“Frank Peterson was killed on Tuesday. Tuesday afternoon. It was in the papers, it was on the news. I was in Cap City on Tuesday, Tuesday night, and most of Wednesday. Didn’t get back until nine or nine thirty on Wednesday night. Gavin Frick, Barry Houlihan, and Lukesh Patel—Baibir’s father—practiced the boys both days.”
For a moment there was silence in the car, not even interrupted by the radio, which had been turned off. Terry had a golden moment in which he believed—yes, absolutely—that Ralph would now tell the big cop behind the wheel to pull over. Then he would turn to Terry with wide, embarrassed eyes and say, Oh Christ, we really goofed, didn’t we?
What Ralph said, still without turning around, was, “Ah. Comes the famous alibi.”
“What? I don’t understand what you m—”
“You’re a smart guy, Terry. I knew that from the first time I met you, back when you were coaching Derek in Little League. If you didn’t confess outright—which I was hoping for, but didn’t really expect—I was pretty sure you’d offer some kind of alibi.” He turned around at last, and the face Terry looked into was that of an absolute stranger. “And I’m equally sure we’ll knock it down. Because we’ve got you for this. We absolutely do.”
“What were you doing in Cap City, Coach?” Yates asked, and all at once the man who had told Terry to not even scratch his nose sounded friendly, interested. Terry almost told him what he had been doing there, then decided against it. Thinking was beginning to replace reacting, and he realized this car, with its fading aroma of enchiladas, was enemy territory. It was time to shut up until Howie Gold arrived at the station. The two of them could sort this mess out together. It shouldn’t take long.
He realized something else, as well. He was angry, probably angrier than he’d ever been in his life, and as they turned onto Main Street and headed for the Flint City police station, he made himself a promise: come fall, maybe even sooner, the man in the front seat, the one he’d considered a friend, was going to be looking for a new job. Possibly as a bank guard in Tulsa or Amarillo.
8
Statement of Mr. Carlton Scowcroft [July 12th, 9:30 PM, interviewed by Detective Ralph Anderson]
Scowcroft: Will this take long, Detective? Because I usually go to bed early. I work maintenance on the railroad, and if I don’t clock in by seven, I’ll be in dutch.
Detective Anderson: I’ll be as quick as I can, Mr. Scowcroft, but this is a serious matter.
Scowcroft: I know. And I’ll help all I can. There’s just, I don’t have much to tell you, and I want to get home. I don’t know how well I’ll sleep, though. I haven’t been in this station since a drinking party I went to when I was seventeen. Charlie Borton was chief then. Our fathers got us out, but I was grounded for the whole summer.
Detective Anderson: Well, we appreciate you coming in. Tell me where were you at seven PM on the night of July 10th.
Scowcroft: Like I told the gal at the desk when I came in, I was at Shorty’s Pub, and I seen that white van, and I seen the guy who coaches baseball and Pop Warner over on West Side. I don’t remember his name, but his picture’s in the paper all the time because he’s got a good City League team this year. Paper said they might go all the way. Moreland, is that his name? He had blood all over him.
Detective Anderson: How was it you happened to see him?
Scowcroft: Well, I got a routine for when I clock off work, not having a wife to go home to and not being much of a chef myself, if you know what I mean. Mondays and Wednesdays, it’s the Flint City Diner. Fridays I go to Bonanza Steakhouse. And on Tuesdays and Thursdays, I usually go to Shorty’s for a plate of ribs and a beer. That Tuesday I got to Shorty’s at, oh, I’m gonna say quarter past six. Kid was already long dead by then, wasn’t he?
Detective Anderson: But at around seven, you were out back, correct? Behind Shorty’s Pub.
Scowcroft: Yeah, me and Riley Franklin. I ran into him there, and we ate together. Out back, that’s where people go to smoke. Down the hall between the restrooms and out the back door. There’s an ash bucket and everything. So we ate—I had the ribs, he had the mac and cheese—and we ordered dessert, and went out back to have a smoke before it came. While we were standing there, shooting the shit, this dirty white van pulled in. Had a New York plate on it, I remember that. It parked beside a little Subaru wagon—I think it was a Subaru—and that guy got out. Moreland, or whatever his name is.