Hernandez nodded. “We can’t sit on this one, not with that other kid out there.”
It was late afternoon, and Ben thought they’d pick Wakeland up at his house or at the apartment, somewhere quiet and discreet, but Marco’s cruiser turned left onto Conquistador Road and he realized they were headed toward the high school. When they pulled into the parking lot, there were three black-and-whites parked in front of the swim complex and two news vans parked along the curb.
“Making a show of this, huh?” Ben said, hearing the accusation in his own voice.
Hernandez glanced at him, barely contained frustration in his eyes, as he pulled into a parking spot. “Right now all we can charge him with are dirty pictures,” Hernandez said, slamming the gear shift into park. “Helen Huntsman’s talked to us; we’re working on the AP, Rutledge, but it’s not enough yet. We can put him away for the pictures, but I want to get him on everything. You get it?”
Ben nodded.
“I want whoever else is out there to see this,” Hernandez said. “Maybe someone will come forward. I want everyone looking at him when we walk him out of here, want everyone to know exactly what he is.”
From the cruiser, Ben watched Hernandez and Marco huddle with the officers at the front door of the complex before they streamed inside. Through the fence, Ben could see the boys swimming the lanes, Wakeland stalking the opposite pool deck, calling out cadences.
It didn’t matter, Ben had finally decided yesterday, whether or not the serial killed Lucero. Ben would never know for sure anyway; the evidence was the evidence and it told an incomplete story—which, to be honest, was almost always the way it was with evidence. Beyond a shadow of a doubt? There was always doubt, even when you—or at least Ben—knew you were right. Lucero had been threatened by Wakeland, Lucero had been upset, Lucero had found the gun. Whatever did or did not happen after that, there were still those pictures Natasha discovered in the closet, still the documented fact of that ugliness. It didn’t matter if there was actual blood on Wakeland’s hands; there were other ways of draining the life out of someone. Regardless, Ben thought he was right about this. If there was a God up there, or someone alive who knew exactly what happened the night Lucero died, he’d let them decide, let them judge him.
Now the officers were on the pool deck, Marco spinning Wakeland around, cuffing the man’s hands behind his back, Hernandez flanked by three uniforms while he read Wakeland his Miranda rights.
They disappeared a few moments inside the complex before the doors opened and Hernandez and Marco emerged with Wakeland between them, his head bowed. Two reporters converged on Wakeland, shoving microphones in his face. Boys had jumped out of the pool, towels wrapped around their waists, and stood at the fence, watching. Phillip was there, too, his fists clutching the metal fence, his face awash in shock. Ben got out of the car then and stood in the parking lot, watching Wakeland, wanting the man to see him at this moment. Marco and one of the uniforms glanced at Ben, but the coach would not raise his bowed head. At Marco’s cruiser, Hernandez spun Wakeland around and lifted the man’s head by the chin and made him look at Ben. Ben stared at the coach, but Wakeland averted his eyes, watching the bars of the fence that separated the parking lot from the pool complex. Then Hernandez pushed Wakeland’s head into the backseat of Marco’s cruiser and they were gone—no lights, no sirens, the championship banners waving quietly in the ocean breeze.
—
TWENTY-SEVEN HUNDRED DOLLARS. That’s what it cost to get the coffin and the shipping crate, the plane ticket on United to Mexico City, and the hearse to carry it to the cargo bay at LAX. Ten minutes to drain his savings account. Ben promised he’d drive Esperanza and Santiago to the coroner’s office to claim the body, promised them no immigration police would be there, promised them that it would only be them, Ben, and his good friend who was the medical examiner.
When he arrived at the camp the morning after Wakeland’s arrest, Esperanza and Santiago were standing on the edge of the field, dressed in what could only be described as their Sunday best. Ben got out of the truck and opened the door for Esperanza, who just stood there on the edge of the field, eyes fixed on him.
“Please,” he said, gesturing toward the passenger door, lightly touching the small of her back.
A stinging slap clapped the healing bone around his eye. When Ben got his vision back, Esperanza was facing him, her right hand still raised in the air. She glared at him, her eyes watering now, and whispered something to Santiago.
“For your silence,” Santiago translated.
Ben nodded. If that’s all she was going to give him, he was getting off easy.
“Please,” he said, gesturing again toward the seat. “Please, let’s go get your son.”
She crossed in front of him to take her seat but then paused, turned to him again, and touched her palm to his cheek, a small blessing before slipping into the car.
—
SANTIAGO LEFT THE copy of the Rancho Santa Elena World News on the bench seat of the truck. He’d walked into town this morning to get a gallon of water, he had told Ben on the ride to the coroner, when he saw Wakeland’s face on the front page of the paper. LEGENDARY LOCAL COACH CHARGED WITH SEXUAL EXPLOITATION OF MINORS screamed the headline. Ben’s name was mentioned in the paper, Santiago had said. That’s how they knew.
After claiming Lucero’s body and dropping off Santiago and Esperanza back at the camp, Ben pulled over in the bike lane and read the article. He was mentioned as one of two men who had accused Wakeland of sexual abuse. The other accuser was said to be anonymous.
He drove then, over to the Texaco station, and called Hernandez from the pay phone. He wasn’t ready to walk into the station, not today at least.
“Who’s anonymous?” he asked.
“You know how this works, Ben,” Hernandez said. “I can’t tell you. That’s why it’s anonymous.”
“It’s Tucker Preston, right?” Ben said. He hoped it was Tucker. Wanted to believe he could do it.
“We interviewed that freshman kid, Phillip,” Hernandez said, changing the subject.
Ben’s heart jumped into his throat.
“Looks like we got it in time,” Hernandez said. “I’ll keep you in the loop when I can, but you don’t get any police privilege on this, no inside information. I don’t want to compromise anything on this one. So keep the hell out.”