Privileged to Kill pc-5

by Steven F Havill

  And after twenty minutes of start and stop, we found the right spot on the tape recording and heard Chief Teddy Martinez ask, “Did the rifle belong to Rudy, ma’am?” His voice was soft and dripping with sympathy.

  “I don’t know,” Mrs. Davila said. “I think so. I guess so.”

  “Do you remember him buying it?” the chief asked.

  “No,” Mrs. Davila said, “but you know, he goes about his own business. He don’t listen to me. So, maybe. I don’t know. Maybe he got it, or traded for it, or something.”

  And at that point, Chief Martinez dropped the subject. The “or something” covered all the bases.

  I reached over and punched off the tape player. “So we go from a resounding ‘I don’t know’ on the tape to a written, sworn statement that has her saying the gun was Rudy’s. Outstanding.”

  “It won’t be hard to trace, sir,” Estelle said. “If Dennis Wilton purchased that rifle, or if it was purchased by someone else and given to him as a gift, then it won’t be hard to trace.”

  “What remains is to find out who actually pulled the trigger of the rifle,” I said. “Vanessa claims that she saw the Wilton kid slip out of her brother’s upstairs window shortly after the three shots.” I held up two fingers. “She says that number one, the rifle was Wilton’s. Number two, she says that he was there when the shooting occurred.”

  “That’s interesting,” Estelle mused.

  “What is?”

  She leaned over the table and tapped one of the folders. “There was no reason for Dennis Wilton to be friends with Rudy Davila. In fact, I’m willing to bet a week’s pay that he wasn’t, until his eighth-grade year. And if Dennis Wilton wasn’t in that same history class when Davila tried the pill trick, he would have been near by. He would have heard all the gory details from any number of kids before the morning was out. He latches onto a kid who’s teetering on the very edge. A self-destructive, violent kid who has nothing going for himself. Giving him that little extra push was easy. Wilton might even have pulled the trigger himself, figuring he’d get away with it.”

  “You’re talking about a manipulative, scheming monster, Estelle,” I said.

  “History is full of them,” she said. “Only I’d call him a psychotic opportunist.”

  I grimaced. “I’m no shrink, but I don’t know if I buy it. None of it explains the business with Ryan House.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. It might have been easy to strike up a friendship with Ryan House during their senior year. In a small school, there are endless opportunities. Also, remember that House had just broken up with his girlfriend of three years.”

  I frowned. “You’re saying that Wilton might have been planning something all along?”

  “No, sir. I don’t think so. At first, they might even have liked each other. Who knows? But it’s dirt common for one kid to talk another into doing things that he normally wouldn’t have considered. Maybe the date with Maria Ibarra was a bet, I don’t know. Maybe it was genuine curiosity on their parts. We’re tending to paint Ryan House lily white in all this, but maybe that’s not the way it went down. But when things went wrong, Dennis Wilton reacted in a predictable fashion, from what this evidence tells us.”

  “He was afraid Ryan House would start talking, so he killed him.”

  “Yes, sir. That’s what I think happened. And I think it was impulsive, when he saw that Ryan wasn’t going to go along.”

  I picked up a pencil and toyed with it for a minute. “It would have been thoughtful of Vanessa Davila if she had spoken up earlier about seeing Wilton coming out of her brother’s bedroom window.”

  “I suspect she was grateful to him,” Estelle said, and I looked up sharply.

  “Grateful?”

  “Yes, sir. I suspect that her relationship with her brother was a carbon copy of what she went through with her father before he left home.”

  “We don’t know that.”

  “No,” Estelle said and took a deep breath. “But I can guess. The signs are there.”

  “And the rage this time? She steals a gun and sets out to ravenge a friend? Maria?”

  Estelle nodded. “It’ll take a while to put a profile together, but I’ll bet the election that you’ll find the two were inseparable, Maria and Vanessa. For once, Vanessa had a pal whose life was more miserable than her own.”

  “Kindred spirits,” I said. “Misery loves company.” I smiled. “And I won’t bet.”

