by Stephen King
‘There are still some rough edges I’d like to smooth out,’ Ralph said. ‘We don’t have all the background. Plus, he’s going to say he has an alibi. Unless he just gives it up, we can be sure of that.’
‘If he does,’ Samuels had replied, ‘we’ll knock it down. You know we will.’
Ralph had no doubt of it, he knew they had the right man, but he still would have preferred a little more investigation before pulling the trigger. Find the holes in the sonofabitch’s alibi, punch them wider, wide enough to drive a truck through, then bring him in. In most cases that would have been the correct procedure. Not in this one.
‘Three things,’ Samuels had said. ‘Are you ready for them?’
Ralph nodded. He had to work with this man, after all.
‘One, people in this town, particularly the parents of small children, are terrified and angry. They want a quick arrest so they can feel safe again. Two, the evidence is beyond doubt. I’ve never seen a case so ironclad. Are you with me on that?’
‘Yes.’
‘Okay, here’s number three. The big one.’ Samuels had leaned forward. ‘We can’t say he’s done it before – although if he has, we’ll probably find out once we really start digging – but he sure as hell has done it now. Broken loose. Busted his cherry. And once that happens …’
‘He could do it again,’ Ralph finished.
‘Right. Not the likeliest scenario so soon after Peterson, but possible. He’s with kids all the time, for Christ’s sake. Young boys. If he killed one of them, never mind losing our jobs, we’d never forgive ourselves.’
Ralph was already having problems forgiving himself for not seeing it sooner. That was irrational, you couldn’t look into a man’s eyes at a backyard barbecue following the conclusion of the Little League season and know he was contemplating an unspeakable act – stroking it and feeding it and watching it grow – but the irrationality didn’t change the way he felt.
Now, leaning forward to point between the two cops in the front seat, Ralph said, ‘Over there. Try the handicap spaces.’
From the shotgun seat, Officer Tom Yates said, ‘Two-hundred-dollar fine for that, boss.’
‘I think we’ll get a pass this time,’ Ralph said.
‘I was joking.’
Ralph, in no mood for cop repartee, made no reply.
‘Crip spaces ahoy,’ Ramage said. ‘And I see two empties.’
He pulled into one of them, and the three men got out. Ralph saw Yates unsnap the strap over the butt of his Glock and shook his head. ‘Are you out of your mind? There’s got to be fifteen hundred people at that game.’
‘What if he runs?’
‘Then you’ll catch him.’
Ralph leaned against the hood of the unmarked and watched as the two Flint City officers started toward the field, the lights, and the crammed bleachers, where the clapping and the cheering were still rising in volume and intensity. Arresting Peterson’s killer fast had been a call he and Samuels had made together (however reluctantly). Arresting him at the game had been strictly Ralph’s decision.
Ramage looked back. ‘Coming?’
‘I am not. You do the deed, and read him his rights nice and goddam loud, then bring him here. Tom, when we roll, you’re going to ride in back with him. I’ll be up front with Troy. Bill Samuels is waiting for my call, and he’ll be at the station to meet us. This one’s A-Team all the way. As for the collar, it’s all yours.’
‘But it’s your case,’ Yates said. ‘Why wouldn’t you want to be the one to bust the motherfucker?’
Still with his arms crossed, Ralph said, ‘Because the man who raped Frankie Peterson with a tree branch and tore open his throat coached my son for four years, two in Peewee and two in Little League. He had his hands on my son, showing him how to hold a bat, and I don’t trust myself.’
‘Got it, got it,’ Troy Ramage said. He and Yates started toward the field.
‘And listen, you two.’
They turned back.
‘Cuff him right there. And cuff him in front.’
‘That’s not protocol, boss,’ Ramage said.
‘I know, and I don’t care. I want everyone to see him led away in handcuffs. Got it?’
When they were on their way, Ralph took his cell phone off his belt. He had Betsy Riggins on speed-dial. ‘Are you in position?’
‘Yes indeed. Parked in front of his house. Me and four State Troopers.’
‘Search warrant?’
‘In my hot little hand.’
‘Good.’ He was about to end the call when something else occurred to him. ‘Bets, when’s your due date?’
