“Howie, will you help me? Will you help us?”
“Of course I will. They took Terry to the station?”
“Yes! In handcuffs!”
“All right. I’m on my way. Go home, Marce. See what the police want. If they have a search warrant—that must be why they’re there, I can’t think of anything else—read it, see what they’re after, let them in, but don’t say anything. Have you got that? Don’t say anything.”
“I . . . yes.”
“The Peterson boy was killed last Tuesday, I think. Wait—” There was murmuring in the background, first Howie, followed by a woman, probably Howie’s wife, Elaine. Then Howie was back. “Yes, it was Tuesday. Where was Terry on Tuesday?”
“Cap City! He went—”
“Never mind that now. The police may ask you about that. They may ask you all sorts of things. Tell them you’re keeping silent on advice from your lawyer. Got it?”
“Y-Yes.”
“Don’t let them coax, coerce, or bait you. They’re good at all three.”
“Okay. Okay, I won’t.”
“Where are you now?”
She knew, she’d seen the sign, but had to look at it again to be sure. “Burger King. The one on Tinsley. I pulled in to call you.”
“Are you okay to drive?”
She almost told him she’d bumped her head, then didn’t. “Yes.”
“Take a deep breath. Take three. Then drive home. Speed limit all the way, signal every turn. Does Terry have a computer?”
“Sure. In his office. Plus an iPad, although he doesn’t use it much. And we both have laptops. The girls have their own iPad Minis. And phones, of course, we all have phones. Grace just got hers for her birthday three months ago.”
“They’ll give you a list of the stuff they mean to take.”
“Can they really do that?” She wasn’t wailing again, but she was close. “Just take our stuff? It’s like something out of Russia or North Korea!”
“They can take what their warrant says they can take, but I want you to keep your own list. Do the girls have their cell phones with them?”
“Are you kidding? Those things are practically grafted to their hands.”
“Okay. The cops may want to take yours. Refuse.”
“What if they take it, anyway?” And did it matter? Did it really?
“They won’t. If you haven’t been charged with anything, they can’t. Go on now. I’ll be with you just as soon as I can. We are going to sort this out, I promise you.”
“Thank you, Howie.” She began to cry again. “Thank you very, very much.”
“You bet. And remember: speed limit, full stops, turnblinkers. Got it?”
“Yes.”
“Headed to the station now.” And he was gone.
Marcy put her car in drive, then put it back in park. She took a deep breath. Then two. Then three. This is a nightmare, but at least it will be a short one. He was in Cap City. They’ll see that, and they’ll let him go.
“Then,” she told her car (it seemed so empty without the girls giggling and squabbling in the backseat), “we will sue their asses off.”
That straightened her spine and brought the world back into focus. She drove home to Barnum Court, keeping to the speed limit and coming to a full stop at every stop sign.
12
Statement of Mr. George Czerny, [July 13th, 8:15 AM, interviewed by Officer Ronald Wilberforce]
Officer Wilberforce: Thank you for coming in, Mr. Czerny—
Czerny: You say it “Zurny.” C-Z-E-R-N-Y. The C is silent.
Officer Wilberforce: Uh-huh, thanks, I’ll make a note of that. Detective Ralph Anderson will also want to talk to you, but right now he’s busy with another interview, and he asked me to get the basic facts while they’re fresh in your mind.
Czerny: Are you towing that car? That Subaru? You ought to get it impounded so no one can pollute the evidence. There’s plenty of evidence, I can tell you that.
Officer Wilberforce: Being taken care of as we speak, sir. Now I believe you were out fishing this morning?
Czerny: Well, that was the plan, but as it turned out, I never even wet a line. I went out just after sunrise, to what they call the Iron Bridge. You know, out on Old Forge Road?
Officer Wilberforce: Yes, sir.
Czerny: It’s a great place to catch catfish. Many people don’t like to fish for them because they’re ugly—not to mention that they’ll bite you sometimes while you’re trying to get the hook out of them—but my wife fries them up with salt and lemon juice, and they taste pretty damn good. The lemon’s the secret, you know. And you have to use an iron skillet. What my ma used to call a spider.
Officer Wilberforce: So you parked at the end of the bridge—
Czerny: Yes, but off the highway. There’s an old boat landing down there. Someone bought the land it’s on a few years back and put up a wire fence with NO TRESPASSING signs on it. Never built anything yet, though. Those few acres just sit there growing weeds, and the landing’s half under water. I always park my truck on the little spur road that goes down to that wire fence. Which is what I did this morning, and what do I see? The fence is knocked down, and there’s a little green car parked on the edge of that sunken boat landing, so close to the water that the front tires were half-sunk in the mud. So I went down there, because I figured some guy must’ve left the titty-bar drunk the night before, and run off the main road. Had an idea he might still be inside, passed out.
Officer Wilberforce: When you say titty-bar, you mean Gentlemen, Please, just out at the town line?
Czerny: Yeah. Yes. Men go there, they get loaded, they stuff ones and fives into the girls’ panties until they’re broke, then they drive home drunk. Don’t understand the attraction of such places, myself.
Officer Wilberforce: Uh-huh. So you went down and looked in the car.
Czerny: It was a little green Subaru. Nobody in it, but there were bloody clothes on the passenger seat, and I thought right away of the little boy that was murdered, because the news said the police were looking for a green Subaru in connection with the crime.
Officer Wilberforce: Did you see anything else?
Czerny: Sneakers. On the floor of the passenger side footwell. They had blood on ’em, too.
Officer Wilberforce: Did you touch anything? Try the doors, maybe?
Czerny: Hell no. The wife and I never missed an episode of CSI when it was on.
Officer Wilberforce: What did you do?
Czerny: Called 911.
13
Terry Maitland sat in an interview room, waiting. The handcuffs had been removed so his lawyer wouldn’t raise hell when he got here—which would be soon. Ralph Anderson stood at parade rest, hands clasped behind his back, watching his son’s old coach through the one-way glass. He had sent Yates and Ramage on their way. He had spoken to Betsy Riggins, who told him Mrs. Maitland hadn’t arrived home yet. Now that the arrest had been made and his blood had cooled a little, Ralph again felt uneasy about the speed at which this thing was progressing. It wasn’t surprising that Terry was claiming an alibi, and it would surely prove as thin, but—
“Hey, Ralph.” Bill Samuels hurried up, straightening the knot in his tie as he came. His hair was as black as Kiwi shoe polish, and worn short, but a cowlick stuck up in back, making him look younger than ever. Ralph knew Samuels had prosecuted half a dozen capital murder cases, all successfully, with two of his convicted murderers (he called them his “boys”) currently on death row at McAlester. That was all to the good, nothing wrong with having a child prodigy on your team, but tonight the Flint County district attorney bore an eerie resemblance to Alfalfa in the old Little Rascals shorts.
“Hello, Bill.”
“So there he is,” Samuels said, looking in at Terry. “Don’t like to see him in his game jersey and Dragons hat, though. I’ll be happy when he’s in a nice pair of county browns. Happier still when he’s in a cell twenty feet from the go-to-sleep table.”