Privileged to Kill pc-5

by Steven F Havill

  Crocker hobbled just far enough to reach the first set of bookshelves, where the multivolume set of New Mexico statutes gathered dust. “You know, a man can learn a lot of history just through readin’ the laws,” he said.

  “Sure. Given enough free time.”

  He moved slowly along the east wall bookcase, from statutes to natural history to Grant’s memoirs and the rest of my Civil War collection. He turned and grinned at me, nodding. “I guess I could just kinda sit here and read for a bit,” he said.

  “Make yourself at home. I come and go at all hours, so don’t wait on me for anything. You want some coffee?”

  “Why, that would be fine,” he said absently, but I could see he was lost in the book titles again.

  As I put the grounds in the filter and filled the pot, I watched him inch along the shelves, now and then stopping to pull a volume toward himself a quarter of an inch. He hesitated in the Civil War section.

  “That book on Joshua Chamberlain is particularly good,” I said as I walked back into the living room and grunted into my leather chair.

  Crocker frowned. “I’d like to look at that,” he said. “It always surprised me that he lived to be such an old man after being so terribly hurt in the war.” He said it quietly, just as an observation in passing, not to impress me. But I was impressed.

  I tented my hands and waited until he moved another couple feet into the section of Revolutionary War and War of 1812 books. In order to reach those, he had to step past a collection of family photographs. I saw his brow furrow.

  “Did your wife pass on?”

  “Yes.”

  He nodded as if that was all he needed to know, which indeed it was.

  “You have a passion for military history,” Crocker observed.

  “I’ve always believed that our wars define us,” I answered. “And that’s not an original observation by any means. But let me ask you a question, Mr. Crocker.” He turned with one hand still resting on the shelving. “How is it that a man who has spent his life traveling, observing, learning”-I paused, my hands still in front of my mouth-“and remembering…How is it that you can spend so long doing that, and when it comes to suspicious, maybe violent, activity within one hundred yards of you, you see nothing?”

  Crocker dropped his hand to his crutch and stood quietly, eyebrows knit.

  “And how is it that you can walk down a quiet street,” I continued, “and not see the single vehicle that struck you? Not see it either coming or going. Now how is that? Someone who can see the faint wagon rut traces of Bennett’s Road from a mile away doesn’t notice whether it’s an automobile, a pickup truck, or a tractor trailer that hits him. How is that?”

  I hooked my hands behind my head and let the leather recliner cradle me. Crocker looked back at the books, but I knew I was right. He sure as hell wasn’t thinking about the War of 1812.

  29

  “You know, in thirty years I ain’t done anything illegal, except maybe a little trespass now and then.” Crocker leaned against the oak fascia of the bookcases and looked down at the floor. I kept quiet. “Nothing would please me more than you folks finding out who murdered that little girl.”

  “A small point,” I said. “She wasn’t murdered.”

  Crocker looked at me blankly. “I thought that’s what everyone was thinking.”

  “Only in the beginning. But the autopsy shows that she choked to death. A piece of pizza crust with a big gob of cheese and pepperoni.”

  “My Lord,” Crocker whispered. “And then somebody just dumped her there under those bleachers?”

  “It appears so. It would be a hell of a dismal place to have a picnic.”

  “Now who would go and do a thing like that?”

  “That’s what we want to know, Mr. Crocker. And I think you know more than you’re telling us.”

  He stepped away from the bookcase, holding himself on his crutches. “Now this is the God’s honest truth, Sheriff. I camped under those trees, and sure enough I noticed there were two vehicles parked behind the high school, there. I could even hear a voice now and then, but I couldn’t make out what was bein’ said. That’s a dark place, and the only thing I could see was taillights. I couldn’t tell you what those lights belonged to, car or truck.”

  “And no one opened a door while you were looking?”

  “No, sir. At least, if they did, no inside light came on.”

  “And you didn’t see one or both of the vehicles go over toward the bleachers?”

