The Outsider-Stephen King

by Stephen King

  Speaking almost too softly to hear, Sablo said, " 'Mano, it's like you took a hit on twelve and got a face-card."

  "What?" Samuels snapped his head around.

  "Blackjack," Ralph said. "He's saying it would have been better if we hadn't found it. If we'd just stood pat."

  They considered this. When Samuels spoke, he sounded almost pleasant--a man just passing the time. "Here's a hypothetical for you. What if you had dusted down that shrink-wrap and found nothing? Or just a few unidentifiable blurs?"

  "We wouldn't be better off," Sablo said, "but we wouldn't be worse off."

  Samuels nodded. "In that case--hypothetically speaking--Ralph would just be a guy who'd bought a fairly expensive book. He wouldn't throw it away, he'd call it a good idea that didn't pan out and put it on his shelf. After stripping off the shrink-wrap and throwing it away, of course."

  Sablo looked from Samuels to Ralph, his face giving nothing away.

  "And these fingerprint cards?" Ralph asked. "What about them?"

  "What cards?" Samuels asked. "I don't see any cards. Do you, Yune?"

  "I don't know if I do or not," Sablo said.

  "You're talking about destroying evidence," Ralph said.

  "Not at all. This is all just hypothetical." Samuels again raised his hand to brush at the cowlick that wasn't there. "But here's something to think about, Ralph. You went to the station first, but did the comparison at your home. Was your wife there?"

  "Jeannie was at her book club."

  "Uh-huh, and look. The book's in a Glad bag instead of an official one. Not entered into evidence."

  "Not yet," Ralph said, but instead of thinking about the different facets of Bill Samuels's character, he was now forced to think about the different facets of his own.

  "I'm just saying that the same hypothetical possibility might have been in the back of your own mind."

  Had it been? Ralph could not honestly say. And if it had been, why had it been? To save an ugly black mark on his career, now that this thing was not just going sideways but in danger of tipping over?

  "No," he said. "This will be logged into evidence, and will become part of discovery. Because that kid is dead, Bill. What happens to us is small shit compared to that."

  "I agree," Sablo said.

  "Of course you do," Samuels said. He sounded tired. "Lieutenant Yune Sablo will survive either way."

  "Speaking of survival," Ralph said, "what about Terry Maitland's? What if we really do have the wrong man?"

  "We don't," Samuels said. "The evidence says we don't."

  And on that note, the meeting ended. Ralph went back to the station. There he logged in A Pictorial History of Flint County, Douree County, and Canning Township and stored it in the accumulating file. He was glad to be rid of it.

  As he went around the building to retrieve his personal car, his cell rang. It was his wife's picture on the screen, and when he answered, he was alarmed by the sound of her voice. "Honey? Have you been crying?"

  "Derek called. From camp."

  Ralph's heart kicked up a notch. "Is he all right?"

  "He's fine. Physically fine. But some of his friends emailed him about Terry, and he's upset. He said it must be wrong, that Coach T would never do a thing like that."

  "Oh. Is that all." He started moving again, feeling for his keys with his free hand.

  "No, it's not all," she said fiercely. "Where are you?"

  "At the station. Then headed home."

  "Can you go to county first? And talk to him?"

  "To Terry? I guess I could, if he'll agree to see me, but why?"

  "Set aside all the evidence for a minute. All of it on both sides, and answer me one question, truly and from your heart. Will you do that?"

  "Okay . . ." He could hear the faraway drone of semis on the interstate. Closer, the peaceful summer sound of crickets in the grass growing alongside the brick building where he had worked for so many years. He knew what she was going to ask.

  "Do you think Terry Maitland killed that little boy?"

  Ralph thought of how the man who'd taken Willow Rainwater's cab to Dubrow had called her ma'am instead of by her name, which he should have known. He thought about how the man who'd parked the white van behind Shorty's Pub had asked directions to the nearest doc-in-the-box, although Terry Maitland had lived in Flint City all his life. He thought about the teachers who would swear Terry had been with them, both at the time of the abduction and at the time of the murder. Then he thought about how convenient it was that Terry had not just asked a question at Mr. Harlan Coben's talk, but had risen to his feet, as if to make sure he would be seen and recorded. Even the fingerprints on the book . . . how perfect was that?

