by Stephen King
Suppose it hadn’t been Terry Maitland Mrs. Stanhope had seen in the parking lot of Gerald’s Fine Groceries? Suppose it had been an accomplice who looked like Terry? Or maybe just dressed like Terry, in a Golden Dragons cap and shirt? It seemed unlikely until you factored in Mrs. Stanhope’s age . . . and the thick glasses she’d been wearing . . .
“Are we done here, gentlemen?” Gold asked. “Because if you really intend to hold Mr. Maitland, I have a great deal to do. High on the list is speaking to the press. Not my favorite thing, but—”
“You lie,” Samuels said sourly.
“But it may draw them away from Terry’s house, and give his children a chance to get indoors without being hounded and photographed. Most of all, it will give that family a little bit of the peace you have so recklessly stolen from them.”
“Save it for the TV cameras,” Samuels said. He pointed to Terry, also playing for some judge and jury. “Your client tortured and murdered a child, and if his family is collateral damage, he himself is responsible.”
“You’re unbelievable,” Terry said. “You didn’t even question me before you arrested me. Not one single question.”
Ralph said, “What did you do after the speech, Terry?”
Terry shook his head, not in negation but as if to clear it. “After? I got in line with everyone else. But we were pretty far back, thanks to Debbie. She had to use the bathroom, and wanted us to wait for her so we’d all be together. She was gone for a long time. A lot of guys also broke for the johns as soon as the Q-and-A was over, but it always takes the women longer, because . . . well, you know, only so many stalls. I went down to the newsstand with Ev and Billy and we hung out there. By the time she met us, the line was all the way out into the lobby.”
“What line?” Samuels asked.
“Do you live under a rock, Mr. Samuels? The autograph line. Everyone had a copy of his new book, I Told You I Would. It came with the price of the conference ticket. I’ve got mine, signed and dated, and will be happy to show it to you. Assuming you haven’t already taken it out of the house with the rest of my stuff, that is. By the time we got to the autograph table, it was past five thirty.”
If so, Ralph thought, his imagined gap in Terry’s alibi had just closed to a pinhole. It was theoretically possible to drive from Cap to Flint in an hour, the turnpike speed limit was seventy and the cops wouldn’t give you a second look unless you were doing eighty-five or even ninety—but how would Terry have had time to commit the murder? Unless the look-alike accomplice had done it, and how did that work, with Terry’s fingerprints everywhere, including on the branch? Answer: it didn’t. Also, why would Terry want an accomplice who looked like him, dressed like him, or both? Answer: he wouldn’t.
“Were the other English teachers with you the whole time you were standing in line?” Samuels asked.
“Yes.”
“The signing was also in the big room?”
“Yes. I think they call it the ballroom.”
“And once you all had your autographs, what did you do then?”
“Went out to dinner together with some English teachers from Broken Arrow we met while we were standing in line.”
“Out to dinner where?” Ralph asked.
“Place called the Firepit. It’s a steakhouse about three blocks from the hotel. Got there around six, had a couple of drinks before, had dessert after. It was a good time.” He said this almost wistfully. “There were nine of us in all, I think. We walked back to the hotel together, and sat in on the evening panel, which had to do with how to handle challenges to books like To Kill a Mockingbird and Slaughterhouse-Five. Ev and Debbie left before it was over, but Billy and I stayed to the end.”
“Which was when?” Ralph asked.
“Nine thirty or so.”
“And then?”
“Billy and I had a beer in the bar, then we went up to the room and went to bed.”
Listening to a speech by a noted mystery writer when the Peterson boy was snatched, Ralph thought. At dinner with at least eight other people when the Peterson boy was killed. Attending a panel discussion on banned books when Willow Rainwater claimed to have taken him in her cab from Gentlemen, Please to the train station in Dubrow. He must know we’ll go to his colleagues, that we’ll track down the teachers from Broken Arrow, that we’ll talk to the bartender in the Sheraton lounge. He must know we’ll check the hotel’s security footage, and even the autograph in his copy of the latest Harlan Coben barnburner. He must know these things, he’s not a stupid man.
