Detective Anderson: I do, but I need you to say it for the record, Mr. Ritz.
Ritz: He was on his stomach, and the branch was sticking out of his bottom. That was bloody, too. The branch. Part of the bark was stripped, and there was a handprint. I saw that clear as day. Dave wasn’t barking anymore, he was howling, poor thing, and I just don’t know who would do something like that. He must have been a maniac. Will you catch him, Detective Anderson?
Detective Anderson: Oh, yes. We’ll catch him.
3
The Estelle Barga parking lot was almost as big as the one at the Kroger’s where Ralph Anderson and his wife shopped on Saturday afternoons, and on this July evening it was totally filled. Many of the bumpers bore Golden Dragons stickers, and a few rear windows had been soaped with exuberant slogans: WE WILL ROCK YOU; DRAGONS WILL BURN BEARS; CAP CITY HERE WE COME; THIS YEAR IT’S OUR TURN. From the field, where the lights had been turned on (although it would be daylight for quite a while yet), there arose cheering and rhythmic clapping.
Troy Ramage, a twenty-year veteran, was behind the wheel of the unmarked. As he cruised up one packed row and down another, he said, “Whenever I come here, I always wonder who the hell Estelle Barga was, anyway.”
Ralph made no reply. His muscles were tight, his skin was hot, and his pulse felt like it was red-lining. He had arrested plenty of bad doers over the years, but this was different. This was particularly awful. And personal. That was the worst: it was personal. He had no business being part of the arrest, and knew it, but following the last round of budget cuts, there were only three full-time detectives on the Flint City police force’s roster. Jack Hoskins was on vacation, fishing somewhere in the back of beyond, and good riddance. Betsy Riggins, who should have been on maternity leave, would be assisting the State Police with another aspect of this evening’s work.
He hoped to God they weren’t going too fast. He had expressed that worry to Bill Samuels, the Flint County district attorney, just that afternoon, in their pre-arrest conference. Samuels was a little young for the post, just thirty-five, but he belonged to the right political party, and he was sure of himself. Not cocksure, there was that, but undoubtedly gung-ho.
“There are still some rough edges I’d like to smooth out,” Ralph said. “We don’t have all the background. Plus, he’s going to say he has an alibi. Unless he just gives it up, we can be sure of that.”
“If he does,” Samuels had replied, “we’ll knock it down. You know we will.”
Ralph had no doubt of it, he knew they had the right man, but he still would have preferred a little more investigation before pulling the trigger. Find the holes in the sonofabitch’s alibi, punch them wider, wide enough to drive a truck through, then bring him in. In most cases that would have been the correct procedure. Not in this one.
“Three things,” Samuels had said. “Are you ready for them?”
Ralph nodded. He had to work with this man, after all.
“One, people in this town, particularly the parents of small children, are terrified and angry. They want a quick arrest so they can feel safe again. Two, the evidence is beyond doubt. I’ve never seen a case so ironclad. Are you with me on that?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, here’s number three. The big one.” Samuels had leaned forward. “We can’t say he’s done it before—although if he has, we’ll probably find out once we really start digging—but he sure as hell has done it now. Broken loose. Busted his cherry. And once that happens…”
“He could do it again,” Ralph finished.
“Right. Not the likeliest scenario so soon after Peterson, but possible. He’s with kids all the time, for Christ’s sake. Young boys. If he killed one of them, never mind losing our jobs, we’d never forgive ourselves.”
Ralph was already having problems forgiving himself for not seeing it sooner. That was irrational, you couldn’t look into a man’s eyes at a backyard barbecue following the conclusion of the Little League season and know he was contemplating an unspeakable act—stroking it and feeding it and watching it grow—but the irrationality didn’t change the way he felt.
Now, leaning forward to point between the two cops in the front seat, Ralph said, “Over there. Try the handicap spaces.”
From the shotgun seat, Officer Tom Yates said, “Two-hundred-dollar fine for that, boss.”
“I think we’ll get a pass this time,” Ralph said.
“I was joking.”
Ralph, in no mood for cop repartee, made no reply.
“Crip spaces ahoy,” Ramage said. “And I see two empties.”
He pulled into one of them, and the three men got out. Ralph saw Yates unsnap the strap over the butt of his Glock and shook his head. “Are you out of your mind? There’s got to be fifteen hundred people at that game.”
“What if he runs?”
“Then you’ll catch him.”
Ralph leaned against the hood of the unmarked and watched as the two Flint City officers started toward the field, the lights, and the crammed bleachers, where the clapping and the cheering were still rising in volume and intensity. Arresting Peterson’s killer fast had been a call he and Samuels had made together (however reluctantly). Arresting him at the game had been strictly Ralph’s decision.
Ramage looked back. “Coming?”
“I am not. You do the deed, and read him his rights nice and goddam loud, then bring him here. Tom, when we roll, you’re going to ride in back with him. I’ll be up front with Troy. Bill Samuels is waiting for my call, and he’ll be at the station to meet us. This one’s A-Team all the way. As for the collar, it’s all yours.”
“But it’s your case,” Yates said. “Why wouldn’t you want to be the one to bust the motherfucker?”
Still with his arms crossed, Ralph said, “Because the man who raped Frankie Peterson with a tree branch and tore open his throat coached my son for four years, two in Peewee and two in Little League. He had his hands on my son, showing him how to hold a bat, and I don’t trust myself.”
“Got it, got it,” Troy Ramage said. He and Yates started toward the field.
“And listen, you two.”
They turned back.
“Cuff him right there. And cuff him in front.”
“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.