  “No, sir. And that’s the God’s honest truth.”

  “What about later, when you got hit?”

  After just a couple heartbeats’ hesitation, Crocker said, “That was a Ford pickup truck.”

  “Color?”

  “If I had to say…” He paused and frowned. “Real dark color. Maybe blue, or brown, or black, or dark green. Something like that.”

  “Just one color?”

  “Far as I saw.” He bit his lip, sheepish.

  “How did you know what make it was?”

  This time, Crocker smiled. “Because it said so in great big letters on the tailgate, sir.”

  “That’s always a sure giveaway,” I replied and pushed myself out of my chair. “Coffee?” Crocker nodded. “Take anything in it?” He shook his head. A couple minutes later, when I handed him the cup, I asked, “So tell me, why didn’t you tell us this twenty-four hours ago?”

  Crocker set the coffee cup down and lowered himself into one of the other leather chairs. “Well, sir, I just got to thinking. I didn’t figure I was hurt bad, and I thought I could fix up the bike or get another one easy enough. But if I said anything, then I’d get all tied up with the law somehow. Hit-and-run is pretty serious business, ain’t it?”

  “A felony.”

  “See there? And I got to thinking about me having to testify and all that…and if the driver got himself a good lawyer, then there’d be delays. My soul, I could end up here in this fair little town for a year. Maybe longer.”

  “And that’s surely a fate worse than death,” I said. “Did you see the driver? You said if the driver got himself…”

  Crocker shook his head quickly. “No, I didn’t see who it was. That was just a manner of speakin’. But I think there was two in that truck. As they drove away and turned up that street on the other side of the park, I could see what I thought was two heads, there, silhouetted by the streetlights.”

  “They went up past the park?”

  “Yes, sir. Turned at that first left and went up that way.”

  “Is there anything else about the truck you remember?”

  Crocker sipped coffee and closed his eyes. Finally he said, “No, sir.”

  “Couldn’t see a grille guard, or lights out, or anything like that?” He shook his head, but he was still frowning. “What else?” I prompted.

  “Well, now, sir, I couldn’t swear to this, so I hate to say it.”

  “Say it anyway.”

  “Well, it seems to me that I saw the truck earlier in the afternoon, when I was ridin’ back into town from the north, there.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Well, that’s all there is to tell. I was ridin’ back into town, ridin’ on that county road that comes in from the north.”

  “Forty-three.”

  “That’s the one. Goes on out of town and up the mesa past the village dump. That truck came out of town, passed me by, and then went on up the road a quarter of a mile or so, and turned around. They drove back and passed me kinda fast. Didn’t seem like they give me much room, neither.”

  “And you think that truck was the same one that hit you?”

  “I think it was. Like I say, I wouldn’t swear to it. But I think so.”

  “And you didn’t see any distinguishing features then, either?”

  “None that I noticed. Just looked like a common truck to me.”

  “And you didn’t notice who was in it?”

  “No. But I think there was maybe
just the one person driving. That’s the way I remember it.”

  “What time was all this?”

  “Oh, I suppose just about sundown. I was just startin’ to think it was a good time to get off the road. Maybe find myself something to eat.”

  “Huh,” I said and gazed into my coffee.

  “You’re thinkin’ that there’s some connection between that little girl dying and that truck, is what I see in your face.”

  “We don’t know that yet. We have two isolated incidents, and the only common factor to both of them is you…maybe.” I looked at Crocker, unblinking. He didn’t know what to say and settled for a helpless shrug.

  “What I’ve told you is all I know, sir. God’s honest truth.”

  Estelle Reyes-Guzman’s light, rapid knock on the front door startled me, and she opened it and stepped into the foyer before I could pry myself vertical. I waved her into my den, leaving Wesley Crocker in the living room to wonder by himself what we were up to.

  “I should have known to look here before,” Estelle said by way of greeting, and she laid her briefcase on my desk and snapped open the locks.

  “Look where?”

