Detective Anderson: Which you took to mean a walk-in facility, like MedNOW or Quick Care?
Scowcroft: That’s what he meant, all right, because he wanted to see if he needed it cauterized up there inside. Ouch, huh? Said he had it happen to him once before. I told him to go down Burrfield about a mile, turn left at the second light, and he’d see a sign. You know that billboard by Coney Ford? It tells you about how long you’ll have to wait and everything. Then he asked if he could leave his van in that little parking area behind the pub, which is not for customers—as the sign on the back of the building says—but for employees. And I said, “It’s not my lot, but if you don’t leave it too long, it should be all right.” Then he says—and it struck both of us as weird, times being what they are—that he’d leave the keys in the cup holder in case somebody had to move it. Riley said, “That’s a good way to get it stoled, Coach T.” But he said again that he wouldn’t be long, and about how someone might want to move it. You know what I think? I think maybe he wanted someone to steal it, maybe even me or Riley. You think that could be, Detective?
Detective Anderson: What happened then?
Scowcroft: He got into that little green Subaru, and off he went. Which also struck me as weird.
Detective Anderson: What was weird about it?
Scowcroft: He asked if he could leave his van for a little while—like he thought it might get towed, or something—but his car was there all along, safe and sound. Weird, right?
Detective Anderson: Mr. Scowcroft, I’m going to put six photographs of six different men down in front of you, and I want you to pick out the man you saw behind Shorty’s. They all look similar, so I want you to take your time. Can you do that for me?
Scowcroft: Sure, but I don’t need to take my time. That’s him right there. Moreland, or whatever his name is. Can I go home now?
9
No one in the unmarked said anything else until they turned into the police station lot and parked in one of the spaces marked OFFICIAL VEHICLES ONLY. Then Ralph turned to survey the man who had coached his son. Terry Maitland’s Dragons cap had been knocked slightly askew, so it sat in a kind of gangsta twist. His Dragons tee-shirt had come untucked on one side, and his face was streaked with sweat. In that moment he looked guilty as hell. Except, maybe, for his eyes, which met Ralph’s dead-on. They were wide and silently accusing.
Ralph had a question that couldn’t wait. “Why him, Terry? Why Frankie Peterson? Was he on the Lions Little League team this year? Did you have your eye on him? Or was it just a crime of opportunity?”
Terry opened his mouth to reiterate his denial, but what was the point? Ralph wasn’t going to listen, at least not yet. None of them were. Better to wait. That was hard, but it might save time in the end.
“Go on,” Ralph said. He spoke softly, conversationally. “You wanted to talk before, so talk now. Tell me. Make me understand. Right here, before we even get out of this car.”
“I think I’ll wait for my lawyer,” Terry said.
“If you’re innocent,” Yates said, “you don’t need one. Put a pin in this, if you can. We’ll even give you a ride home.”
Still looking into Ralph Anderson’s eyes, Terry spoke almost too softly to hear. “This is bad behavior. You never even checked on where I might have been on Tuesday, did you? I wouldn’t have thought it of you.” He paused, as if thinking, then said: “You bastard.”
Ralph had no intention of telling Terry that he had discussed that with Samuels, but not for long. It was a small town. They hadn’t wanted to start asking questions that could get back to Maitland. “This was a rare case where we didn’t need to check.” Ralph opened his door. “Come on. Let’s get you booked and printed and photographed before your lawyer gets h—”
“Terry! Terry!”
Instead of taking Ralph’s advice, Marcy Maitland had followed the police car from the field in her Toyota. Jamie Mattingly, a neighbor, had stepped up and taken Sarah and Grace to her house. Both girls had been crying. Jamie had been, too.
“Terry, what are they doing? What should I be doing?”
He twisted momentarily free of Yates, who had him by the arm. “Call Howie!”
It was all he had time for. Ramage opened the door marked POLICE PERSONNEL ONLY and Yates hustled Terry inside, none too gently, with a hand planted in the middle of his back.
Ralph stayed behind for a moment, holding the door. “Go home, Marcy,” he said. “Go before the news people get there.” He almost added I’m sorry about this, and didn’t. Because he wasn’t. Betsy Riggins and the State Police would be waiting for her, but it was still the best thing she could do. The only thing, really. And maybe he owed her. For her girls, certainly—they were the true innocents in all of this—but also . . .
This is bad behavior. I wouldn’t have expected it of you.
There was no reason for Ralph to feel guilty at the reproach of a man who had raped and murdered a child, but for a moment he still did. Then he thought of the crime scene pictures, photos so ugly you almost wished you were blind. He thought of the branch sticking out of the little boy’s rectum. He thought of a bloody mark on smooth wood. Smooth because the hand that left the print had shoved down so hard it had peeled the bark away.
Bill Samuels had made two simple points. Ralph had agreed, and so had Judge Carter, to whom Samuels had gone for the various warrants. First, it was a slam-dunk. There was no sense waiting when they already had everything they needed. Second, if they gave Terry time, he might take off, and then they’d have to find him before he found another Frank Peterson to rape and murder.
10
Statement of Mr. Riley Franklin [July 13th, 7:45 AM, interviewed by Detective Ralph Anderson]
Detective Anderson: I’m going to show you six photographs of six different men, Mr. Franklin, and I’d like you to pick out the man you saw behind Shorty’s Pub on the evening of July 10th. Take your time.
Franklin: I don’t need to. It’s that one there. Number two. That’s Coach T. I can’t believe it. He coached my son in Little League.
Detective Anderson: It so happens he also coached mine. Thank you, Mr. Franklin.
Franklin: The needle’s too good for him. They ought to hang him with a slow rope.
11
Marcy pulled into the parking lot of the Burger King on Tinsley Avenue, and took her cell phone out of her purse. Her hands were trembling, and she dropped it on the floor. She bent over to get it, thumped her head on the steering wheel, and began to cry again. She thumbed through her contacts and found Howie Gold’s number—not because the Maitlands had a reason to keep a lawyer on speed-dial, but because Howie had coached Pop Warner with Terry during the last two seasons. He answered on the second ring.
“Howie? This is Marcy Maitland. Terry’s wife?” As if they hadn’t had dinner together once every month or so since 2016.
“Marcy? Are you crying? What’s wrong?”
It was so enormous that at first she couldn’t say it.
“Marcy? Are you still there? Were you in an accident or something?”
“I’m here. It’s not me, it’s Terry. They’ve arrested Terry. Ralph Anderson arrested Terry. For the murder of that boy. That’s what they said. For the murder of the Peterson boy.”
“What? Are you shitting me?”
“He wasn’t even in town!” Marcy wailed. She heard herself doing it, thought she sounded like a teenager throwing a tantrum, but couldn’t stop. “They arrested him, and they said the police are waiting at home!”
“Where are Sarah and Grace?”
“I sent them with Jamie Mattingly, from the next street over. They’ll be okay for now.” Although after just seeing their father arrested and led away in handcuffs, how okay could they be?
She rubbed her forehead, wondering if the steering wheel had left a mark, wondering why she cared. Because there might be news people waiting already? Because if there were, they might see the mark and think Terry had hit her?