  “I’d like to have three pieces of evidence before we make a move, sir.”

  “The gun?”

  She nodded. “If we can substantiate Vanessa’s story by finding the origin of the rifle that killed her brother, that’s one step. After four years, the rest of that story is just her word against Dennis Wilton’s.”

  “And?”

  “I want the grille guard from Wilton’s truck. That would tie him to the attempt on Crocker’s life. I think he feels that Crocker might have seen something, anything.”

  “And you think Wilton saw Crocker walking along an empty street and took his chance.”

  Estelle frowned. “He’s an opportunist, sir. I have no trouble imagining that Ryan House was beginning to panic after the girl’s death Thursday night. Some time Friday afternoon, the Wilton kid sees Crocker walking, but it’s daylight. He can’t do anything. Later, when the two boys are together and maybe trying to decide what to do, maybe talking about Crocker and trying to guess what he saw and what he told police, they see him again, walking along Bustos Avenue.”

  “And this time it’s dark,” I said.

  “I can imagine what Ryan House’s reaction to the hit-and-run was,” Estelle said. “Maybe it was the last straw as far as he was concerned. Wilton might have thought first about calming him down, so he raided his parents’ medicine cabinet when they went home to take the bent grille guard off. That was logical. And then the next step was to get out of town, and the football game was a perfect cover. Maybe it was on the drive out of Posadas that he put the rest together.”

  “And third?”

  “I want at least a couple of points match on that thumbprint that I took from the seatbelt buckle. Ron Bucky is going to call the minute he has something.”

  I shook my head. “Don’t wait, Estelle.” I stood up. “If you’re right, we don’t want to run any risk. When you talked to Wilton in the hospital last night, was there anything that led you to believe that he might suspect what we know?”

  “No, sir. I got the impression that he felt entirely comfortable with his performance.”

  “His performance,” I said and grimaced. “And neither he nor his parents think there’s anything unusual about the truck being impounded?”

  “I’m sure that they imagine it’s because of the blood tests and litigation, sir.”

  “They’re scared stiff, and young Wilton could care less, I’m sure,” I said. “Did Martin Holman talk with them?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then we’re covered. Talking with Martin Holman is enough to give any felon confidence.”

  “Sir,” Estelle chided gently, “that’s not true.”

  “You don’t sound much like a politician,” I chuckled, but the humor didn’t last. “We want to move fast with this son of a bitch. Based on a deposition from Vanessa, and with the gun’s record, that should be enough for a warrant. And if we get lucky and find the grille guard, that’s another piece.”

  “I’m willing to make another bet,” Estelle murmured.

  “What’s that?”

  “The grille guard is in the Wilton’s garage somewhere.”

  “You don’t think he’d be smart enough to get rid of it?”

  “Oh, he’s smart enough, sir. But he’s also confident.”

  I grunted in disgust. “This kid is eighteen?”

  “Yes, sir. His birthday was in September.”

  I nodded with satisfaction. “Good. Then the bastard won’t just pull two years in reform school. We can put him away for life.”


  “He’ll probably earn his law degree in prison,” Estelle said, and I muttered a curse.

  “You didn’t used to be so cynical,” I said. “You’ve been around me too long.”

  37

  The serial number of the.22 rifle was thoroughly documented on Chief Eduardo Martinez’s reports. The rifle itself was no doubt still rusting somewhere in the back room of the village department. I was sure that the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms had the same information somewhere in the bowels of their enormous database, together with information about the gun’s original purchase. But they weren’t going to talk to us on a Saturday night. And if Wilton had purchased the gun from an individual, the paper trail would be even more remote.

  “Let’s just ask the son of a bitch,” I said, and Estelle’s left eyebrow went up a notch. I glanced at my watch. “It’s as good a time as any. We’ll see what we can find out, and then I’ll buy you and Francis a late dinner. How about that?”

  She agreed, although not with the enthusiasm that a dinner at the Don Juan de Oñate should have prompted.

  As we pulled out onto Bustos Avenue, she keyed the mike. “Posadas, this is 310.”