‘Yesterday,’ she said. ‘So hurry this shit up.’ And ended the call herself.
4
Statement of Mrs Arlene Stanhope [July 12th, 1:00 PM, interviewed by Detective Ralph Anderson]
Stanhope: Will this take long, Detective?
Detective Anderson: Not long at all. Just tell me what you saw on the afternoon of Tuesday, July 10th, and we’ll be done.
Stanhope: All right. I was coming out of Gerald’s Fine Groceries. I always do my shopping there on Tuesdays. Things are more expensive at Gerald’s, but I don’t go to the Kroger since I stopped driving. I gave up my license the year after my husband died because I didn’t trust my reflexes anymore. I had a couple of accidents. Just fender-benders, you know, but that was enough for me. Gerald’s is only two blocks from the apartment I’ve been living in since I sold the house, and the doctor says walking is good for me. Good for my heart, you know. I was coming out with my three bags in my little cart – three bags is all I can afford now, the prices are so awful, especially meat, I don’t know the last time I’ve had bacon – and I saw the Peterson boy.
Detective Anderson: You’re sure it was Frank Peterson you saw?
Stanhope: Oh yes, it was Frank. Poor boy, I’m so sorry about what happened to him, but he’s in heaven now, and his pain is over. That’s the consolation. There are two Peterson boys, you know, both redheads, that awful carroty red, but the older one – Oliver, that’s his name – is at least five years older. He used to deliver our newspaper. Frank has a bicycle, one of those that have the high handlebars and the narrow seat—
Detective Anderson: A banana seat, it’s called.
Stanhope: I don’t know about that, but I know it was bright lime green, an awful color, really, and there was a sticker on the seat. It said Flint City High. Only he’ll never go to high school, will he? Poor, poor boy.
Detective Anderson: Mrs Stanhope, would you like a short break?
Stanhope: No, I want to finish. I need to go home and feed my cat. I always feed her at three, and she’ll be hungry. She’ll also wonder where I am. But if I could have a tissue? I’m sure I’m a mess. Thank you.
Detective Anderson: You could see the sticker on the seat of Frank Peterson’s bicycle because—?
Stanhope: Oh, because he wasn’t on it. He was walking it across the Gerald’s parking lot. The chain was broken, and dragging on the pavement.
Detective Anderson: Did you notice what he was wearing?
Stanhope: A tee-shirt with some rock and roll band on it. I don’t know bands, so I can’t say which one it was. If that’s important, I’m sorry. And he was wearing a Rangers cap. It was pushed back on his head, and I could see all that red hair. Those carrot-tops usually go bald very early in life, you know. He’ll never have to worry about that now, will he? Oh, it’s just so sad. Anyway, there was a dirty white van parked at the far end of the lot, and a man got out and came over to Frank. He was—
Detective Anderson: We’ll get to that, but first I want to hear about the van. This was the kind with no windows?
Stanhope: Yes.
Detective Anderson: With no writing on it? No company name, or anything of that nature?
Stanhope: Not that I saw.
Detective Anderson: Okay, let’s talk about the man you saw. Did you recognize him, Mrs Stanhope?
Stanhope: Oh, of cours
e. It was Terry Maitland. Everyone on the West Side knows Coach T. They call him that even at the high school. He teaches English there, you know. My husband taught with him before he retired. They call him Coach T because he coaches Little League, and the City League baseball team when Little League is done, and in the fall he coaches little boys who like to play football. They have a name for that league, too, but I don’t remember it.
Detective Anderson: If we could get back to what you saw on Tuesday afternoon—
Stanhope: There’s not much more to tell. Frank talked to Coach T, and pointed at his broken chain. Coach T nodded and opened the back of the white van, which couldn’t have been his—
Detective Anderson: Why do you say that, Mrs Stanhope?
Stanhope: Because it had an orange license plate. I don’t know which state that would be, my long vision isn’t what it used to be, but I know Oklahoma plates are blue and white. Anyway, I couldn’t see anything in the back of the van except for a long green thing that looked like a toolbox. Was it a toolbox, Detective?
Detective Anderson: What happened then?
