by Stephen King
‘Very interesting,’ Samuels said, ‘but why don’t we talk about Frank Peterson, instead?’
Terry’s eyes remained fixed on Ralph.
‘Long story short, when I saw he wouldn’t take a walk, I taught him to bunt. Lot of boys his age – ten, eleven – they won’t do it. They get the idea, but they don’t like dropping the bat over the plate, especially against a kid who can really bring it. They keep thinking about how much their fingers are going to hurt if they get hit with their bare hands out front like that. Not Derek, though. He had a yard of guts, your boy. Besides, he could really scoot down the line, and a lot of times when I sent him up to sacrifice, he ended up getting a base hit.’
Ralph didn’t nod or give any sign at all that he cared about this, but he knew what Terry was talking about. He had cheered plenty of those bunts, and had seen his kid fly down the line like his hair was on fire and his ass was catching.
‘It was just a matter of teaching him the right bat angles,’ Terry said, and held up his hands to demonstrate. They were still smudged with dirt, probably from throwing batting practice before tonight’s game. ‘Angle to the left, the ball squirts up the third base line. Angle to the right, first base line. Don’t shove the bat, most times that does nothing but send an easy pop-up to the pitcher, just give it a little nudge at the last split-second. He caught on fast. The kids stopped calling him Swiffer and gave him a new nickname. We’d have a runner on first or third late in the game and the other team knew he was going to lay one down – there was no faking, he’d drop the bat across the plate as soon as the pitcher went into his motion, and the kids on the bench would all be yelling “Push it, Derek, push it!” Me and Gavin, too. And that was what they called him that whole last year, when we won the district. Push It Anderson. Did you know that?’
Ralph hadn’t, maybe because it was strictly a team thing. What he did know was that Derek had grown up a lot that summer. He laughed more, and wanted to hang around after the games were over instead of just heading for the car with his head down and his glove dangling.
‘He did most of it himself – practiced like a mother until he had it right – but I was the one who talked him into trying it.’ He paused, then said, very softly, ‘And you do this to me. In front of everyone, you do this to me.’
Ralph felt his cheeks heat up. He opened his mouth to reply, but Samuels was escorting him out the door, almost pulling him along. He paused just long enough to say one thing over his shoulder. ‘Ralph didn’t do it to you, Maitland. Neither did I. You did it to yourself.’
Then the two of them were looking through the one-way glass again, and Samuels was asking if Ralph was all right.
‘Fine,’ Ralph said. His cheeks were still burning.
‘Some of them are masters at getting under your skin. You know that, right?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you know he did this, right? I’ve never had a case sewn up so tight.’
Which bothers me, Ralph thought. It didn’t before, but it does now. It shouldn’t, because Samuels is right, but it does.
‘Did you notice his hands?’ Ralph asked. ‘When he was showing how he taught Derek to bunt, did you see his hands?’
‘Yes. What about them?’
‘No long pinky fingernail,’ Ralph said. ‘Not on either hand.’
Samuels shrugged. ‘So he clipped it. Are you sure you’re all right?’
‘Fine,’ Ralph said. ‘I just—’
The door between the office area and the detention wing buzzed, then banged open. The man who came hurrying down the hallway was dressed in his Saturday night relaxing-at-home clothes – faded jeans and a TCU tee-shirt with SuperFrog hopping on the front – but the boxy briefcase he was carrying was all lawyer.
‘Hello, Bill,’ he said. ‘And hello to you, Detective Anderson. Would either of you like to tell me why you have arrested Flint City’s 2015 Man of the Year? Is it just a mistake, one we can perhaps smooth over, or have you lost your fucking minds?’
Howard Gold had arrived.
