Detective Anderson: You’re sure it was Frank Peterson you saw?
Stanhope: Oh yes, it was Frank. Poor boy, I’m so sorry about what happened to him, but he’s in heaven now, and his pain is over. That’s the consolation. There are two Peterson boys, you know, both redheads, that awful carroty red, but the older one—Oliver, that’s his name—is at least five years older. He used to deliver our newspaper. Frank has a bicycle, one of those that have the high handlebars and the narrow seat—
Detective Anderson: A banana seat, it’s called.
Stanhope: I don’t know about that, but I know it was bright lime green, an awful color, really, and there was a sticker on the seat. It said Flint City High. Only he’ll never go to high school, will he? Poor, poor boy.
Detective Anderson: Mrs. Stanhope, would you like a short break?
Stanhope: No, I want to finish. I need to go home and feed my cat. I always feed her at three, and she’ll be hungry. She’ll also wonder where I am. But if I could have a tissue? I’m sure I’m a mess. Thank you.
Detective Anderson: You could see the sticker on the seat of Frank Peterson’s bicycle because—?
Stanhope: Oh, because he wasn’t on it. He was walking it across the Gerald’s parking lot. The chain was broken, and dragging on the pavement.
Detective Anderson: Did you notice what he was wearing?
Stanhope: A tee-shirt with some rock and roll band on it. I don’t know bands, so I can’t say which one it was. If that’s important, I’m sorry. And he was wearing a Rangers cap. It was pushed back on his head, and I could see all that red hair. Those carrot-tops usually go bald very early in life, you know. He’ll never have to worry about that now, will he? Oh, it’s just so sad. Anyway, there was a dirty white van parked at the far end of the lot, and a man got out and came over to Frank. He was—
Detective Anderson: We’ll get to that, but first I want to hear about the van. This was the kind with no windows?
Stanhope: Yes.
Detective Anderson: With no writing on it? No company name, or anything of that nature?
Stanhope: Not that I saw.
Detective Anderson: Okay, let’s talk about the man you saw. Did you recognize him, Mrs. Stanhope?
Stanhope: Oh, of course. It was Terry Maitland. Everyone on the West Side knows Coach T. They call him that even at the high school. He teaches English there, you know. My husband taught with him before he retired. They call him Coach T because he coaches Little League, and the City League baseball team when Little League is done, and in the fall he coaches little boys who like to play football. They have a name for that league, too, but I don’t remember it.
Detective Anderson: If we could get back to what you saw on Tuesday afternoon—
Stanhope: There’s not much more to tell. Frank talked to Coach T, and pointed at his broken chain. Coach T nodded and opened the back of the white van, which couldn’t have been his—
Detective Anderson: Why do you say that, Mrs. Stanhope?
Stanhope: Because it had an orange license plate. I don’t know which state that would be, my long vision isn’t what it used to be, but I know Oklahoma plates are blue and white. Anyway, I couldn’t see anything in the back of the van except for a long green thing that looked like a toolbox. Was it a toolbox, Detective?
Detective Anderson: What happened then?
Stanhope: Well, Coach T put Frank’s bicycle in the back and shut the doors. He clapped Frank on the back. Then he went around to the driver’s side and Frank went around to the passenger side. They both got in, and the van drove away, onto Mulberry Avenue. I thought Coach T was going to drive the lad home. Of course I did. What else would I think? Terry Maitland has lived on the West Side for going on twenty years, he has a very nice family, a wife and two daughters . . . could I have another tissue, please? Thank you. Are we almost done?
Detective Anderson: Yes, and you’ve been very helpful. I believe that before I started to record, you said this was around three o’clock?
Stanhope: Exactly three. I heard the bell in the Town Hall clock chiming the hour just as I came out with my little cart. I wanted to go home and feed my cat.
Detective Anderson: The boy you saw, the redheaded boy, was Frank Peterson.
Stanhope: Yes. The Petersons live right around the corner. Ollie used to deliver my newspaper. I see those boys all the time.
Detective Anderson: And the man, the one who put the bike in the back of the white van and drove away with Frank Peterson, that was Terence Maitland, also known as Coach Terry or Coach T.
Stanhope: Yes.
Detective Anderson: You’re sure of that.
Stanhope: Oh, yes.
Detective Anderson: Thank you, Mrs. Stanhope.
Stanhope: Who could believe Terry would do such a thing? Do you suppose there have been others?
Detective Anderson: We may find that out in the course of our investigation.
5
Since all City League tournament games were played at Estelle Barga Field—the best baseball field in the county, and the only one with lights for night games—home team advantage was decided by a coin toss. Terry Maitland called tails before the game, as he always did—it was a superstition handed down from his own City League coach, back in the day—and tails it was. “I don’t care where we’re playing, I just like to get my lasties,” he always told his boys.
And tonight he needed them. It was the bottom of the ninth, the Bears were up in this league semifinal by a single run. The Golden Dragons were down to their last out, but they had the bases loaded. A walk, a wild pitch, an error, or an infield single would tie it, a ball hit into the gap would win it. The crowd was clapping, stamping the metal bleachers, and cheering as little Trevor Michaels stepped into the lefthand batter’s box. His batting helmet was the smallest one they had, but it still shaded his eyes and he had to keep pushing it up. He twitched his bat nervously back and forth.
Terry had considered pinch-hitting for the boy, but at just an inch over five feet, he drew a lot of walks. And while he was no home run hitter, he was sometimes able to put the bat on the ball. Not often, but sometimes. If Terry lifted him for a pinch hitter, the poor kid would have to live with the humiliation through the whole next year of middle school. If, on the other hand, he managed a single, he would recall it over beers and backyard barbecues for the rest of his life. Terry knew. He’d been there himself, once upon a time, in the antique era before the game was played with aluminum bats.
The Bears pitcher—their closer, a real fireballer—wound up and threw one right down the heart of the plate. Trevor watched it go by with an expression of dismay. The umpire called strike one. The crowd groaned.
Gavin Frick, Terry’s assistant coach, paced up and down in front of the boys on the bench, the scorebook rolled up in one hand (how many times had Terry asked him not to do that?), and his XXL Golden Dragons tee-shirt straining over his belly, which was XXXL at least. “I hope letting Trevor bat for himself wasn’t a mistake, Ter,” he said. Sweat was trickling down his cheeks. “He looks scared to death, and I don’t b’lieve he could hit that kid’s speedball with a tennis racket.”
“Let’s see what happens,” Terry said. “I’ve got a good feeling about this.” He didn’t, not really.
The Bears pitcher wound up and released another burner, but this one landed in the dirt in front of home plate. The crowd rose to its feet as Baibir Patel, the Dragons’ tying run at third, jinked a few steps down the line. They settled back with a groan as the ball bounced into the catcher’s mitt. The Bears catcher turned to third, and Terry could read his expression, even through the mask: Just try it, homeboy. Baibir didn’t.
The next pitch was wide, but Trevor flailed at it, anyway.