Stanhope: Well, Coach T put Frank’s bicycle in the back and shut the doors. He clapped Frank on the back. Then he went around to the driver’s side and Frank went around to the passenger side. They both got in, and the van drove away, onto Mulberry Avenue. I thought Coach T was going to drive the lad home. Of course I did. What else would I think? Terry Maitland has lived on the West Side for going on twenty years, he has a very nice family, a wife and two daughters … could I have another tissue, please? Thank you. Are we almost done?
Detective Anderson: Yes, and you’ve been very helpful. I believe that before I started to record, you said this was around three o’clock?
Stanhope: Exactly three. I heard the bell in the Town Hall clock chiming the hour just as I came out with my little cart. I wanted to go home and feed my cat.
Detective Anderson: The boy you saw, the redheaded boy, was Frank Peterson.
Stanhope: Yes. The Petersons live right around the corner. Ollie used to deliver my newspaper. I see those boys all the time.
Detective Anderson: And the man, the one who put the bike in the back of the white van and drove away with Frank Peterson, that was Terence Maitland, also known as Coach Terry or Coach T.
Stanhope: Yes.
Detective Anderson: You’re sure of that.
Stanhope: Oh, yes.
Detective Anderson: Thank you, Mrs Stanhope.
Stanhope: Who could believe Terry would do such a thing? Do you suppose there have been others?
Detective Anderson: We may find that out in the course of our investigation.
5
Since all City League tournament games were played at Estelle Barga Field – the best baseball field in the county, and the only one with lights for night games – home team advantage was decided by a coin toss. Terry Maitland called tails before the game, as he always did – it was a superstition handed down from his own City League coach, back in the day – and tails it was. ‘I don’t care where we’re playing, I just like to get my lasties,’ he always told his boys.
And tonight he needed them. It was the bottom of the ninth, the Bears were up in this league semifinal by a single run. The Golden Dragons were down to their last out, but they had the bases loaded. A walk, a wild pitch, an error, or an infield single would tie it, a ball hit into the gap would win it. The crowd was clapping, stamping the metal bleachers, and cheering as little Trevor Michaels stepped into the lefthand batter’s box. His batting helmet was the smallest one they had, but it still shaded his eyes and he had to keep pushing it up. He twitched his bat nervously back and forth.
Terry had considered pinch-hitting for the boy, but at just an inch over five feet, he drew a lot of walks. And while he was no home run hitter, he was sometimes able to put the bat on the ball. Not often, but sometimes. If Terry lifted him for a pinch hitter, the poor kid would have to live with the humiliation through the whole next year of middle school. If, on the other hand, he managed a single, he would recall it over beers and backyard barbecues for the rest of his life. Terry knew. He’d been there himself, once upon a time, in the antique era before the game was played with aluminum bats.
The Bears pitcher – their closer, a real fireballer – wound up and threw one right down the heart of the plate. Trevor watched it go by with an expression of dismay. The umpire called strike one. The crowd groaned.
Gavin Frick, Terry’s assistant coach, paced up and down in front of the boys on the bench, the scorebook rolled up in one hand (how many times had Terry asked him not to do that?), and his XXL Golden Dragons tee-shirt straining over his belly, which was XXXL at least. ‘I hope letting Trevor bat for himself wasn’t a mistake, Ter,’ he said. Sweat was trickling down his cheeks. ‘He looks scared to death, and I don’t b’lieve he could hit that kid’s speedball with a tennis racket.’
‘Let’s see what happens,’ Terry said. ‘I’ve got a good feeling about this.’ He didn’t, not really.
The Bears pitcher wound up and released another burner, but this one landed in the dirt in front of home plate. The crowd rose to its feet as Baibir Patel, the Dragons’ tying run at third, jinked a few steps down the line. They settled back with a groan as the ball bounced into the catcher’s mitt. The Bears catcher turned to third, and Terry could read his expression, even through the mask: Just try it, homeboy. Baibir didn’t.
The next pitch was wide, but Trevor flailed at it, anyway.
‘Strike him out, Fritz!’ a leather-lung shouted from high up in the bleachers – almost surely the fireballer’s father, from the way the kid snapped his head in that direction. ‘Strike him owwwwwt!’
Trevor didn’t offer at the next pitch, which was close – too close to take, really, but the ump called it a ball, and it was the Bears’ fans’ turn to groan. Someone suggested that the ump needed stronger glasses. Another fan mentioned something about a seeing-eye dog.