  "Ralph? Are you still there?"

  "I don't know," he said. "Maybe if I'd coached with him like Howie . . . but I only watched him coach Derek. So the answer to your question--truly, and from my heart--is I just don't know."

  "Then go there," she said. "Look him in the eyes and ask him."

  "Samuels is apt to rip me a new one if he finds out," Ralph said.

  "I don't care about Bill Samuels, but I care about our son. And I know you do, too. Do it for him, Ralph. For Derek."

  19

  It turned out that Arlene Peterson did have burial insurance, so that was all right. Ollie found the pertinent papers in the bottom drawer of her little desk, in a folder between MORTGAGE AGREEMENT (said mortgage now almost paid off) and APPLIANCE WARRANTIES. He called the funeral parlor, where a man with the soft voice of a professional mourner--maybe a Donelli brother, maybe not--thanked him and told him that "your mother has arrived." As if she'd gotten there on her own, maybe in an Uber. The professional mourner asked if Ollie needed an obituary form for the newspaper. Ollie said no. He was looking at two blank forms right there on the desk. His mother--careful, even in her grief--must have made photocopies of the one she'd gotten for Frank, in case she made a mistake. So that was all right, too. Would he want to come in tomorrow and make arrangements for the funeral and the burial? Ollie said he didn't think so. He thought his father should be the one to do that.

  Once the question of paying for his mother's final rites was put to rest, Ollie dropped his head onto her desk and cried for awhile. He did it quietly, so as not to wake his father. When the tears dried up, he filled out one of the obituary forms, printing everything because his handwriting sucked. Once that chore was finished, he went out to the kitchen and surveyed the mess there: pasta on the linoleum, chicken carcass lying under the clock, all those Tupperwares and covered dishes on the counters. It reminded him of something his mom used to say after big family meals--the pigs ate here. He got a Hefty bag from under the sink and dumped everything in, starting with the chicken carcass, which looked especially gruesome. Then he washed the floor. Once everything was spick (something else his mother used to say), he discovered he was hungry. That seemed wrong but was still a fact. People were basically animals, he realized. Even with your mother and little brother dead, you had to eat and shit out what you ate. The body demanded it. He opened the fridge and discovered it was packed top to bottom and side to side with more casseroles, more Tupperware containers, more cold cuts. He selected a shepherd's pie, its surface a snowy plain of mashed potato, and stuck it in the oven at 350. While he was leaning against the counter and waiting for it to heat, feeling like a visitor inside his own head, his dad wandered in. Fred's hair was a mess. You're all sticky-uppy, Arlene Peterson would have said. He needed a shave. His eyes were puffy and dazed.

  "I took one of your mother's pills and slept too long," he said.

  "Don't worry about it, Dad."

  "You cleaned up the kitchen. I should have helped you."

  "It's okay."

  "Your mother . . . the funeral . . ." Fred didn't seem to know how to go on, and Ollie noticed that his fly was unzipped. This filled him with an inchoate pity. Yet he didn't feel like crying again, he seemed to be cried out, at least for the time being. Something else th
at was all right. Must count my blessings, Ollie thought.

  "We're in good shape," he told his dad. "She had burial insurance, you both do, and she's . . . there. At the place. You know, the parlor." He was afraid to say funeral, because that might get his father going. Which might get him going again.

  "Oh. Good." Fred sat down and put the heel of his hand against his forehead. "I should have done that. It was my job. My responsibility. I never meant to sleep so long."

  "You can go down tomorrow. Pick out the coffin, and all."

  "Where?"

  "Donelli Brothers. Same as Frank."

  "She's dead," Fred marveled. "I don't even know how to think of it."

  "Yeah," Ollie said, although he had been able to think of nothing else. How she'd kept trying to apologize, right to the end. As if it was all her fault when none of it was. "The funeral guy says there's stuff you'll have to decide about. Will you be able to do that?"

  "Sure. I'll be better tomorrow. Something smells good."

  "Shepherd's pie."

  "Did your mother make it, or did someone bring it?"

  "I don't know."

  "Well, it smells good."

