“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.”
“Why not, if you were reasonably sure of getting away with it?”
“You could never be sure.”
“Not if you were an experienced adult. But a kid? They think in absolute terms, sir. And who would ever know?”
I laughed. “Well, if you’re right about all this, you know, for one.”
“But some kid, maybe with a touch of arrogance, who thinks police are as dumb as the one he comes in contact with all the time?”
“Thomas Pasquale, you mean?”
“Sure. If he’s the law enforcement experience level held to be typical, then the kid has every reason to be confident.”
I gazed at Estelle, trying to sort pieces. “I’ll ask it again: why would Dennis Wilton want to murder his best friend?”
Estelle put the fingerprint samples back in the briefcase along with the notebook and closed the lid.
“I don’t know, sir.”
“Any guesses?”
“Well, sure, I can imagine all kinds of things. Maybe the two boys picked up Maria…she was pretty enough. And in this day and age, you never know what’s going through the minds of two young men in rut. Maybe things didn’t go so well, either through intent or accident. It doesn’t take much imagination to figure out what they might have had planned. She chokes and they panic.”
“And dump her under the bleachers? Christ,” I said. “Why wouldn’t they take her out into the middle of the prairie somewhere?”
“Because when the body was found, if it ever was, that would make it look like murder, sir. If the body was never found, you’re still looking at foul play. This way, by dumping her under the bleachers, police would be more apt to write it off as some sort of bizarre accident…especially when they discovered Maria Ibarra’s curious lifestyle.”
I looked at Estelle as all the jumble rolled through my mind. “What about the phone call? You think they called the village P.D. so that a cop like Tom Pasquale would respond?”
“That may be part of it, sir, but I think it’s simpler than that. The office number that was called isn’t recorded. Anyone who watches television knows, or at least believes, that all 911 calls are. By calling the P.D., they didn’t have to worry about a voice match.”
“We haven’t heard from the state lab, have we.”
“No, sir. But I called Lieutenant Bucky and asked him to expedite the processing of the hair samples that Bob Torrez found under the bleachers. I sent samples of both Dennis Wilton and Ryan House’s hair to the lab by courier earlier.”
“Where did you get Wilton’s?”
Estelle came close to smiling. “From his hospital pillow case.”
I frowned and let my chin drop down to my chest. “It doesn’t figure, does it? You’re saying now that, based on the initials in the notebook, maybe Maria Ibarra was going with Ryan House. That’s an unlikely match, somehow.”
“But I’m not suggesting they were ‘going together,’ sir. Maria might have had a crush on House from afar. Girls do that, you know.”
“I know, Estelle, I have two daughters of my own. And boys have crushes, too. But think on it. If you’re suggesting that they somehow got together…that it was House who was with Maria when she choked to death…it was more than a one-way crush from afar. And that’s not too likely, either. He’s a senior, she’s barely a freshman. She doesn’t even speak much English. She lived like a goddamned troll in an old truck body under the interstate. House is from a good family.”
“Good, sir?”
“You know what I mean.”
“No, sir, I don’t,” Estelle said, and I looked up quickly, hearing the snap in her voice. “If Ryan House was with Maria when she choked, apparently he didn’t do anything to help her. And then she was dumped like a sack of garbage.”
I shrugged and nodded. “You’re right. That’s subhuman behavior, if that’s what happened.”
“Someone was with her when she died.”
“Yes,” I said. “Someone was. Otherwise she wouldn’t have been dumped. An innocent passerby would have called the police the minute she was discovered. I can’t imagine that she was eating pizza under the bleachers. For one thing, she had no money to buy it with. If it was Ryan House who was with her, that leaves us with what appears to be the single essential question…Why did Dennis Wilton want Ryan House dead?”
“I don’t know,” Estelle said. “Jealousy, m
aybe.”
“Jealous about a fifteen-year-old Mexican illegal alien? I think not.”
“Fear of discovery.”
“That I can imagine. If Wilton was somehow involved in Maria Ibarra’s death, and Ryan House was going to blow the whistle, then murder makes sense.”
Estelle looked up suddenly, her mouth forming a small oh. “What if it was Ryan House who called the village police to report the body?”
“And Wilton figured that was the first step toward stepping forward to admit to what they’d done.”
“Maybe.”
“But if she choked accidentally, dumping the body isn’t much of a crime. It’s a simple case of concealing an incident, compounded with failure to report an attended death.”
“We know that, sir. A couple of kids don’t.”
I slid off the desk and walked around it, to thump down into the old chair. It let out a squawk as the springs compressed. “With everything Ryan House had hanging in the balance—scholarships, awards, honors—he might have panicked. And Dennis Wilton was no slouch in his own right.”
“Glen Archer said that he’d just been accepted at a couple of premed programs out of state. Prestigious schools.”
I shrugged. “Well, maybe. And maybe we’re just inventing ghosts to chase. What about Miss Davila? Suppose she was the one with Maria when she died.”
“They were at least acquaintances, maybe even best friends, sir. Vanessa may well have been the only friend that Maria had.”
“So what? Jealousy rears its ugly head, Estelle. Maria is Vanessa’s best friend, and suddenly Maria is mooning over a senior. Vanessa isn’t blind. She can see that Maria Ibarra is a cute kid—maybe in need of a shower and a perm, but a cute kid nevertheless. And Vanessa looks in the mirror and knows damn well that she isn’t cute, in any way, shape, or form. And so there she goes, tricked and ridiculed by fate once again.”