  Dispatcher Gayle Sedillos responded, and Estelle said, “Posadas, we’ll be at 390 Grant for a few minutes. Three-oh-eight needs to stay central.”

  “Ten-four, 310. Three-oh-eight, did you copy?”

  Sergeant Bob Torrez sounded like he was eating a sandwich when he acknowledged. In his typical fashion, he didn’t ask what we were doing, or why.

  “Three-ten, P.D. copies. I’m ten-eight.”

  Estelle glanced across at me at the sound of Tom Pasquale’s voice. I reached out and took the mike from Estelle. “P.D., meet with 308.”

  “Ten-four,” Pasquale said, and I could hear the eagerness in his voice drop a couple of notches. Bob Torrez had probably choked on his sandwich.

  “That’s just what we need-Tom Pasquale crashing the only other car the P.D. owns into the Wilton’s living room,” I said.

  We turned south on Fifth Street, drove two blocks, and jogged west on Grant, into one of the oldest neighborhoods in Posadas. The homes were adobe, all on large, irregular lots with an irrigation ditch running along the property lines. If all the junk that had sprung up during the 1950s mining boom were to vanish, this was one of the neighborhoods that would be left.

  The Wiltons’ home was attractive, a big rambling place not unlike my own, with ancient elms surrounding the buildings. Behind the attached garage was a small barn, its shed roof recently repaired with bright corrugated metal.

  Estelle eased 310 into the driveway.

  “Are you doing all right?” she asked.

  “I’m doing fine,” I said, and pointed at the porch light that had just flicked on. “They’re home.”

  Dustin Wilton greeted us at the door with a guarded smile, but his face was pale, the worry lines etching his broad forehead. He held out a hand and shook with a firm grip.

  “Sheriff, how are you?”

  “Fine, thanks. You know Detective Reyes-Guzman?”

  He nodded. “We talked at the hospital earlier.”

  Wilton was a big man, well over six feet and burly. Long hours of wrestling heavy equipment for the state highway department in the hot New Mexico sun had built muscles like rope and aged the skin of his face and hands to leather.

  “We just wanted to stop by and bring some good news,” I said. “It’s not much, but it’s something. How’s Dennis doing?”

  “Sleeping,” Wilton said. “It’s been pretty rough for him.”

  I nodded. “May we come in for just a minute?”

  He nodded and held the door for us. The saltillo tile of the entryway was polished to a high sheen, and I stopped just inside the door.

  “Let me get my wife,” he said.

  “Well, no need,” I started to say, but he shook his head.

  “She’ll want to hear anything you have to say.”

  “Fine.” We waited for a moment, and I stepped forward so I could see into the living room. A mounted elk head hung above the fireplace. Before I had a chance to inventory anything else, Dustin appeared with his wife in tow. DeeDee was thirty pounds overweight and wore lavender stretch pants two sizes too small. Her top half was inside a sweatshirt with NOTRE DAME blazoned across the chest. Fortunately the material had plenty of stretch.

  Dustin, DeeDee, and Dennis, I thought. Eighteen years before, the proud parents had probably entertained all kinds of cute thoughts.

  “Ma’am,” I said by way of greeting. I thrust my hands into my pockets, trying to look as casual as possible. “The results of the blood test on your son are in, and I just wanted to tell you folks in person that it was clean in every respect.”

  I saw relief on their faces and DeeDee Wilton said, “He told us that he hadn’t been drinking.”

  “Then he told you the truth, ma’am. The boys were just plain tired after the excitement of the game. It looks like he just dosed off. Just for a second, but that’s all it takes.”

  Dustin Wilton shook his head. “I’ll tell you what I think happened,” he said, and his voice rose a notch or two. “I think some son-of-a-bitch drunk probably swerved into their lane and run ’em right off the road.”

  “That’s something we’re pursuing,” I said easily, knowing that it was pointless to argue. If that pipe dream made them feel better, they could cling to it all they liked.

  “We needed to ask Dennis a couple of things, just to clear up the last of the paperwork, but if he’s asleep, it’s not important enough to bother him.”