The conclusion—that his story would check out—was both unavoidable and unbelievable.
Samuels leaned forward over the table, his chin jutting. “Do you expect us to believe that you were with others the entire time between three o’clock and eight o’clock on Tuesday? The entire time?”
Terry gave him a look of which only high school teachers are capable: We both know you’re an idiot, but I will not embarrass you in front of your peers by saying so. “Of course not. I used the john myself before Coben’s speech started. And I went once at the restaurant. Maybe you can convince a jury that I came back to Flint, killed poor Frankie Peterson, and returned to Cap City in the minute and a half it took me to empty my bladder. Think they’ll buy it?”
Samuels looked at Ralph. Ralph shrugged.
“I think we have no further questions now,” Samuels said. “Mr. Maitland will be escorted to the county jail and kept in custody until his arraignment on Monday.”
Terry’s shoulders slumped.
“You intend to go through with this,” Gold said. “You really do.”
Ralph expected another explosion from Samuels, but this time the district attorney surprised him. He sounded almost as weary as Maitland looked. “Come on, Howie. You know I have no choice, given the evidence. And when the DNA comes back a match, it’s going to be game over.”
He leaned forward again, once more invading Terry’s space.
“You still have a chance to avoid the needle, Terry. Not a good one, but it’s there. I urge you to take it. Drop the bullshit and confess. Do it for Fred and Arlene Peterson, who’ve lost their son in the worst way imaginable. You’ll feel better.”
Terry did not draw back, as Samuels might have expected. He leaned forward instead, and it was the district attorney who pulled away, as if afraid the man on the other side of the table had something contagious that he, Samuels, might catch. “There is nothing to confess to, sir. I didn’t kill Frankie Peterson. I would never hurt a child. You have the wrong man.”
Samuels sighed and stood up. “Okay, you had your chance. Now . . . God help you.”
22
FLINT CITY GENERAL HOSPITAL
DEPARTMENT OF PATHOLOGY AND SEROLOGY
To: Detective Ralph Anderson
SP Lt. Yunel Sablo
District Attorney William Samuels
From: Dr. F. Ackerman, Head of Pathology
Date: July 12th
Subject: Autopsy Addendum/PERSONAL AND CONFIDENTIAL
As requested, my opinion follows.
Although Frank Peterson might or might not have survived the act of sodomy noted in the autopsy report (performed July 11th, by myself, with Dr. Alvin Barkland assisting), there can be no doubt that the immediate cause of death was exsanguination (i.e., massive loss of blood).
Teeth marks were found on the remains of Peterson’s face, throat, shoulder, chest, right side, and torso. The injuries, coupled with photographs of the murder scene, suggest the following sequence: Peterson was thrown violently to the ground on his back and bitten at least six times, perhaps as many as a dozen. This was frenzied behavior. He was then turned over and sodomized. By then Peterson was almost certainly unconscious. Either during the sodomy or directly after, the perpetrator ejaculated.
I have marked this addendum personal and confidential because certain aspects of this case, if disclosed, will be sensationalized in the press not just locally but nationwide. Parts of Peterson’s body, mos
t specifically the right earlobe, right nipple, and parts of the trachea and esophagus, are missing. The perpetrator may have taken these body parts, along with a considerable section of flesh from the nape of the neck, as trophies. That is actually the best case scenario. The alternative hypothesis is that the perpetrator ate them.
Being in charge of the case, you will do as you see fit, but it is my strong recommendation that these facts, and my subsequent conclusions, be kept not only from the press, but out of any trial, unless absolutely necessary to secure a conviction. The reaction of the parents to such information can of course be imagined, but who would want to? My apologies if I have overstepped my bounds, but in this case I felt it necessary. I am a doctor, I am the county’s medical examiner, but I am also a mother.
I beg you to catch the man who defiled and murdered this child, and soon. If you don’t, he will almost certainly do it again.
Felicity Ackerman, M.D.
