The Outsider-Stephen King

by Stephen King

  "Hey, before we get started, I've got a question," Ralph said, striving for cheeriness. "Just one. Okay, counselor? It's nothing we won't find out, anyway."

  Howie seemed grateful enough to turn his attention away from Samuels. "Let's hear it."

  "What's your blood type, Terry? Do you know?"

  Terry looked at Howie, who shrugged, then back at Ralph. "I ought to. I give six times a year at the Red Cross, because it's pretty rare."

  "AB positive?"

  Terry blinked. "How did you know that?" And then, realizing what the answer must be: "But not that rare. If you want really rare, you want AB negative. One per cent of the population. The Red Cross has people with that type on speed-dial, believe me."

  "When it comes to rare, I always think of fingerprints," Samuels remarked, as if just passing the time of day. "I suppose because they come up so often in court."

  "Where they rarely figure in the jury's decision," Howie said.

  Samuels ignored him. "No two sets exactly alike. There are even minute variations in the prints of identical twins. You don't happen to have an identical twin, do you, Terry?"

  "You're not saying you have mine at the scene where the Peterson boy was killed, are you?" Terry's expression was pure incredulity. Ralph had to give it to him; he was a hell of an actor, and apparently meant to play the string out right to the end.

  "We've got so many fingerprints I can barely count them," Ralph said. "They're all over the white van you used to abduct the Peterson boy. They're on the boy's bike, which we found in the back of the van. They're on the toolbox that was in the van. They're all over the Subaru you switched to behind Shorty's Pub." He paused. "And they're on the branch that was used to sodomize the Peterson boy, an attack so vicious that the internal injuries alone might well have killed him."

  "No need for fingerprint powder or UV light on those," Samuels said. "Those prints are in the boy's blood."

  This was where most perps--like ninety-five per cent--would break down, lawyer or no lawyer. Not this one. Ralph saw shock and amazement on the man's face, but no guilt.

  Howie rallied. "You have prints. Fine. It wouldn't be the first time fingerprints were planted."

  "A few, maybe," Ralph said. "But seventy? Eighty? And in blood, on the weapon itself?"

  "We also have a chain of witnesses," Samuels said. He began ticking them off on his fingers. "You were seen accosting Peterson in the parking lot of Gerald's Fine Groceries. You were seen putting his bicycle in the back of the van you used. He was seen getting into the van with you. You were seen exiting the woods where the murder took place, covered with blood. I could go on, but my mother always told me that I should save some for later."

  "Eyewitnesses are rarely reliable," Howie said. "The fingerprints are iffy, but eyewitnesses . . ." He shook his head.

  Ralph jumped in. "I'd agree, at least in most cases. Not in this one. I interviewed someone recently who said Flint City is really just a small town. I don't know if I buy that completely, but the West Side is pretty tightly knit, and Mr. Maitland here is widely known. Terry, the woman who ID'd you at Gerald's is a neighbor, and the girl who saw you coming out of the woods in Figgis Park knows you very well, not just because she lives a little way down from you, on Barnum Street, but because you once brought back her lost dog."

  "June Morris?" Terry was looking at Ralph with frank disbelief. "Junie?"

  "There are others," Samuels said. "Many."

  "Willow?" Terry sounded out of breath, as if he'd been punched. "Her, too?"

  "Many," Samuels repeated.

  "Every one of them picked you out of six-packs," Ralph said. "No hesitation."

  "And was the photo of my client perhaps wearing a Golden Dragons cap and a shirt with a big C on it?" Howie asked. "Was that one perhaps tapped by the finger of the questioning officer?"

  "You know better," Ralph said. "At least I hope you do."

  Terry said, "This is a nightmare."

  Samuels smiled sympathetically. "I understand that. And all you have to do to end it is to tell us why you did it."

  As if there might be a reason on God's green earth that any sane person could understand, Ralph thought.

  "It might make a difference." Samuels was almost wheedling now. "But you should do it before the DNA comes back. We've got plenty, and when it matches those cheek swabs . . ." He shrugged.

