“What about his history?”
“There’s plenty, but all stuff you’d expect—shopping sites like Amazon, news blogs like Huffington Post, half a dozen sports sites. He keeps track of the Major League standings, and he appears to be a fan of the Tampa Bay Rays. That alone suggests there’s something wrong with his head. He watches Ozark on Netflix, and The Americans on iTunes. I enjoy that one myself.”
“Keep digging.”
“It’s what they pay me for.”
Ralph parked in an OFFICIAL VEHICLES ONLY slot behind the county jail, took his on-duty card from the glove compartment, and put it on the dashboard. A corrections officer—L. KEENE, according to his name-tag—was waiting for him, and escorted him to one of the interview rooms. “This is irregular, Detective. It’s almost ten o’clock.”
“I’m aware of the time, and I’m not here for recreational purposes.”
“Does the DA know you’re here?”
“Above your pay grade, Officer Keene.”
Ralph sat down on one side of the table and waited to see if Terry would agree to make an appearance. No porn on Terry’s computers, and no stashes of porn in the house, at least that they had found so far. But, as Kinderman had pointed out, pedos could be clever.
How clever was it for him to show his face, though? And leave fingerprints?
He knew what Samuels would say: Terry was in a frenzy. Once （it seemed like a long time ago） this had made sense to Ralph.
Keene led Terry in. He was wearing county browns and cheap plastic flip-flops. His hands were cuffed in front of him.
“Take off the bracelets, Officer.”
Keene shook his head. “Protocol.”
“I’ll take responsibility.”
Keene smiled without humor. “No, Detective, you will not. This is my house, and if he decides to leap across the table and choke you, it’s on me. But tell you what, I won’t tether him to the cuff-bolt. How’s that?”
Terry smiled at this, as if to say You see what I have to deal with?
Ralph sighed. “You can leave us, Officer Keene. And thanks.”
Keene left, but he would be watching through the one-way glass. Probably listening, as well. This was going to get back to Samuels; there was simply no way around it.
Ralph looked at Terry. “Don’t just stand there. Sit down, for God’s sake.”
Terry sat and folded his hands on the table. The handcuff chain rattled. “Howie Gold wouldn’t approve of me meeting you.” He continued to smile as he said it.
“Samuels wouldn’t either, so we’re even.”
“What do you want?”
“Answers. If you’re innocent, why do I have half a dozen witnesses who’ve identified you? Why are your fingerprints on the branch used to sodomize that boy, and all over the van that was used to abduct him?”
Terry shook his head. The smile was gone. “I’m as mystified as you are. I just thank God, his only begotten son, and all the saints that I can prove I was in Cap City. What if I couldn’t, Ralph? I think we both know. I’d be in the death house up in McAlester before the end of summer, and two years from now I’d be riding the needle. Maybe sooner, because the courts are rigged to the right all the way to the top and your pal Samuels would plow over my appeals like a bulldozer over a kid’s sand castle.”
The first thing that rose to Ralph’s lips was he’s not my pal. What he said was, “The van interests me. The one with the New York plates.”
“Can’t help you there. The last time I was in New York was on my honeymoon, and that was sixteen years ago.”
It was Ralph’s turn to smile. “I didn’t know that, but I knew you hadn’t been there recently. We back-checked your movements over the last six months. Nothing but a trip to Ohio in April.”
“Yes, to Dayton. The girls’ spring vacation. I wanted to see my dad, and they wanted to go. Marcy did, too.”
“Your father lives in Dayton?”
“If you can call what he’s doing these days living. It’s a long story, and nothing to do with this. No sinister white vans involved, not even the family car. We flew Southwest. I don’t care how many of my fingerprints you found in the van that guy used to abduct Frank Peterson, I didn’t steal it. I’ve never even seen it. I don’t expect you to believe it, but it’s the truth.”
“Nobody thinks you stole the van in New York,” Ralph said. “Bill Samuels’s theory is that whoever did steal it dumped it somewhere in this vicinity, with the ignition key still in it. You re-stole it, and cached it somewhere until you were ready to . . . to do what you did.”