18
To: County District Attorney William Samuels
Flint City Chief of Police Rodney Geller
Flint County Sheriff Richard Doolin
Capt. Avery Rudolph, State Police Post 7
Det. Ralph Anderson, Flint City PD
From: Det. Lieutenant Yunel Sablo, State Police Post 7
Date: July 13th
Subject: Vogel Transportation Center, Dubrow
As per request of DA Samuels and Detective Anderson, I arrived at the Vogel Transportation Center at 2:30 PM, on the date referenced above. Vogel is the main depot for land transportation in the southern part of the state, housing three major bus lines (Greyhound, Trailways, Mid-State) as well as Amtrak service. There are also the usual car rental agencies (Hertz, Avis, Enterprise, Alamo). Since all areas of the Transportation Center are well monitored by surveillance cameras, I went directly to the security office, where I was met by Michael Camp, Vogel’s Security Director. He was ready for me. Surveillance footage is kept for 30 days, and the whole operation is computerized, so I was able to review everything from the night of July 10th, as seen from a total of 16 cameras.
According to Mr Clinton Ellenquist, the Flint City Cab Company dispatcher who was on duty on the night of July 10th, driver Willow Rainwater called in at 9:30 PM to report she had delivered her fare. The Southern Limited, which Ms Rainwater has stated is the train the subject under investigation meant to take, pulled into the Vogel at 9:50 PM. Passengers disembarked at Track 3. Passengers going on to Dallas–Fort Worth were given the go-ahead to embark at Track 3 seven minutes later, at 9:57. The Southern Limited pulled out at 10:12. Times are exact, as all arrivals and departures are monitored and recorded by computer.
Security Director Camp and I reviewed surveillance footage from all 16 cameras, beginning at 9:00 PM on July 10th (just to be on the safe side) and ending at 11:00 PM, approximately 50 minutes after the Southern Limited left the station. I have all camera references on my iPad, but due to the stated (by DA Samuels) urgency of the situation, I will only summarize in this preliminary report.
9:33 PM: Subject enters the station through the north portal, which is the usual drop-off point for taxis and where most travelers enter. He crosses the main concourse. Yellow shirt, bluejeans. He has no luggage. Clear view of his face for 2 to 4 seconds as he looks up at the large overhead clock (still image emailed to DA Samuels and Detective Anderson).
9:35 PM: Subject stops at the newsstand in the center of the concourse. He buys a paperback book, paying cash. The title cannot be read, and the clerk does not remember, but we can probably get this if needed. In this footage, the horse’s head belt buckle can be seen (still image emailed to DA Samuels and Detective Anderson).
9:39 PM: Subject exits the station via the Montrose Avenue door (south portal). Although this entrance/exit point is open to the public, it is mostly used by Vogel personnel, as the employee parking lot is on that side of the building. Two cameras are placed to monitor this lot. Subject does not appear on either camera, but both Camp and I detected a momentary shadow, which we believe may have been the subject, heading to the right, toward a service alley.
Subject did not buy a ticket on the Southern Limited, either for cash at the station or by credit card. After several reviews of the Track 3 footage, which is clear and in my opinion complete, I can state with reasonable certainty that the subject did not re-enter the station and board the train.
My conclusion is that the subject’s trip to Dubrow may have been an effort to lay a false trail and thus confuse pursuit. My speculation is that the subject may have returned to Flint City, either with the help of an accomplice or by hitchhiking. It is also possible that he stole a car. The Dubrow Police Department has no reports of vehicles reported stolen in the vicinity of the Vogel Transportation Center on the night in question, but as Security Director Camp points out, one could be taken from the long-term parking lot without being reported for
a week or even longer.
Security footage of the long-term lot is available, and will be reviewed upon request, but the coverage there is far from complete. In addition, Security Director Camp informs me that those cameras are due to be replaced and often malfunction. I think that, for the time being, at least, we would be better served pursuing other lines of investigation.
RESPECTFULLY SUBMITTED
Det. Lt. Y. Sablo
See attachments
19
Howie Gold shook hands with Samuels and Ralph Anderson. Then he gazed through the one-way glass at Terry Maitland, in his Golden Dragons jersey and lucky game hat. Terry’s back was straight, his head was up, and his hands were folded neatly on the table. There was no twitching, no fidgeting, no nervous sideways glances. He was not, Ralph admitted to himself, the picture of guilt.
At last Gold turned back to Samuels. ‘Speak,’ he said. As if inviting a dog to do a trick.