  "Tell us," Ralph said. "I don't know if it was temporary insanity, or something you did in a fugue state, or a sexual compulsion, or just what, but tell us." He heard his voice rising, thought about clamping down on it, then thought what the hell. "Be a man and tell us!"

  Speaking more to himself than to the men on the other side of the table, Terry said, "I don't know how any of this can be. I wasn't even in town on Tuesday."

  "Where were you, then?" Samuels asked. "Go ahead, lay it on us. I love a good story. Read my way through most of Agatha Christie in high school."

  Terry turned to look up at Gold, who nodded. But Ralph thought Howie looked worried now. The stuff about the blood type and the fingerprints had rocked him hard, the eyewitnesses even harder. He'd been rocked most of all, perhaps, by little Junie Morris, whose lost dog had been returned by good old reliable Coach T.

  "I was in Cap City. Left at ten on Tuesday morning, got back late Wednesday night. Well, nine thirty or so, late for me."

  "I don't suppose you had anyone with you," Samuels said. "Just off on your own and kind of gathering your thoughts, right? Getting ready for the big game?"

  "I--"

  "Did you take your car or the white van? By the way, where did you have that van stashed? And how did you happen to steal one with New York plates in the first place? I've got a theory about that, but I'd love to have you confirm or deny--"

  "Do you want to hear this or not?" Terry asked. He had, incredibly, begun to smile again. "Maybe you're afraid to hear it. And maybe you should be afraid. You're in shit up to your waist, Mr. Samuels, and it's getting deeper."

  "Is that so? Then why am I the one who can walk out of here and go home when this interview is over?"

  "Cool it," Ralph said quietly.

  Samuels turned to him, cowlick springing back and forth. Ralph saw nothing comical about it now. "Don't tell me to cool it, Detective. We're sitting here with a man who raped a kid with a tree branch and then tore out his throat like . . . like a fucking cannibal!"

  Gold looked directly up at the camera in the corner, now speaking for some future judge and jury. "Stop acting like an angry child, Mr. District Attorney, or I'll terminate this interview right here."

  "I wasn't alone," Terry said, "and I don't know anything about a white van. I went with Everett Roundhill, Billy Quade, and Debbie Grant. The entire Flint High School English Department, in other words. My Expedition was in the shop because the air conditioner died, so we took Ev's car. He's the department chairman, and he's got a BMW. Plenty of room. We left from the high school at ten."

  Samuels looked temporarily too perplexed by this to ask the obvious question, so Ralph did it. "What was in Cap City that would take four English teachers there in the middle of summer vacation?"

  "Harlan Coben," Terry said.

  "Who's Harlan Coben?" Bill Samuels asked. His interest in mystery stories had apparently peaked with Agatha Christie.

  Ralph knew; he wasn't much of a fiction reader, but his wife was. "The mystery writer?"

  "The mystery writer," Terry agreed. "Look, there's a group called the Tri-State Teachers of English, and every year they hold a three-day midsummer conference. It's the only time everyone can get together. There are seminars and panel discussions, that sort of thing. It's held in a different city each year. This year it was Cap City's turn. Only English teachers are like anyone else, it's hard to get them together even in summer, because they've got so many other things going on--all the paint-up, fix-up stuff that didn't get done during the school year, family vacations, plus various summer activities. For me it's Little League and City L
eague. So the TSTE always tries to get a big-name speaker as a draw for the middle day, which is when most attendees show up."

  "Which in this case was last Tuesday?" Ralph asked.

  "Right. This year's conference was at the Sheraton, from July 9th--the Monday--to July 11th, the Wednesday. I haven't been to one of those conferences in five years, but when Ev told me that Coben was going to be the keynote speaker, and the other English teachers were going, I arranged for Gavin Frick and Baibir Patel's dad to take the practices on Tuesday and Wednesday. It killed me to do it, with the semifinal game coming up, but I knew I'd be back for the practices on Thursday and Friday, and I didn't want to miss Coben. I've read all his books. He's great on plot, and he has a sense of humor. Also, the theme of this year's conference was teaching popular adult fiction in grades seven through twelve, and that's been a hot-button issue for years, especially in this part of the country."