  They ate at the kitchen table. Ollie put their dishes in the sink, because the dishwasher was full. They went into the living room. Now it was baseball on ESPN, Phillies against the Mets. They watched without talking, each in his own way exploring the edges of the hole that had appeared in their lives, so as not to fall in. After awhile Ollie went out on the back steps and sat looking up at the stars. There were plenty of them. He also saw a meteor, an earth satellite, and several planes. He thought about how his mother was dead, and would see none of these things again. It was totally absurd that such a thing should be so. When he went back in, the baseball game was going into the ninth all tied up, and his father had gone to sleep in his chair. Ollie kissed him on the top of his head. Fred didn't stir.

  20

  Ralph got a text on his way to the county jail. It was from Kinderman, in State Police Computer Forensics. Ralph pulled over at once and called back. Kinderman answered on the first ring.

  "Don't you guys take Sunday night off?" Ralph asked.

  "What can I say, we're geeks." In the background, Ralph could hear the bellow of a heavy metal band. "Besides, I always think that good news can wait, but bad news should be passed on right away. We're not done exploring Maitland's hard drives for hidden files, and some of these kiddy-fiddlers can be pretty clever about that, but on the surface, he's clean. No kiddie porn, no porn of any kind. Not on his desktop, not on his laptop, not on his iPad, not on his phone. He looks like Mr. White Hat."

  "What about his history?"

  "There's plenty, but all stuff you'd expect--shopping sites like Amazon, news blogs like Huffington Post, half a dozen sports sites. He keeps track of the Major League standings, and he appears to be a fan of the Tampa Bay Rays. That alone suggests there's something wrong with his head. He watches Ozark on Netflix, and The Americans on iTunes. I enjoy that one myself."

  "Keep digging."

  "It's what they pay me for."

  Ralph parked in an OFFICIAL VEHICLES ONLY slot behind the county jail, took his on-duty card from the glove compartment, and put it on the dashboard. A corrections officer--L. KEENE, according to his name-tag--was waiting for him, and escorted him to one of the interview rooms. "This is irregular, Detective. It's almost ten o'clock."

  "I'm aware of the time, and I'm not here for recreational purposes."

  "Does the DA know you're here?"

  "Above your pay grade, Officer Keene."

  Ralph sat down on one side of the table and waited to see if Terry would agree to make an appearance. No porn on Terry's computers, and no stashes of porn in the house, at least that they had found so far. But, as Kinderman had pointed out, pedos could be clever.

  How clever was it for him to show his face, though? And leave fingerprints?

  He knew what Samuels would say: Terry was in a frenzy. Once (it seemed like a long time ago) this had made sense to Ralph.

  Keene led Terry in. He was wearing county browns and cheap plastic flip-flops. His hands were cuffed in front of him.

  "Take off the bracelets, Officer."

  Keene shook his head. "Protocol."

  "I'll take responsibility."

  Keene smiled without humor. "No, Detective, you will not. This is my house, and if he decides to leap across the table and choke you, it's on me. But tell you what, I won't tether him to the cuff-bolt. How's that?"

  Terry smiled at this, as if to say You see what I have to deal with?

  Ralph sighed. "You can leave us, Officer Keene. And thanks."

  Keene left, but he would be watching through the one-way glass. Probably listening, as well. This was going to get back to Samuels; there was simply no way around it.

  Ralph looked at Terry. "Don't just stand there. Sit down, for God's sake."

  Terry sat and folded his hands on the table. The handcuff chain rattled. "Howie Gold wouldn't approve of me meeting you." He continued to smile as he said it.

  "Samuels wouldn't either, so we're even."

  "What do you want?"

  "Answers. If you're innocent, why do I have half a dozen witnesses who've identified you? Why are your fingerprints on the branch used to sodomize that boy, and all over the van that was used to abduct him?"

  Terry shook his head. The smile was gone. "I'm as mystified as you are. I just thank God, his only begotten son, and all the saints that I can prove I was in Cap City. What if I couldn't, Ralph? I think we both know. I'd be in the death house up in McAlester before the end of summer, and two years from now I'd be riding the needle. Maybe sooner, because the courts are rigged to the right all the way to the top and your pal Samuels would plow over my appeals like a bulldozer over a kid's sand castle."

