“Uh-huh, and look. The book’s in a Glad bag instead of an official one. Not entered into evidence.”
“Not yet,” Ralph said, but instead of thinking about the different facets of Bill Samuels’s character, he was now forced to think about the different facets of his own.
“I’m just saying that the same hypothetical possibility might have been in the back of your own mind.”
Had it been? Ralph could not honestly say. And if it had been, why had it been? To save an ugly black mark on his career, now that this thing was not just going sideways but in danger of tipping over?
“No,” he said. “This will be logged into evidence, and will become part of discovery. Because that kid is dead, Bill. What happens to us is small shit compared to that.”
“I agree,” Sablo said.
“Of course you do,” Samuels said. He sounded tired. “Lieutenant Yune Sablo will survive either way.”
“Speaking of survival,” Ralph said, “what about Terry Maitland’s? What if we really do have the wrong man?”
“We don’t,” Samuels said. “The evidence says we don’t.”
And on that note, the meeting ended. Ralph went back to the station. There he logged in A Pictorial History of Flint County, Douree County, and Canning Township and stored it in the accumulating file. He was glad to be rid of it.
As he went around the building to retrieve his personal car, his cell rang. It was his wife’s picture on the screen, and when he answered, he was alarmed by the sound of her voice. “Honey? Have you been crying?”
“Derek called. From camp.”
Ralph’s heart kicked up a notch. “Is he all right?”
“He’s fine. Physically fine. But some of his friends emailed him about Terry, and he’s upset. He said it must be wrong, that Coach T would never do a thing like that.”
“Oh. Is that all.” He started moving again, feeling for his keys with his free hand.
“No, it’s not all,” she said fiercely. “Where are you?”
“At the station. Then headed home.”
“Can you go to county first? And talk to him?”
“To Terry? I guess I could, if he’ll agree to see me, but why?”
“Set aside all the evidence for a minute. All of it on both sides, and answer me one question, truly and from your heart. Will you do that?”
“Okay . . .” He could hear the faraway drone of semis on the interstate. Closer, the peaceful summer sound of crickets in the grass growing alongside the brick building where he had worked for so many years. He knew what she was going to ask.
“Do you think Terry Maitland killed that little boy?”
Ralph thought of how the man who’d taken Willow Rainwater’s cab to Dubrow had called her ma’am instead of by her name, which he should have known. He thought about how the man who’d parked the white van behind Shorty’s Pub had asked directions to the nearest doc-in-the-box, although Terry Maitland had lived in Flint City all his life. He thought about the teachers who would swear Terry had been with them, both at the time of the abduction and at the time of the murder. Then he thought about how convenient it was that Terry had not just asked a question at Mr. Harlan Coben’s talk, but had risen to his feet, as if to make sure he would be seen and recorded. Even the fingerprints on the book . . . how perfect was that?
“Ralph? Are you still there?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe if I’d coached with him like Howie . . . but I only watched him coach Derek. So the answer to your question—truly, and from my heart—is I just don’t know.”
“Then go there,” she said. “Look him in the eyes and ask him.”
“Samuels is apt to rip me a new one if he finds out,” Ralph said.
“I don’t care about Bill Samuels, but I care about our son. And I know you do, too. Do it for him, Ralph. For Derek.”
19
It turned out that Arlene Peterson did have burial insurance, so that was all right. Ollie found the pertinent papers in the bottom drawer of her little desk, in a folder between MORTGAGE AGREEMENT （said mortgage now almost paid off） and APPLIANCE WARRANTIES. He called the funeral parlor, where a man with the soft voice of a professional mourner—maybe a Donelli brother, maybe not—thanked him and told him that “your mother has arrived.” As if she’d gotten there on her own, maybe in an Uber. The professional mourner asked if Ollie needed an obituary form for the newspaper. Ollie said no. He was looking at two blank forms right there on the desk. His mother—careful, even in her grief—must have made photocopies of the one she’d gotten for Frank, in case she made a mistake. So that was all right, too. Would he want to come in tomorrow and make arrangements for the funeral and the burial? Ollie said he didn’t think so. He thought his father should be the one to do that.