Ah, but by then we had most of them, didn’t we, Bill? Ralph thought as he sat dressed in his best suit and watching with his best law enforcement poker face.
“The second reason we proceeded,” Samuels continued, “was the presence of DNA at the scene, which seemed to match that of Mr. Maitland. There is a popular assumption that DNA matching is never wrong, but as the Council for Responsible Genetics pointed out in a scholarly article titled ‘The Potential for Error in Forensic DNA Testing,’ that is a misconception. If samples are mixed, for instance, the matching can’t be trusted, and the samples taken at the Figgis Park scene were indeed mixed, containing DNA from both perpetrator and victim.”
He waited until the reporters had finished scribbling before going on.
“Added to this, the samples were exposed to ultraviolet light during the course of another, unrelated, testing procedure. Unfortunately, they are degraded to a point where they would have been, in the opinion of my department, inadmissible in a court of law. In plain English, the samples are worthless.”
He paused, turning to the next sheet in his folder. This was mere stagecraft, as all of the sheets in it were blank.
“I only want to touch briefly on the events that took place in Marysville, Texas, subsequent to the murder of Terence Maitland. It is our opinion that Detective John Hoskins of the Flint City Police Department was in some sort of twisted and criminal partnership with the person who killed Frank Peterson. We believe Hoskins was helping this individual to hide, and that they may have been planning to perpetrate a similar horrible crime. Thanks to the heroic efforts of Detective Ralph Anderson and those with him, whatever plans they may have made did not come to fruition.” He looked up at his audience soberly. “Howard Gold and Alec Pelley died in Marysville, Texas, and we mourn their loss. What we and their families take comfort in is this: somewhere at this very moment, there is a child who will never suffer the fate of Frank Peterson.”
A nice touch, Ralph thought. Just the right amount of pathos without getting all sloppy about it.
“I’m sure many of you have questions about the events that occurred in Marysville, but I am not at liberty to answer them. The investigation, which is being jointly conducted by the Texas Highway Patrol and the Flint City Police Department, is ongoing. State Police Lieutenant Yunel Sablo is working with both of these fine organizations as chief liaison officer, and I’m sure that he will have information to share with you at the appropriate time.”
He’s great at this stuff, Ralph thought, and with real admiration. Hitting every damn note.
Samuels closed his folder, lowered his head, then raised it again. “I am not running for re-election, ladies and gentlemen, so I have the rare opportunity to be entirely honest with you.”
It gets even better, Ralph thought.
“Given more time to evaluate the evidence, this office almost certainly would have dropped the charges against Mr. Maitland. Had we persisted and brought him to trial, I’m sure he would have been found innocent. And, as I hardly need to add, he was innocent, according to the laws of jurisprudence, at the time of his death. Yet the cloud of suspicion over him—and consequently over his family—has remained. I am here today to dissipate that cloud. It is the opinion of the district attorney’s office—and my personal belief—that Terry Maitland had nothing whatsoever to do with the death of Frank Peterson. Consequently, I am announcing that the investigation has been re-opened. Although it is currently concentrated in Texas, the investigation in Flint City, Flint County, and Canning Township is also ongoing. Now I will be happy to take any questions you may have.”
There were many.
5
Later that day, Ralph visited Samuels in his office. The soon-to-be-retired DA had a bottle of Bushmills on his desk. He poured them each a knock, and raised his glass. “Now the hurly-burly’s done, now the battle’s lost and won. Mostly lost in my case, but what the fuck. Let’s drink to the hurly-burly.”
They did so.
“You handled the questions well,” Ralph said. “Especially considering the amount of bullshit you slung around.”
Samuels shrugged. “Bullshit is every good lawyer’s stock in trade. Terry’s not completely off the hook in this town and never will be, Marcy understands that, but people are coming around. Her friend Jamie Mattingly, for instance—Marcy called to tell me that she came over and apologized. They had a good cry together. It’s mostly the videotape of Terry in Cap City that turned the trick, but what I said about the prints and DNA will help a lot. Marcy’s going to try to stick it out here. I think she’ll succeed.”
“About that DNA,” Ralph said. “Ed Bogan in the Serology Department at General ran those samples. With his reputation at stake, he should be squawking his head off.”
Samuels smiled. “He should, shouldn’t he? Except the truth is even less palatable—another case of footprints that just stop, you could say. There was no exposure to UV light, but the samples began developing white spots of no known origin, and now they’re completely degraded. Bogan got in touch with State Police Forensics in Ohio, and guess what? Same thing with the Heath Holmes samples. A series of photos shows them basically disintegrating. A defense attorney would have a ball with that, wouldn’t he?”
“And the witnesses?”
Bill Samuels laughed and poured himself another drink. He offered the bottle to Ralph, who shook his head—he was driving home.
“They were the easy part. They’ve all decided they were wrong, with two exceptions—Arlene Stanhope and June Morris. They stand by their stories.”
Ralph was not surprised. Stanhope was the old lady who had seen the outsider approach Frank Peterson in the parking lot of Gerald’s Fine Groceries and drive away with him. June Morris was the child who had seen him in Figgis Park, with blood on his shirt. The very old and the very young always saw most clearly.
“So now what?”
“Now we finish our drinks and go our separate ways,” Samuels said. “I just have one question.”
“Shoot.”
“Was he the only one? Or are there others?”
Ralph’s mind returned to the final confrontation in the cave, and to the greedy expression in the outsider’s eyes as he asked his question: Have you seen another one like me somewhere?
“I don’t think so,” he said, “but we’ll never be completely sure. There might be anything out there. I know that now.”
“Jesus Christ, I hope not!”
Ralph made no reply. In his mind he heard Holly saying There’s no end to the universe.
(September 21st)
6
Ralph took his coffee with him into the bathroom to shave. He had been slipshod about this daily chore during his mandated time away from the police force, but he had been reinstated to active duty two weeks before. Jeannie was downstairs making breakfast. He could smell bacon and heard the blare of trumpets that signaled the beginning of the Today show, which would open with the daily budget of bad news before moving on to the celeb of the week and many ads for prescription drugs.
He set his coffee cup down on the little table and froze, watching as a red worm wriggled its way out from beneath his thumbnail. He looked in the mirror and saw his face changing into Claude Bolton’s face. He opened his mouth to scream. A flood of maggots and red worms poured out over his lips and down the front of his shirt.
7
He woke sitting up in bed, heart pounding in his throat and temples as well as in his chest, hands plastered over his mouth, as if to hold in a scream . . . or something even worse. Jeannie slept on beside him, so he hadn’t screamed; there was that.
None of them got in me that day. None of them even touched me. You know that.