‘Not much to say at this point, Howard.’ Samuels’s hand went to the back of his head. He smoothed the cowlick down. It stayed put for a moment, then sprang up again. Ralph found himself remembering an Alfalfa quote he and his brother used to giggle over when they were kids: You only meet your once-in-a-lifetime friends once in a lifetime. ‘Just that it’s not a mistake, and no, we haven’t lost our fucking minds.’
‘What does Terry say?’
‘So far, nothing,’ Ralph said.
Gold swung his way, bright blue eyes glittering and slightly magnified behind the round lenses of his spectacles. ‘You misunderstand me, Anderson. Not tonight, I know he didn’t say anything to you tonight, he knows better. I mean at the initial interview. You might as well tell me, because he will.’
‘There was no initial interview,’ Ralph said. And there was no need to feel uncomfortable about that, not with the case they’d put together in just four short days, but he did, all the same. Part of it had to do with Howie Gold calling him by his last name, as if they had never bought each other drinks in the Wagon Wheel across from the county courthouse. He felt a ridiculous urge to tell Howie, Don’t look at me, look at the guy beside me. He’s the one with the pedal to the metal.
‘What? Wait. Wait just a goddam minute.’
Gold stuck his hands in his front pockets and began to rock back and forth on the balls of his feet. Ralph had seen this many times, in county and district court, and braced himself. Being cross-examined on the stand by Howie Gold was never a pleasant experience. Ralph had never held it against him, though. It was all part of the due process dance.
‘Are you telling me you arrested him in front of two thousand people without even giving him a chance to explain himself?’
Ralph said, ‘You’re a fine defense attorney, but God himself couldn’t get Maitland out from under this one. And by the way, there might have been twelve hundred people there, fifteen hundred at most. Estelle Barga Field won’t hold two thousand. The bleachers would collapse.’
Gold ignored this feeble stab at lightening the atmosphere. He was staring at Ralph as though he were some new kind of bug. ‘But you arrested him in a public place, at what one could argue was the moment of his apotheosis—’
‘His apothie-whatsis?’ Samuels asked, smiling.
Gold ignored this, as well. He was still studying Ralph. ‘You did it even though you could have put a quiet police presence around the field and then arrested him at his home, after the game was over. You did it in front of his wife and daughters, which had to be deliberate. What possessed you? What on God’s green earth possessed you?’
Ralph felt his face heating up again. ‘You really want to know, counselor?’
‘Ralph,’ Samuels said warningly. He put a restraining hand on Ralph’s arm.
Ralph shook it off. ‘I wasn’t the one who arrested him. I had a couple of officers do that, because I was afraid I might put my hands around his throat and choke him blue. Which would give a smart lawyer like you a little too much to work with.’ He stepped forward, getting into Gold’s space to make him stop the back and forth rocking. ‘He grabbed Frank Peterson and took him to Figgis Park. There he raped the kid with a tree branch, and there he killed him. Do you want to know how he killed him?’
‘Ralph, that’s privileged!’ Samuels squawked.
Ralph paid no attention. ‘Preliminary forensics suggests he tore the kid’s throat open with his teeth. He may even have swallowed some of the flesh, okay? All that got him so excited that he dropped trou and spilled his spunk all over the back of the kid’s thighs. Nastiest, vilest, most unspeakable murder any of us will ever see, God willing. He must have been building up to it for a long time. None of us who were at the scene will ever get it out of our minds. And Terry Maitland did it. Coach T did it, and not so long ago he had his hands on my son’s hands, showing him how to bunt. He just told me all about it, like it was supposed to exonerate him, or something.’
Gold was no longer staring at him like he was a bug. Now there was a kind of wonder on his face, as if he had stumbled upon an artifact left behind by some unknowable extraterrestrial race. Ralph didn’t care. He was beyond caring.
‘You’ve got a boy yourself – Tommy, right? Isn’t that why you started coaching Pop Warner with Terry, because Tommy was playing? He had his hands on your son, too. And now you’re going to defend him?’
Samuels said, ‘For Christ’s sake, shut your trap.’
Gold had stopped rocking, but he gave no ground, and he was still staring at Ralph with that expression of almost anthropological wonder. ‘Didn’t even interview him,’ he breathed. ‘Didn’t. Even. I have never … I have never …’
‘Oh, come on,’ Samuels said with forced jollity. ‘You’ve seen everything, Howie. Most of it twice.’
