by Stephen King
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. That’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.’
‘I … yes.’
‘The Peterson boy was killed last Tuesday, I think. Wait—’ There was murmuring in the background, first Howie, followed by a woman, probably Howie’s wife, Elaine. Then Howie was back. ‘Yes, it was Tuesday. Where was Terry on Tuesday?’
‘Cap City! He went—’
‘Never mind that now. The police may ask you about that. They may ask you all sorts of things. Tell them you’re keeping silent on advice from your lawyer. Got it?’
‘Y-Yes.’
‘Don’t let them coax, coerce, or bait you. They’re good at all three.’
‘Okay. Okay, I won’t.’
‘Where are you now?’
She knew, she’d seen the sign, but had to look at it again to be sure. ‘Burger King. The one on Tinsley. I pulled in to call you.’
‘Are you okay to drive?’
She almost told him she’d bumped her head, then didn’t. ‘Yes.’
‘Take a deep breath. Take three. Then drive home. Speed limit all the way, signal every turn. Does Terry have a computer?’
‘Sure. In his office. Plus an iPad, although he doesn’t use it much. And we both have laptops. The girls have their own iPad Minis. And phones, of course, we all have phones. Grace just got hers for her birthday three months ago.’
‘They’ll give you a list of the stuff they mean to take.’
‘Can they really do that?’ She wasn’t walling again, but she was close. ‘Just take our stuff? It’s like something out of Russia or North Korea!’
‘They can take what their warrant says they can take, but I want you to keep your own list. Do the girls have their cell phones with them?’
‘Are you kidding? Those things are practically grafted to their hands.’
‘Okay. The cops may want to take yours. Refuse.’
‘What if they take it, anyway?’ And did it matter? Did it really?
‘They won’t. If you haven’t been charged with anything, they can’t. Go on now. I’ll be with you just as soon as I can. We are going to sort this out, I promise you.’
‘Thank you, Howie.’ She began to cry again. ‘Thank you very, very much.’
‘You bet. And remember: speed limit, full stops, turnblinkers. Got it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Headed to the station now.’ And he was gone.
Marcy put her car in drive, then put it back in park. She took a deep breath. Then two. Then three. This is a nightmare, but at least it will be a short one. He was in Cap City. They’ll see that, and they’ll let him go.
‘Then,’ she told her car (it seemed so empty without the girls giggling and squabbling in the backseat), ‘we will sue their asses off.’
That straightened her spine and brought the world back into focus. She drove home to Barnum Court, keeping to the speed limit and coming to a full stop at every stop sign.
12
Statement of Mr George Czerny [July 13th, 8:15 AM, interviewed by Officer Ronald Wilberforce]
Officer Wilberforce: Thank you for coming in, Mr Czerny—
Czerny: You say it ‘Zurny.’ C-Z-E-R-N-Y. The C is silent.
Officer Wilberforce: Uh-huh, thanks, I’ll make a note of that. Detective Ralph Anderson will also want to talk to you, but right now he’s busy with another interview, and he asked me to get the basic facts while they’re fresh in your mind.
Czerny: Are you towing that car? That Subaru? You ought to get it impounded so no one can pollute the evidence. There’s plenty of evidence, I can tell you that.
Officer Wilberforce: Being taken care of as we speak, sir. Now I believe you were out fishing this morning?
Czerny: Well, that was the plan, but as it turned out, I never even wet a line. I went out just after sunrise, to what they call the Iron Bridge. You know, out on Old Forge Road?
Officer Wilberforce: Yes, sir.
Czerny: It’s a great place to catch catfish. Many people don’t like to fish for them because they’re ugly – not to mention that they’ll bite you sometimes while you’re trying to get the hook out of them – but my wife fries them up with salt and lemon juice, and they taste pretty damn good. The lemon’s the secret, you know. And you have to use an iron skillet. What my ma used to call a spider.
