“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?
“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.”