‘I want to conference with him now,’ Gold said briskly, ‘so turn off your audio shit and close the curtain.’
‘Fine,’ Samuels said. ‘You can have fifteen minutes, then we’ll join you. See if the coach has anything to say.’
Gold said, ‘I will have an hour, Mr Samuels.’
‘Half an hour. Then we’ll either take his confession – which could conceivably make a difference between life in McAlester and the needle – or he’s going into a cell until his arraignment on Monday. Up to you. But if you think we did this lightly, you were never more wrong in your life.’
Gold went to the door. Ralph swiped his card across the lock, listened to the clunk as the double bolts let go, then returned to the window to watch the attorney enter. Samuels tensed when Maitland rose from his seat and started toward Gold with his arms out, but the expression on Maitland’s face was one of relief, not aggression. He embraced Gold, who dropped his boxy briefcase and hugged him back.
‘Bro hug,’ Samuels said. ‘Ain’t that just the sweetest.’
Gold turned as if he had heard, and pointed to the camera with its little red light. ‘Turn it off,’ came his voice through the overhead speaker. ‘Sound as well. Then draw the curtain.’
The switches were on a wall-mounted console that also held audio and video recorders. Ralph flipped them. The red light on the camera in the corner of the interview room went out. He nodded to Samuels, who yanked the curtain. The sound it made as it covered the glass brought Ralph an unpleasant memory. On three occasions – all before Bill Samuels’s day – Ralph had attended executions at McAlester. There was a similar curtain (perhaps made by the same company!) over the long glass window between the execution chamber and the viewing room. It was pulled open when the witnesses entered the viewing room, and closed as soon as the prisoner was pronounced dead. It made that same unpleasant rasping sound.
‘I’m going across the street to Zoney’s for a soda and a burger,’ Samuels said. ‘I was too nervous to eat any dinner. Do you want anything?’
‘I could do with a coffee. No milk, one sugar.’
‘You sure? I’ve had Zoney’s coffee, and they don’t call it the Black Death for nothing.’
‘I’ll take the chance,’ Ralph s
aid.
‘Okay. I’ll be back in fifteen. If they break early, don’t start without me.’
No chance of that. As far as Ralph was concerned, this was now Bill Samuels’s show. Let him have all the glory, if there was any to be had in a horror like this. There were chairs lining the far side of the hall. Ralph took the one next to the photocopier, which was droning softly in its sleep. He stared at the drawn curtain and wondered what Terry Maitland was saying in there, what outlandish alibi he was trying out for his Pop Warner co-coach.
Ralph found himself thinking of the big Native American woman who had picked Maitland up at Gentlemen, Please and taken him to the train station in Dubrow. I coach Prairie League basketball down at the YMCA, she’d said. Maitland used to come down and sit on the bleachers with the parents and watch the kids play. He told me he was scouting talent for City League baseball …
She had known him, and he must have known her – given her size and ethnicity, she’d be a hard woman to forget. Yet in the cab he had called her ma’am. Why was that? Because even if he knew her face from the Y, he didn’t remember her name? That was possible, but Ralph didn’t like it much. As names went, Willow Rainwater wasn’t all that forgettable, either.
‘Well, he was under stress,’ Ralph muttered, either to himself or to the drowsing photocopier. ‘Also …’
Another memory came to him, and with it a reason for Maitland’s use of ma’am that he liked better. His kid brother, Johnny, three years younger, had not been much good when it came to hide-and-seek. Many times he’d just run into his bedroom and throw the covers over his head, apparently thinking that if he couldn’t see Ralphie, Ralphie couldn’t see him. Wasn’t it possible that a man who had just committed a terrible murder might be prone to the same sort of magical thinking? If I don’t know you, you don’t know me. Mad logic, sure, but it had been a madman’s crime, and it could explain more than just Terry’s reaction to Rainwater; it could explain why he’d thought he could get away with it even though he was well-known to lots of folks in Flint City, and an actual celebrity to sports fans.