Flint City General Hospital
Head of Pathology
Flint County Chief Medical Examiner
23
The main room of the Flint City PD was large, but the four men waiting for Terry Maitland seemed to fill it—two State Police and two correctional officers from the county jail, widebodies one and all. Even though he remained stunned by what had happened to him (what was still happening), Terry could not help being a bit amused. The county jail was only four blocks away. A great deal of beef had been assembled to take him a little more than half a mile.
“Hands out,” one of the correctional officers said.
Terry put them out and watched as a new pair of handcuffs was snapped onto his wrists. He looked for Howie, suddenly as anxious as he had been at five, when his mother let go of his hand on his first day of kindergarten. Howie was seated on the corner of a vacant desk, talking on his cell phone, but when he saw Terry’s look, he ended the call and hurried over.
“Do not touch the prisoner, sir,” said the officer who had cuffed Terry.
Gold ignored him. He put an arm around Terry’s shoulders and murmured, “It’s going to be all right.” Then—to Gold’s surprise as much as his client’s—he kissed Terry on the cheek.
Terry took that kiss with him as the four men escorted him down the front steps to where a county van waited behind a State Police cruiser with its jackpot lights pulsing. And the words. Them especially, as the cameras flashed and the TV lights came on and the questions flew at him like bullets: Have you been charged, did you do it, are you innocent, have you confessed, what can you say to Frank Peterson’s parents.
It’s going to be all right, Gold had said, and that was what Terry hung onto.
But of course it wasn’t.
SORRY
July 14th–July 15th
1
The battery-powered bubble-light Alec Pelley kept in the center console of his Explorer was in sort of a gray area. It might no longer be strictly legal, since he was retired from the State Police, but on the other hand, since he was a member in good standing of the Cap City Police Reserve, maybe it was. Either way, it seemed necessary to plonk it on the dashboard and light it up on this occasion. With its help, he made the run from Cap to Flint in record time and was knocking on the door of 17 Barnum Court at quarter past nine. There were no news people here, but further up the street he could see the harsh glare of TV lights in front of what he assumed was the Maitland house. Not all the blowflies had been drawn to the fresh meat of Howie’s impromptu press conference, it seemed. Not that he had expected it.
The door was opened by a short sandy-haired fireplug of a man, his brow creased, his lips pressed so tightly together that his mouth was almost nonexistent. All ready to let fly with his go-to-hell speech. The woman standing behind him was a green-eyed blonde, three inches taller than her husband and much better looking, even with no makeup and her eyes swollen. She wasn’t currently crying, but somewhere deeper in the house, someone was. A child. One of Maitland’s, Alec assumed.
“Mr. and Mrs. Mattingly? I’m Alec Pelley. Did Howie Gold call you?”
“Yes,” the woman said. “Come in, Mr. Pelley.”
Alec started forward. Mattingly, eight inches shorter but undaunted, stepped in his way. “Could we see some identification first, please?”
“Of course.” Alec could have shown them his driver’s license, but opted for his Police Reserve ID instead. No need for them to know that most of his duty shifts these days were a kind of charity function, usually as a glorified security guard at rock shows, rodeos, pro wrestling fuckarees, and the thrice-yearly Monster Truck Jam at the Coliseum. He also worked the Cap City business area with a chalk-stick when one of the meter maids called in sick. This was a humbling experience for a man who had once commanded a squad of four State Police detectives, but Alec didn’t mind; he liked being outside in the sunshine. Also, he was something of a Bible scholar, and James 4, verse 6, proclaims, “God opposeth the proud, but giveth grace to the humble.”
“Thank you,” Mr. Mattingly said, simultaneously stepping aside and holding out his hand. “Tom Mattingly.”
Alec shook with him, prepared for a strong grip. He was not disappointed.
“I’m not normally suspicious, this is a nice quiet neighborhood, but I told Jamie that we had to be super careful while we’ve got Sarah and Grace under our roof. Lot of people angry at Coach T already, and believe me, this is just the beginning. Once what he did gets around, it’s gonna be a whole lot worse. Glad you’re here to take them off our hands.”
Jamie Mattingly gave him a reproachful look. “Whatever their father may have done—if he did anything—it’s not their fault.” And, to Alec: “They’re devastated, especially Gracie. They saw their father led away in handcuffs.”