Two and two now, and Terry had a strong sense that the Dragons’ season hung on the next pitch. Either they would play the Panthers for the City championship, and go on to compete in the States – games that were actually televised – or they would go home and meet just one more time, at the barbecue in the Maitland backyard that traditionally marked the end of the season.
He turned to look at Marcy and the girls, sitting where they always did, in lawn chairs behind the home plate screen. His daughters were flanking his wife like pretty bookends. All three waved crossed fingers at him. Terry gave them a wink and a smile and two thumbs up, although he still didn’t feel right. It wasn’t just the game. He hadn’t felt right for some time now. Not quite.
Marcy’s return smile faltered into a puzzled frown. She was looking to her left, and jerked a thumb that way. Terry turned and saw two city cops walking in lockstep down the third base line, past Barry Houlihan, who was coaching there.
‘Time, time!’ the home plate umpire bellowed, stopping the Bears pitcher just as he went into his wind-up. Trevor Michaels stepped out of the batter’s box, and with an expression of relief, Terry thought. The crowd had grown quiet, looking at the two cops. One of them was reaching behind his back. The other had his hand on the butt of his holstered service weapon.
‘Off the field!’ the ump was shouting. ‘Off the field!’
Troy Ramage and Tom Yates ignored him. They walked into the Dragons’ dugout – a makeshift affair containing a long bench, three baskets of equipment, and a bucket of dirty practice balls – and directly to where Terry was standing. From the back of his belt, Ramage produced a pair of handcuffs. The crowd saw them, and raised a murmur that was two parts confusion and one part excitement: Ooooo.
‘Hey, you guys!’ Gavin said, hustling up (and almost tripping over Richie Gallant’s discarded first baseman’s mitt). ‘We’ve got a game to finish here!’
Yates pushed him back, shaking his head. The crowd was dead silent now. The Bears had abandoned their tense defensive postures and wer
e just watching, their gloves dangling. The catcher trotted out to his pitcher, and they stood together halfway between the mound and home plate.
Terry knew the one holding the cuffs a little; he and his brother sometimes came to watch the Pop Warner games in the fall. ‘Troy? What is this? What’s the deal?’
Ramage saw nothing on the man’s face except what looked like honest bewilderment, but he had been a cop since the nineties, and knew that the really bad ones had that Who, me? look down to a science. And this guy was as bad as they came. Remembering Anderson’s instructions (and not minding a bit), he raised his voice so he could be heard by the entire crowd, which the next day’s paper would announce as 1,588.
‘Terence Maitland, I am arresting you for the murder of Frank Peterson.’
Another Ooooo from the bleachers, this one louder, the sound of a rising wind.
Terry frowned at Ramage. He understood the words, they were simple English words forming a simple declarative sentence, he knew who Frankie Peterson was and what had happened to him, but the meaning of the words eluded him. All he could say was ‘What? Are you kidding?’ and that was when the sports photographer from the Flint City Call snapped his picture, the one that appeared on the front page the next day. His mouth was open, his eyes were wide, his hair was sticking out around the edges of his Golden Dragons cap. In that photo he looked both enfeebled and guilty.
‘What did you say?’
‘Hold out your wrists, please.’
Terry looked at Marcy and his daughters, still sitting in their chairs behind the chickenwire, staring at him with identical expressions of frozen surprise. Horror would come later. Baibir Patel left third base and started to walk toward the dugout, taking off his batting helmet to show the sweaty mat of his black hair, and Terry saw the kid was starting to cry.
‘Get back there!’ Gavin shouted at him. ‘Game’s not over.’
But Baibir only stood in foul territory, staring at Terry and bawling. Terry stared back, positive (almost positive) he was dreaming all this, and then Tom Yates grabbed him and yanked his arms out with enough force to make Terry stumble forward. Ramage snapped on the cuffs. Real ones, not the plastic strips, big and heavy, gleaming in the late sun. In that same rolling voice, he proclaimed: ‘You have the right to remain silent and refuse to answer questions, but if you choose to speak, anything you say can be held against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney during questioning now or in the future. Do you understand?’