  "Save the exposition," Samuels said. "Get to the bottom line."

  "Fine. We went. We were there for the banquet lunch, we were there for Coben's speech, we were there for the evening panel discussion at eight PM, we spent the night. Ev and Debbie had single rooms, but I split the cost of a double with Billy Quade. That was his idea. He said he was building an addition on his house, and had to economize. They'll vouch for me." He looked at Ralph and lifted his hands, palms out. "I was there. That's the bottom line."

  Silence in the room. At last Samuels said, "What time was Coben's speech?"

  "Three o'clock," Terry said. "Three o'clock on Tuesday afternoon."

  "How convenient," Samuels said acidly.

  Howie Gold smiled widely. "Not for you."

  Three o'clock, Ralph thought. Almost the same time that Arlene Stanhope claimed to have seen Terry putting Frank Peterson's bicycle into the back of the stolen white van, and then riding away with the boy in the passenger seat. No, not even almost. Mrs. Stanhope said she'd heard the bell in the Town Hall clock announce the hour.

  "The speech was in the Sheraton's big meeting room?" Ralph asked.

  "Yes. Right across from the banquet room."

  "And you're sure it started at three."

  "Well, that's when the TSTE chairman started her introduction. Which droned on for at least ten minutes."

  "Uh-huh, and how long did Coben speak?"

  "I think about forty-five minutes. After that he took questions. It was probably four thirty by the time he finished."

  Ralph's thoughts were whirling around in his head like loose paper caught in a draft. He could not remember ever having been so completely blindsided. They should have checked Terry's movements out in advance, but that was Monday morning quarterbacking. He, Samuels, and Yune Sablo of the State Police had all agreed that questions about Maitland ahead of his arrest would risk alerting a very dangerous man. And it had seemed unnecessary, given the weight of evidence. Now, however . . .

  He glanced at Samuels, but saw no immediate help there; the man's expression was a mixture of suspicion and perplexity.

  "You've made a bad mistake here," Gold said. "Surely you two gentlemen see that."

  "No mistake," Ralph said. "We have his prints, we have eyewitnesses who know him, and pretty soon we'll have the first DNA result. A match there will clinch it."

  "Ah, but we may also have something else pretty soon," Gold said. "My investigator is on it as we speak, and confidence is high."

  "What?" Samuels snapped.

  Gold smiled. "Why spoil the surprise before we see what Alec comes up with? If what my client told me is correct, I think it's going to put another hole in your boat, Bill, and your boat is already leaking badly."

  The Alec in question was Alec Pelley, a retired State Police detective who now worked exclusively for lawyers defending criminal cases. He was expensive, and good at his job. Once, over drinks, Ralph had asked Pelley why he had gone over to the Dark Side. Pelley replied that he'd put away at least four men he later came to believe were innocent, and felt he had a lot to atone for. "Also," he'd said, "retirement sucks if you don't play golf."

  No use speculating about what Pelley was chasing this time . . . always supposing it wasn't just some chimera, or a defense attorney bluff. Ralph stared at Terry, again looking for guilt and seeing only worry, anger, and bewilderment--the expression of a man who has been arrested for something he hasn't done.

  Except he had done it, all the evidence said so, and the DNA would put the final nail in his coffin. His alibi was an artfully constructed piece of misdirection, something straight out of an Agatha Christie novel (or one by Harlan Coben). Ralph would begin the job of dismantling the magic trick tomorrow morning, starting with interviews of Terry's colleagues and moving on to a back-check of the conference, focusing on the start and end times of Coben's appearance.

  Even before beginning that work--his bread and butter--he saw one possible gap in Terry's alibi. Arlene Stanhope had seen Frank Peterson getting into the white van with Terry at three. June Morris had seen Terry in Figgis Park, covered with blood, at around six thirty--the girl's mother had said the weather was on the local news when June left, and that pegged it. That left a gap of three and a half hours, which was more than enough time to drive the seventy miles from Cap City to Flint City.

  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?"