“Ah, Jesus, wait until they find out why,” Mattingly said. “And they will. These days kids always do. Goddam Internet, goddam Facebook, goddam Tweeter birds.” He shook his head. “Jamie’s right, innocent until proven guilty, it’s the American way, but when they make a public arrest like that . . .” He sighed. “Want something to drink, Mr. Pelley? Jamie made iced tea before the game.”
“Thank you, but I better get the girls home. Their mother will be waiting.” And delivering her children was only his first job tonight. Howie had rattled off a to-do list with machine-gun rapidity just before stepping into the glare of the television lights, and item number two meant racing back to Cap City, making calls (and calling in favors) as he went. Back in harness, which was good—a lot better than chalking tires on Midland Street—but this part was going to be hard.
The girls were in a room that, judging from the stuffed fish leaping on the knotty pine walls, had to be Tom Mattingly’s man-cave. On the huge flatscreen, SpongeBob was capering in Bikini Bottom, but with the sound muted. The girls Alec had come to pick up were huddled on the sofa, still wearing their Golden Dragons tee-shirts and baseball caps. They were also wearing black and gold facepaint—probably applied by their mother a few hours ago, before the previously friendly world had reared up on its hind legs and bitten a hole in their family—but the younger had cried most of hers off.
The older girl saw a strange man looming in the door and hugged her weeping sister tighter. Although Alec had no kids himself, he liked them fine, and Sarah Maitland’s instinctive gesture hurt his heart: a child protecting a child.
He stood in the middle of the room, hands clasped before him. “Sarah? I’m a friend of Howie Gold’s. You know him, don’t you?”
“Yes. Is my father all right?” Her voice was little more than a whisper, and husky from her own tears. Grace never looked at Alec at all; she turned her face into the hollow of her big sister’s shoulder.
“Yes. He asked me to take you home.” Not strictly true, but this was hardly the time for splitting hairs.
“Is he there?”
“No, but your mother is.”
“We could walk,” Sarah said faintly. “It’s only up the street. I could hold Gracie’s hand.”
&
nbsp; Against the older girl’s shoulder, Grace Maitland’s head went back and forth in a gesture of negation.
“Not after dark, hon,” Jamie Mattingly said.
And not tonight, Alec thought. Not for many nights to come. Days, either.
“Come on, girls,” Tom said with manufactured (and rather ghoulish) good cheer. “I’ll see you out.”
On the stoop, under the porch light, Jamie Mattingly looked paler than ever; she had gone from soccer mom to cancer patient in three short hours. “This is awful,” she said. “It’s like the whole world turned upside down. Thank God our own girl is away at camp. We were only at the game tonight because Sarah and Maureen are best buds.”
At the mention of her friend, Sarah Maitland also began to cry, and that got her sister cranked up again. Alec thanked the Mattinglys and led the girls to his Explorer. They walked slowly, heads down and holding hands like children in a fairy tale. He had cleared the front passenger seat of its usual load of crap, and they sat in it squeezed together. Grace once more had her face socked into the hollow of her sister’s shoulder.
Alec didn’t bother trying to buckle them in; it was no more than two tenths of a mile to the circle of light illuminating the sidewalk and the Maitland lawn. There was only a single crew left in front of the house. They were from the Cap City ABC affiliate, four or five guys standing around and drinking coffee from Styrofoam cups in the shadow of their truck’s satellite dish. When they saw the Explorer turn into the Maitland driveway, they scrambled into action.
Alec powered down his window and spoke to them in his best halt-and-put-your-hands-up voice. “Not one camera! Not one camera on these children!”
That stopped them for a few seconds, but only a few. Telling media blowflies not to film was like telling mosquitoes not to bite. Alec could remember when things had been different (back in the antique days when a gentleman still held the door for a lady), but that time was gone. The lone reporter who had elected to stay here on Barnum Court—a Hispanic guy that Alec recognized vaguely, the one who was partial to bowties and did the weather on weekends—was already grabbing his mic and checking the power pack on his belt.