  She opened the briefcase and pulled out the blue notebook that we had found among Maria Ibarra’s few belongings in the truck. She laid her hand flat on the cover and looked at me. “Kids write notes and all kinds of things in their notebooks,” she said.

  “Sure,” I said.

  With one fingernail, she flipped the notebook open. On the inside cover, in tiny, neat script, was Maria Ibarra’s schedule-all eight periods, including the names of the teachers. Below that were three numbers: 39-17-50. I tapped them with my finger. “Her locker combination?”

  “Yes. And her locker is basically empty. A few books, is all. Nothing else. This first section is her math, and you can see that she kept each day’s problem set, or sets, in order. The math teacher checks them right in the notebook, so she didn’t have to tear them out. She did problem set 19 on October 2. That’s probably either the day she arrived, or the day after.”

  “All right.

  “The next section in the notebook is history, and again, we can see how neat she was. It’s hard to tell from what little is there what kind of work she was doing, but it’s neat. The next section is language arts. Vocabulary words, reading assignments, things like that.”

  “Where is all this going?” I asked.

  “To the back cover, sir. We go past language arts, and the next section, her biology notes, are all on one page.”

  “If she didn’t speak much English, it’s hard to imagine her being able to do much in a science class,” I said. “They’re hard enough if you speak the language.”

  “Right. And then there is a section for her afternoon classes, including Spanish.” She didn’t tour all the pages, but rifled through quickly. “As we might expect, most of the notebook is still blank.” When she reached the back cover, she said, “And she’s so organized and fastidious that she keeps the inside covers clean. Most kids doodle all over the place.”

  “Maybe she wasn’t a doodler.”

  “She was, in the appropriate place.” Estelle backed up through several pages. “Actually, more of a graphics designer.” I looked at the drawing in front of me.

  “Huh,” I said. The ballpoint pen drawing was a thoroughly detailed three-dimensional rendering of a massive stone crucifix with rose vines twining around it. Each of the five rose blossoms was deeply shaded, somber flowers that would have been appropriate for any funeral. “Pretty good. You see that kind of thing on T-shirts and in the back windows of low-riders.”

  “And in many notebooks, I’m sure,” Estelle said and turned the page. “Along with this sort of thing, as well.” Scattered around the page, with other, smaller crosses here and there, were the ubiquitous badges of what teenage girls thought was important…the love matches.

  I’d seen them spray-painted on every highway underpass in Posadas, and on half of the blank back walls of businesses. Paco y Esmeralda, or Tiffany ’n Sammy, or Freddy loves Tomasita. They came in endless variations.

  In her notebook, Maria Ibarra had tried out only one combination of names, but in ten or twelve styles.

  In script varying from simple block to balloon to old English, the legend was always the same: MI y RH.

  “Maria Ibarra and Ryan House,” I said.

  “Or Maria Ibarra and Richard Hiliger,” Estelle added, “or Maria Ibarra and Richard Hernandez.”

  “You’re saying that those are all of the RH combinations at Posadas High School?”

  Estelle nodded. “Richard Hiliger is in the special education program for students with profound learning disabilities. He’s wheelchair restricted and needs help feeding himself.” Estelle grimaced. “Odds are good it isn’t him. Hernandez is a sophomore. Right now he’s on a week-long field trip with the FFA program to Kansas City. The high school principal knows him well, since he’s always on the top honors list. Archer’s comment was that if Hernandez got within five feet of a girl, he’d probably dissolve with fright.”

  “That too shall pass,” I said. “But it’s more interesting to think that ‘RH’ means Ryan House. And if it’s House, then we’ve got a good reason for a pickup truck with Ryan House in it to be interested in Wesley Crocker.”

  I stepped away from the desk and toed the door of my den closed. “If Ryan House was somehow involved with the Ibarra girl’s death, and if he thought that Wesley Crocker had seen them…or had even caught a glimpse of their vehicle in the dark…”

  “Maybe, sir.”

