Scowcroft: I know. And I’ll help all I can. There’s just, I don’t have much to tell you, and I want to get home. I don’t know how well I’ll sleep, though. I haven’t been in this station since a drinking party I went to when I was seventeen. Charlie Borton was chief then. Our fathers got us out, but I was grounded for the whole summer.

Detective Anderson: Well, we appreciate you coming in. Tell me where were you at seven PM on the night of July 10th.

Scowcroft: Like I told the gal at the desk when I came in, I was at Shorty’s Pub, and I seen that white van, and I seen the guy who coaches baseball and Pop Warner over on West Side. I don’t remember his name, but his picture’s in the paper all the time because he’s got a good City League team this year. Paper said they might go all the way. Moreland, is that his name? He had blood all over him.

Detective Anderson: How was it you happened to see him?

Scowcroft: Well, I got a routine for when I clock off work, not having a wife to go home to and not being much of a chef myself, if you know what I mean. Mondays and Wednesdays, it’s the Flint City Diner. Fridays I go to Bonanza Steakhouse. And on Tuesdays and Thursdays, I usually go to Shorty’s for a plate of ribs and a beer. That Tuesday I got to Shorty’s at, oh, I’m gonna say quarter past six. Kid was already long dead by then, wasn’t he?

Detective Anderson: But at around seven, you were out back, correct? Behind Shorty’s Pub.

Scowcroft: Yeah, me and Riley Franklin. I ran into him there, and we ate together. Out back, that’s where people go to smoke. Down the hall between the restrooms and out the back door. There’s an ash bucket and everything. So we ate—I had the ribs, he had the mac and cheese—and we ordered dessert, and went out back to have a smoke before it came. While we were standing there, shooting the shit, this dirty white van pulled in. Had a New York plate on it, I remember that. It parked beside a little Subaru wagon—I think it was a Subaru—and that guy got out. Moreland, or whatever his name is.

Detective Anderson: What was he wearing?

Scowcroft: Well, I’m not sure about the pants—Riley might remember, they could’ve been chinos—but the shirt was white. I remember that because there was blood down the front of it, quite a bit. Not so much on the pants, just some spatters. There was blood on his face, too. Under his nose, around his mouth, on his chin. Man, he was gory. So Riley—I think he must have had a couple of beers before I showed up, but I only had the one—Riley says, “How’s the other guy look, Coach T?”

Detective Anderson: He called him Coach T.

Scowcroft: Sure. And the coach, he laughs and says, “There was no other guy. Something let go in my nose, that’s all, and it went like Old Faithful. Is there a doc-in-the-box anywhere around here?”

Detective Anderson: Which you took to mean a walk-in facility, like MedNOW or Quick Care?

Scowcroft: That’s what he meant, all right, because he wanted to see if he needed it cauterized up there inside. Ouch, huh? Said he had it happen to him once before. I told him to go down Burrfield about a mile, turn left at the second light, and he’d see a sign. You know that billboard by Coney Ford? It tells you about how long you’ll have to wait and everything. Then he asked if he could leave his van in that little parking area behind the pub, which is not for customers—as the sign on the back of the building says—but for employees. And I said, “It’s not my lot, but if you don’t leave it too long, it should be all right.” Then he says—and it struck both of us as weird, times being what they are—that he’d leave the keys in the cup holder in case somebody had to move it. Riley said, “That’s a good way to get it stoled, Coach T.” But he said again that he wouldn’t be long, and about how someone might want to move it. You know what I think? I think maybe he wanted someone to steal it, maybe even me or Riley. You think that could be, Detective?

Detective Anderson: What happened then?

Scowcroft: He got into that little green Subaru, and off he went. Which also struck me as weird.

Detective Anderson: What was weird about it?

Scowcroft: He asked if he could leave his van for a little while—like he thought it might get towed, or something—but his car was there all along, safe and sound. Weird, right?

Detective Anderson: Mr. Scowcroft, I’m going to put six photographs of six different men down in front of you, and I want you to pick out the man you saw behind Shorty’s. They all look similar, so I want you to take your time. Can you do that for me?

Scowcroft: Sure, but I don’t need to take my time. That’s him right there. Moreland, or whatever his name is. Can I go home now?

9

No one in the unmarked said anything else until they turned into the police station lot and parked in one of the spaces marked OFFICIAL VEHICLES ONLY. Then Ralph turned to survey the man who had coached his son. Terry Maitland’s Dragons cap had been knocked slightly askew, so it sat in a kind of gangsta twist. His Dragons tee-shirt had come untucked on one side, and his face was streaked with sweat. In that moment he looked guilty as hell. Except, maybe, for his eyes, which met Ralph’s dead-on. They were wide and silently accusing.

Ralph had a question that couldn’t wait. “Why him, Terry? Why Frankie Peterson? Was he on the Lions Little League team this year? Did you have your eye on him? Or was it just a crime of opportunity?”

Terry opened his mouth to reiterate his denial, but what was the point? Ralph wasn’t going to listen, at least not yet. None of them were. Better to wait. That was hard, but it might save time in the end.

“Go on,” Ralph said. He spoke softly, conversationally. “You wanted to talk before, so talk now. Tell me. Make me understand. Right here, before we even get out of this car.”

“I think I’ll wait for my lawyer,” Terry said.

“If you’re innocent,” Yates said, “you don’t need one. Put a pin in this, if you can. We’ll even give you a ride home.”

Still looking into Ralph Anderson’s eyes, Terry spoke almost too softly to hear. “This is bad behavior. You never even checked on where I might have been on Tuesday, did you? I wouldn’t have thought it of you.” He paused, as if thinking, then said: “You bastard.”

Ralph had no intention of telling Terry that he had discussed that with Samuels, but not for long. It was a small town. They hadn’t wanted to start asking questions that could get back to Maitland. “This was a rare case where we didn’t need to check.” Ralph opened his door. “Come on. Let’s get you booked and printed and photographed before your lawyer gets h—”

“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 . . .