“That’s not protocol, boss,” Ramage said.
“I know, and I don’t care. I want everyone to see him led away in handcuffs. Got it?”
When they were on their way, Ralph took his cell phone off his belt. He had Betsy Riggins on speed-dial. “Are you in position?”
“Yes indeed. Parked in front of his house. Me and four State Troopers.”
“Search warrant?”
“In my hot little hand.”
“Good.” He was about to end the call when something else occurred to him. “Bets, when’s your due date?”
“Yesterday,” she said. “So hurry this shit up.” And ended the call herself.
4
Statement of Mrs. Arlene Stanhope [July 12th, 1:00 PM, interviewed by Detective Ralph Anderson]
Stanhope: Will this take long, Detective?
Detective Anderson: Not long at all. Just tell me what you saw on the afternoon of Tuesday, July 10th, and we’ll be done.
Stanhope: All right. I was coming out of Gerald’s Fine Groceries. I always do my shopping there on Tuesdays. Things are more expensive at Gerald’s, but I don’t go to the Kroger since I stopped driving. I gave up my license the year after my husband died because I didn’t trust my reflexes anymore. I had a couple of accidents. Just fender-benders, you know, but that was enough for me. Gerald’s is only two blocks from the apartment I’ve been living in since I sold the house, and the doctor says walking is good for me. Good for my heart, you know. I was coming out with my three bags in my little cart—three bags is all I can afford now, the prices are so awful, especially meat, I don’t know the last time I’ve had bacon—and I saw the Peterson boy.
Detective Anderson: You’re sure it was Frank Peterson you saw?
Stanhope: Oh yes, it was Frank. Poor boy, I’m so sorry about what happened to him, but he’s in heaven now, and his pain is over. That’s the consolation. There are two Peterson boys, you know, both redheads, that awful carroty red, but the older one—Oliver, that’s his name—is at least five years older. He used to deliver our newspaper. Frank has a bicycle, one of those that have the high handlebars and the narrow seat—
Detective Anderson: A banana seat, it’s called.
Stanhope: I don’t know about that, but I know it was bright lime green, an awful color, really, and there was a sticker on the seat. It said Flint City High. Only he’ll never go to high school, will he? Poor, poor boy.
Detective Anderson: Mrs. Stanhope, would you like a short break?
Stanhope: No, I want to finish. I need to go home and feed my cat. I always feed her at three, and she’ll be hungry. She’ll also wonder where I am. But if I could have a tissue? I’m sure I’m a mess. Thank you.
Detective Anderson: You could see the sticker on the seat of Frank Peterson’s bicycle because—？
Stanhope: Oh, because he wasn’t on it. He was walking it across the Gerald’s parking lot. The chain was broken, and dragging on the pavement.
Detective Anderson: Did you notice what he was wearing?
Stanhope: A tee-shirt with some rock and roll band on it. I don’t know bands, so I can’t say which one it was. If that’s important, I’m sorry. And he was wearing a Rangers cap. It was pushed back on his head, and I could see all that red hair. Those carrot-tops usually go bald very early in life, you know. He’ll never have to worry about that now, will he? Oh, it’s just so sad. Anyway, there was a dirty white van parked at the far end of the lot, and a man got out and came over to Frank. He was—
Detective Anderson: We’ll get to that, but first I want to hear about the van. This was the kind with no windows?
Stanhope: Yes.
Detective Anderson: With no writing on it? No company name, or anything of that nature?
Stanhope: Not that I saw.
Detective Anderson: Okay, let’s talk about the man you saw. Did you recognize him, Mrs. Stanhope?
Stanhope: Oh, of course. It was Terry Maitland. Everyone on the West Side knows Coach T. They call him that even at the high school. He teaches English there, you know. My husband taught with him before he retired. They call him Coach T because he coaches Little League, and the City League baseball team when Little League is done, and in the fall he coaches little boys who like to play football. They have a name for that league, too, but I don’t remember it.
Detective Anderson: If we could get back to what you saw on Tuesday afternoon—
Stanhope: There’s not much more to tell. Frank talked to Coach T, and pointed at his broken chain. Coach T nodded and opened the back of the white van, which couldn’t have been his—