In the same rolling tones, like a town crier belting out the week’s big news in a New England town square, Troy Ramage continued. Ralph Anderson could hear him from where he stood leaning against the unmarked unit. He was doing a good job, was Troy. It was ugly, and Ralph supposed he might be reprimanded for it, but he would not be reprimanded by Frankie Peterson’s parents. No, not by them.

“If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided to you before any questioning, if you desire. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Terry said. “I understand something else, too.” He turned to the crowd. “I have no idea why I’m being arrested! Gavin Frick will finish coaching the game!” And then, as an afterthought: “Baibir, get back to third, and remember to run in foul territory.”

There was a smatter of applause, but only a smatter. The leather-lung in the bleachers yelled again, “What’d you say he did?” And the crowd responding to the question, muttering the two words that would soon be all over the West Side and the rest of the city: Frank Peterson’s name.

Yates grabbed Terry by the arm and started hustling him toward the snack shack and the parking lot beyond. “You can preach to the multitudes later, Maitland. Right now you’re going to jail. And guess what? We have the needle in this state, and we use it. But you’re a teacher, right? You probably knew that.”

They hadn’t gotten twenty steps from the makeshift dugout before Marcy Maitland caught up and grabbed Tom Yates’s arm. “What in God’s name do you think you’re doing?”

Yates shrugged her off, and when she tried to grasp her husband’s arm, Troy Ramage pushed her away, gently but firmly. She stood where she was for a moment, dazed, then saw Ralph Anderson walking to meet his arresting officers. She knew him from Little League, when Derek Anderson had played for Terry’s team, the Gerald’s Fine Groceries Lions. Ralph hadn’t been able to come to all the games, of course, but he came to as many as possible. Back then he’d still been in uniform; Terry had sent him a congratulatory email when he was promoted to detective. Now she ran toward him, fleet over the grass in her old tennis shoes, which she always wore to Terry’s games, claiming there was good luck in them.

“Ralph!” she called. “What’s going on? This is a mistake!”

“I’m afraid it isn’t,” Ralph said.

This part he didn’t like, because he liked Marcy. On the other hand, he had always liked Terry, as well—the man had probably changed Derek’s life only a little, given the boy just a smatter of confidence-building, but when you were eleven years old, a little confidence was a big deal. And there was something else. Marcy might have known what her husband was, even if she didn’t allow herself to know on a conscious level. The Maitlands had been married a long time, and horrors like the Peterson boy’s murder simply did not come out of thin air. There was always a build-up to the act.

“You need to go home, Marcy. Right away. You may want to leave the girls with a friend, because there will be police waiting for you.”

She only looked at him, uncomprehending.

From behind them came the chink of an aluminum bat making good contact, although there were few cheers; those in attendance were still shocked, and more interested in what they’d just witnessed than the game before them. Which was sort of a shame. Trevor Michaels had just hit the ball harder than ever before in his life, harder even than when Coach T was throwing meatballs in practice. Unfortunately, it was a line drive straight to the Bears shortstop, who didn’t even have to jump to make the catch.

Game over.

6

Statement of June Morris [July 12th, 5:45 PM, interviewed by Detective Ralph Anderson, Mrs. Francine Morris in attendance]

Detective Anderson: Thank you for bringing your daughter down to the station, Mrs. Morris. June, how’s that soda?

June Morris: It’s good. Am I in trouble?

Detective Anderson: Not at all. I just want to ask you a couple of questions about what you saw two evenings ago.

June Morris: When I saw Coach Terry?

Detective Anderson: That’s right, when you saw Coach Terry.

Francine Morris: Since she turned nine, we’ve let her go down the street by herself to see her friend Helen. As long as it’s daylight. We don’t believe in being helicopter parents. I won’t after this, you can be sure of that.

Detective Anderson: You saw him after you had your supper, June? Is that right?

June Morris: Yes. We had meatloaf. Last night we had fish. I don’t like fish, but that’s how it goes.

Francine Morris: She doesn’t have to cross the street, or anything. We thought it would be okay, since we live in such a good neighborhood. At least I thought we did.

Detective Anderson: It’s always hard to know when to start giving them responsibilities. Now June—you went down the street, and that took you right past the Figgis Park parking lot, is that right?

June Morris: Yes. Me and Helen—

Francine Morris: Helen and I—

June Morris: Helen and I were going to finish our map of South America. It’s for our day camp project. We use different colors for the different countries, and we were mostly done, but we forgot Paraguay, so we were going to start all over again. That’s also how it goes. After that we were going to play Angry Birds and Corgi Hop on Helen’s iPad until my daddy came to walk me home. Because by then it might be getting dark.

Detective Anderson: This would have been at what time, Mom?

Francine Morris: The local news was on when Junie left. Norm was watching while I did the dishes. So, between six and six thirty. Probably quarter past, because I think the weather was on.

Detective Anderson: Tell me what you saw when you were walking past the parking lot, June.

June Morris: Coach Terry, I told you. He lives up the street, and once when our dog got lost, Coach T brought him back. Sometimes I play with Gracie Maitland, but not too much. She’s a year older, and likes boys. He was all bloody. Because of his nose.

Detective Anderson: Uh-huh. What was he doing when you saw him?

June Morris: He came out of the trees. He saw me looking at him and waved. I waved back and said, “Hey, Coach Terry, what happened to you?” and he said a branch hit him in the face. He said, “Don’t be scared, it’s just a bloody nose, I get them all the time.” And I said, “I’m not scared, but you won’t be able to wear that shirt anymore, because blood doesn’t come out, that’s what my mom says.” He smiled and said, “Good thing I’ve got lots of shirts.” But it was on his pants, too. Also on his hands.

Francine Morris: She was that close to him. I can’t stop thinking about it.

June Morris: Why, because he had a bloody nose? Rolf Jacobs got one on the playground last year when he fell down, and it didn’t scare me. I was going to give him my handkerchief, but Mrs. Grisha took him to the nurse’s office before I could.

Detective Anderson: How close were you?

June Morris: Gee, I don’t know. He was in the parking lot and I was on the sidewalk. How far is that?

Detective Anderson: I don’t know, either, but I’m sure I’ll find out. Is that soda good?

June Morris: You already asked me that.

Detective Anderson: Oh, right, so I did.