  “Let’s say that Ryan House was riding in the truck driven by Dennis Wilton when it hit Crocker. Why, exactly, we don’t know. They go home and panic, seeing the bent grille guard. So, being the clever souls that they are, they take off the damaged guard, clean up the truck, and take off to the game for cover.”

  Estelle nodded, but said nothing. I continued, “Impact with that boulder did a pretty thorough job of erasing evidence of the collision. In most people’s minds, entirely adequate, unless you look really close.” I stopped and frowned. “No one would take that kind of risk,” I said when the silence began to thicken.

  My stomach growled, but I ignored it. Estelle reached into her briefcase and pulled out a small manila envelope. She produced three finger print cards and laid them side by side on the desk. One set was so clear it looked like it had been rolled at the office. The other was smeared and appeared to be only the bottom portion, across the lower third of the finger pad. The third was a print taken at the autopsy for Ryan House.

  “This one,” Estelle said, and indicated the complete print on the first card, “is from a drinking glass used by Dennis Wilton at the hospital earlier today. It matches ten for ten with prints on file when the Wiltons applied for passports two years ago when they went to England. This one I lifted from the seatbelt buckle of the crash truck this morning.”

  “It’s not very clear.”

  “No, it’s not. But if you look in this area,” and she pointed with a pencil while she handed me a magnifying glass at the same time, “you’ll see enough similarities that you could imagine a match. Maybe one and a half, maybe two out of ten.”

  I bent and studied the prints. “I’d like to see this under a stereo,” I said.

  “That doesn’t help much, but some.”

  I stood up with a grunt. “And so what. It’s the kid’s own truck. You’d expect to see his prints all over it.”

  “This was taken from the passenger side seatbelt buckle, sir.” She indicated a point beside her left hip. “The lock side.”

  “So?”

  “This is a thumbprint, sir. It’s just about impossible to press the release of your own belt with your thumb. On either side, you’d do it with your index finger. Unless you were releasing the other person’s belt. If he reached across to unsnap the passenger’s buckle, he’d use his thumb, no matter which hand he used. If he reached across with his left hand”-and Estelle did
so-“he’d use his thumb. If he reached down with his right hand, he’d use his right thumb.”

  I sat down on the edge of my desk and crossed my arms over my belly, regarding Estelle skeptically. “What would be the point?”

  “The point, sir, would be to kill Ryan House.”

  30

  Estelle Reyes-Guzman sat quietly while I mulled over that bombshell. Finally I said, “Do you have some reason to suggest that Dennis Wilton may have wanted to murder his best friend?”

  “He’d have to be halfway suicidal to go about it like that, anyway. There are a thousand and one ways something could go wrong.”

  “That’s true, sir. And I’ve been thinking a lot about that in the past few hours. The crash of that pickup truck into that rock is interesting in all kinds of ways. It’s an interesting set of circumstances. First, it appears that the truck was aimed at the rock, from the beginning. It never swerved, even after tearing through a fence.”

  She stopped and looked at me, left eyebrow raised while I digested that information. “I’ve never tried it, sir, but I would think it would actually take some work to keep a vehicle going on track while it bumped and banged across a rough shoulder, through a fence, and then another hundred feet to the target.”

  I shook my head skeptically. “We’ve both been to a number of accidents where the driver apparently just froze at the wheel, Estelle. That’s almost as common as jerking the wheel and causing a rollover.”

  “Maybe. But in this case, it’s interesting that the impact was entirely on the passenger’s side.”

  “That’s not hard to imagine, if you remember how the boulder was located, Estelle.”

  She shook her head doggedly. “Second, the driver had the advantage of both an airbag and a shoulder harness-seatbelt combination. The passenger had neither. Third, the truck was traveling at a reasonable rate of speed. Plenty fast to be lethal without protection, but a pretty good gamble with protection, if the driver was the gambling sort.”

  I shook my head. “Be reasonable, Estelle. There are lots of ways to murder people. I don’t think driving head-on into a boulder is high on the list.”