  “What do you need to know?”

  “Well, one of the deputies mentioned that the truck didn’t have a grille guard, but that the bolts and brackets for one were there. He hadn’t found the guard at the scene, and wondered if it had been removed from the vehicle before the time of the crash.”

  Dustin Wilton’s brow knit together and he looked at me as if I were senile. “Now that’s a hell of a thing to be concerned about,” he snapped.

  “The officers try to be thorough,” I said mildly.

  “If the guard wasn’t on the truck,” Wilton said, “then I’m sure it’s out in the shed. Every time Dennis sees the least little stone nick, he’s got to sand and paint that thing again. He might as well have gotten it chrome plated. It would have saved him a lot of time.” He looked sorrowful. “That truck was his pride and joy, Sheriff. His pride and joy.”

  “Could we take a look?”

  “Hell, yes. We can go right out through the kitchen.”

  We did that, with Dustin Wilton never breaking stride to stop and wonder just why the hell we wanted to see a grille guard, or what difference it made whether it was on the truck or not. DeeDee stayed inside the house. Such was the magic of ignorance, I thought.

  The barn was home to Dustin Wilton’s major hobby. Parked in the center of the floor was an ancient truck that was so pretty it took my breath away.

  “Look at that,” I said in genuine admiration.

  “Nineteen eighteen double T Ford,” Wilton said, and stroked one gracefully curved front fender. “We’ve got some final work to do on the oak racks in the back, and then she’s done.” He patted the metalwork. “Show-quality restoration, frame up.”

  “Impressive,” I said.

  “And I don’t see any grill guarde…No wait, here it is. He’s getting set to work on it,” Wilton said, as if the truck from which the guard was taken wasn’t a shapeless mess.

  The guard was under one of the workbenches, and Wilton bent awkwardly to retrieve it. He grunted and grabbed the edge of the bench to support himself.

  “Goddamn back,” he said, and yanked the grille guard free.

  “Did you hurt yourself?” I asked.

  Wilton shrugged it off. “Twisted it last week doing something stupid.”

  “Isn’t age wonderful,” I said, reaching out to accept one end of the heavy guard. The right side was badly bent.

  “Someo
ne probably smacked him in the parking lot at school,” Wilton said. He lifted the guard so I could see it, then slid it back under the bench.

  “Probably so,” I said, glancing at Estelle. She smiled.

  “So,” Wilton said, stroking the fender of the old truck again. “That’s that. What else was it you needed to know?”

  “What year did you say this was?” I asked.

  “Nineteen eighteen.”

  I looked inside the cab. “Wood and metal. No plastic,” I said and turned to grin at Wilton.

  “Not a scrap.”

  “Beautiful,” I said. “How’s she drive?”

  Wilton patted the fender and grinned slyly. “Well, let me put it this way. There have been a lot of improvements in the past seventy-eight years. A lot of improvements. I’ll tell you one thing…if you set out down the road in this, you’d better keep your mind on your business. She don’t have no cruise control.” He laughed.

  And no air bags and no seatbelts, I wanted to say. Instead, I asked, “Does your son work with you on this?”

  “Oh, yes,” Wilton said. “In fact, I made him a promise. He graduates from college, this sweetheart is his.”

  “That ought to do the trick,” I said. “This is a rough time for him. Something like this is good to keep his mind occupied.”

  Wilton nodded. “In fact,” I added, “I hope you don’t take offense at an old man sticking his nose in other people’s business, but I’ve got four kids of my own…and some of them went through some tough times, too. For the next day or so, you might want to spend as much time as you can with the boy.”

  “Well, sure.”

  “I mean even if it involves taking off of work. He’s going to be feeling pretty alone right about now.”

  “I know what you mean.”

  “So, take him fishing, take him hunting…something like that. You hunt? The two of you?”

  Wilton tried to put the manly bluff to it, but I could see it hurt him. “Oh, we used to. A few years back. But these kids get into high school, and I don’t know. Their world is sure different from mine. Different from what mine was, I mean.”