Officer Wilberforce: So you parked at the end of the bridge—
Czerny: Yes, but off the highway. There’s an old boat landing down there. Someone bought the land it’s on a few years back and put up a wire fence with NO TRESPASSING signs on it. Never built anything yet, though. Those few acres just sit there growing weeds, and the landing’s half under water. I always park my truck on the little spur road that goes down to that wire fence. Which is what I did this morning, and what do I see? The fence is knocked down, and there’s a little green car parked on the edge of that sunken boat landing, so close to the water that the front tires were half-sunk in the mud. So I went down there, because I figured some guy must’ve left the titty-bar drunk the night before, and run off the main road. Had an idea he might still be inside, passed out.
Officer Wilberforce: When you say titty-bar, you mean Gentlemen, Please, just out at the town line?
Czerny: Yeah. Yes. Men go there, they get loaded, they stuff ones and fives into the girls’ panties until they’re broke, then they drive home drunk. Don’t understand the attraction of such places, myself.
Officer Wilberforce: Uh-huh. So you went down and looked in the car.
Czerny: It was a little green Subaru. Nobody in it, but there were bloody clothes on the passenger seat, and I thought right away of the little boy that was murdered, because the news said the police were looking for a green Subaru in connection with the crime.
Officer Wilberforce: Did you see anything else?
Czerny: Sneakers. On the floor of the passenger side footwell. They had blood on ’em, too.
Officer Wilberforce: Did you touch anything? Try the doors, maybe?
Czerny: Hell no. The wife and I never missed an episode of CSI when it was on.
Officer Wilberforce: What did you do?
Czerny: Called 911.
13
Terry Maitland sat in an interview room, waiting. The handcuffs had been removed so his lawyer wouldn’t raise hell when he got here – which would be soon. Ralph Anderson stood at parade rest, hands clasped behind his back, watching his son’s old coach through the one-way glass. He had sent Yates and Ramage on their way. He had spoken to Betsy Riggins, who told him Mrs Maitland hadn’t arrived home yet. Now that the arrest had been made and his blood had cooled a little, Ralph again felt uneasy about the speed at which this thing was progressing. It wasn’t surprising that Terry was claiming an alibi, and it would surely prove as thin, but—
‘Hey, Ralph.’ Bill Samuels hurried up, straightening the knot in his
tie as he came. His hair was as black as Kiwi shoe polish, and worn short, but a cowlick stuck up in back, making him look younger than ever. Ralph knew Samuels had prosecuted half a dozen capital murder cases, all successfully, with two of his convicted murderers (he called them his ‘boys’) currently on death row at McAlester. That was all to the good, nothing wrong with having a child prodigy on your team, but tonight the Flint County district attorney bore an eerie resemblance to Alfalfa in the old Little Rascals shorts.
‘Hello, Bill.’
‘So there he is,’ Samuels said, looking in at Terry. ‘Don’t like to see him in his game jersey and Dragons hat, though. I’ll be happy when he’s in a nice pair of county browns. Happier still when he’s in a cell twenty feet from the go-to-sleep table.’
Ralph said nothing. He was thinking of Marcy, standing at the edge of the police parking lot like a lost child, wringing her hands and staring at Ralph as if he were a complete stranger. Or the boogeyman. Except it was her husband who was the boogeyman.
As if reading his thoughts, Samuels asked, ‘Doesn’t look like a monster, does he?’
‘They rarely do.’
Samuels reached into the pocket of his sportcoat and brought out several folded sheets of paper. One was a copy of Terry Maitland’s fingerprints, taken from his file at Flint City High School. All new teachers had to be fingerprinted before they ever stepped before a class. The other two sheets were headed STATE CRIMINALISTICS. Samuels held them up and shook them. ‘The latest and the greatest.’
‘From the Subaru?’
‘Yep. The state guys lifted over seventy prints in all, and fifty-seven are Maitland’s. According to the tech who ran the comparisons, the others are much smaller, probably from the woman in Cap City who reported the car stolen two weeks ago. Barbara Nearing, her name is. Hers are much older, which lets her out of any part in the Peterson murder.’