  The first thing that rose to Ralph's lips was he's not my pal. What he said was, "The van interests me. The one with the New York plates."

  "Can't help you there. The last time I was in New York was on my honeymoon, and that was sixteen years ago."

  It was Ralph's turn to smile. "I didn't know that, but I knew you hadn't been there recently. We back-checked your movements over the last six months. Nothing but a trip to Ohio in April."

  "Yes, to Dayton. The girls' spring vacation. I wanted to see my dad, and they wanted to go. Marcy did, too."

  "Your father lives in Dayton?"

  "If you can call what he's doing these days living. It's a long story, and nothing to do with this. No sinister white vans involved, not even the family car. We flew Southwest. I don't care how many of my fingerprints you found in the van that guy used to abduct Frank Peterson, I didn't steal it. I've never even seen it. I don't expect you to believe it, but it's the truth."

  "Nobody thinks you stole the van in New York," Ralph said. "Bill Samuels's theory is that whoever did steal it dumped it somewhere in this vicinity, with the ignition key still in it. You re-stole it, and cached it somewhere until you were ready to . . . to do what you did."

  "Pretty careful, for a man who went about his business with his bare face hanging out."

  "Samuels will tell the jury you were in a kill-frenzy. And they'll believe it."

  "Will they still believe it after Ev, Billy, and Debbie testify? And after Howie shows the jury that tape of Coben's lecture?"

  Ralph didn't want to go there. At least not yet. "Did you know Frank Peterson?"

  Terry uttered a bark of laughter. "That's one of those questions Howie wouldn't want me to answer."

  "Does that mean you won't?"

  "As a matter of fact, I will. I knew him to say hi to--I know most of the kids on the West Side--but I didn't know him know him, if you see what I mean. He was still in grade school and didn't play sports. Couldn't miss that red hair, though. Like a stop sign. Him and his brother both. I had Ollie in Little League, but he didn't move up to City League when he turned thirteen. He wasn't bad in the outfield, and he could hit a little, but he
lost interest. Some of them do."

  "So you didn't have your eye on Frankie?"

  "No, Ralph. I have no sexual interest in children."

  "Didn't just happen to see him walking his bike across the parking lot of Gerald's Fine Groceries and say 'Aha, here's my chance'?"

  Terry looked at him with a silent contempt that Ralph found hard to bear. But he didn't drop his eyes. After a moment, Terry sighed, raised his cuffed hands to the mirror side of the one-way glass, and called, "We're done here."

  "Not quite," Ralph said. "I need you to answer one more question, and I want you to look me right in the eyes when you do it. Did you kill Frank Peterson?"

  Terry's gaze didn't waver. "I did not."

  Officer Keene took Terry away. Ralph sat where he was, waiting for Keene to come back and escort him through the three locked doors between this interview room and free air. So now he had the answer to the question Jeannie had told him to ask, and the answer, given with unwavering eye contact, was I did not.

  Ralph wanted to believe him.

  And could not.

  THE ARRAIGNMENT

  July 16th

  1

  "No," Howie Gold said. "No, no, no."

  "It's for his own protection," Ralph said. "Surely you see--"

  "What I see is a front-page photograph in the paper. What I see is lead story footage on every channel, showing my client walking into district court wearing a bulletproof vest over his suit. Looking already convicted, in other words. The cuffs are bad enough."

  There were seven men in the county jail's visitors' room, where the toys had been neatened away in their colorful plastic boxes and the chairs had been upturned on the tables. Terry Maitland stood with Howie at his side. Facing them were County Sheriff Dick Doolin, Ralph Anderson, and Vernon Gilstrap, the assistant district attorney. Samuels would already be at the county courthouse, awaiting their arrival. Sheriff Doolin continued to hold out the bulletproof vest, saying nothing. On it, in bright accusatory yellow, were the letters FCDC, standing for Flint County Department of Corrections. Its three Velcro straps--one for each arm, one to cinch the waist--hung down.

  Two jail officers (call them guards and they would correct you) stood by the door to the lobby, meaty arms folded. One had supervised Terry as he shaved with a disposable razor; the other had gone through the pockets of the suit and shirt Marcy had brought, not neglecting to check the seam down the back of the blue tie.