you saw when you were walking past the parking lot, June.
June Morris: Coach Terry, I told you. He lives up the street, and once when our dog got lost, Coach T brought him back. Sometimes I play with Gracie Maitland, but not too much. She’s a year older, and likes boys. He was all bloody. Because of his nose.
Detective Anderson: Uh-huh. What was he doing when you saw him?
June Morris: He came out of the trees. He saw me looking at him and waved. I waved back and said, ‘Hey, Coach Terry, what happened to you?’ and he said a branch hit him in the face. He said, ‘Don’t be scared, it’s just a bloody nose, I get them all the time.’ And I said, ‘I’m not scared, but you won’t be able to wear that shirt anymore, because blood doesn’t come out, that’s what my mom says.’ He smiled and said, ‘Good thing I’ve got lots of shirts.’ But it was on his pants, too. Also on his hands.
Francine Morris: She was that close to him. I can’t stop thinking about it.
June Morris: Why, because he had a blood
y nose? Rolf Jacobs got one on the playground last year when he fell down, and it didn’t scare me. I was going to give him my handkerchief, but Mrs Grisha took him to the nurse’s office before I could.
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 Señor 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 statio
n 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 seen 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.