Estelle smiled and looked up at the ceiling beams. She reached up and clapped a hand over her face in mock frustration. “I want to go to bed.”
I laughed. “That’s the first time I think I’ve ever heard you admit to fatigue, sweetheart. Join the club.” I leaned forward and indicated the briefcase. “Anything else?”
Estelle sighed. “Sheriff Holman came back into the office a few minutes ago. He asked if there was anything he could do. I had him shag Glen Archer back to the high school so he could go through the four lockers…Maria’s, Vanessa’s, Dennis Wilton’s, and Ryan House’s.”
“Anything?”
She glanced at her watch. “I’m sure they’re still at it, sir. They were going to go through every notebook, everything they can find.”
“All right, that’s good. Keep Pasquale after Vanessa Davila. If he gets tired, rotate someone in. I still have a feeling that she’s more than just a grieving friend. Grieving friends talk to people…they don’t clam up like that. That leaves us with young Mister Wilton.”
“I’d like to talk with him again, sir. I talked with him briefly right after the crash. Holman was busy with Mr. and Mrs. House, and I had only a few minutes at the hospital to talk with Wilton’s parents.”
“What did you think?”
“They’re terrified, sir.”
“Terrified?”
“I asked them for consent for a blood test. They agreed, and then afterward, when it was too late, they put two and two together. They know that if anything shows up, Dennis will be sued for wrongful death…and he’s a minor, which means it falls back on them.”
“How thoughtful and compassionate they are,” I mused.
“I’m sure they managed to work a little grief in there somewhere,” Estelle said.
“Maybe. Now listen. When you talk with this kid, don’t spook him.” I realized as the words were being uttered that they were a waste. Estelle was a far more competent interrogator than I.
But she just nodded and said, “I won’t, sir. I’m really curious to hear how he’s going to describe the accident, now that he’s out of the sedative. And now that we know a few more details.”
“Or at least we think we know,” I said. “Crocker says now that it was a dark-colored pickup truck that hit him. He didn’t want to say anything earlier for fear of being caught up in something that would keep him in town.”
Estelle cocked her head and looked at me askance. “That’s what he says?”
I nodded.
“Well, maybe,” she said.
“Something nags about that?”
“No, I guess not.” She looked at the door, as if she could see Crocker through the oak panels. “Wesley Crocker is a person far, far beyond my experience, sir. I’m not sure that those of us who are nest oriented can ever understand him.” She pushed herself out of her chair with unaccustomed effort. “If it was Wilton’s truck that hit him, the paint samples will prove it.”
“If you get a match, then we need a warrant to search for that bent grille guard, Estelle. Five gets you ten that it’s tucked inside his dad’s garage.”
“Or at the bottom of the lake up at the old quarry.”
“Maybe so,” I said. “He’s not going anywhere, but it wouldn’t hurt to have Tom Mears or Tony Abeyta park themselves down the street and keep an eye peeled. Tell ’em to use their own vehicles. And keep someone on Vanessa. Nobody is going anywhere, so we can afford to sit back and watch and wait for some lab reports to tell us which way to go.”
“If anything comes from the locker search, I’ll let you know,” Estelle said, and I followed her back out into the foyer. Wesley Crocker was still in the living room, resting with his leg up, his head back and eyes closed. At the sound of the door, he turned his head and grinned, waving a hand at Estelle.
“Good to see you again, miss.”
Estelle nodded and glanced at me, the crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes just a little deeper than they needed to be. She didn’t say “What a pair,” but I had a suspicion she was thinking it.
31
The sun’s schedule had very little to do with my own. I had learned that simple lesson over the years, and that’s probably what had contributed more than anything else to my colossal insomnia. After Estelle left, I glanced at my watch, thinking that a two-hour nap might be the proper medicine. But other things nagged, and seven minutes after ten on a late-October Saturday morning was as good a time as any to find normal folks at home.
When I walked back through the living room, Wesley Crocker didn’t bother to open an eye, and his lower jaw was going slack as he sank into the comfort and quiet of the place. It was enough to make me yawn, but I plodded on into the kitchen and thumbed through the phone directory.
Stub Moore answered his phone on the tenth ring, and he didn’t sound alert. I glanced outside through my newly trimmed, painted, and cleaned kitchen window and saw no sun filtering down through the bare limbs. With the weather chilling and the sky gray, people were going to start hibernating.
“Stub, this is Bill Gastner.”
“Yo,” he said, and let it go at that. He knew damn well it wasn’t a social call. I didn’t need to keep him long. Like so many expert school-bus drivers, he knew the youngsters and he knew their habits. He gave me what I needed in less than two minutes. Estelle had said that Moore had given her a list of students as well, and when the bus driver hung up the phone, he was probably shaking his head, wondering if the investigating cops ever talked to each other.
With his short list of names in hand, I went into my bedroom and changed clothes, donning the most comfortable and least threatening civilian clothes I could find—a pair of heather-green corduroy slacks and a wool checkered shirt that my daughter had sent me for my birthday. And like the honest soul she was, she hadn’t bothered to try to stroke my feelings by sending something several sizes too small. It was a checkered tent, and it fit my mounds like an absurd, huge glove.
With a light tan jacket to hide the threat of gun and cuffs, I left the house to a sleeping W
esley Crocker.
A few minutes after ten-thirty, I pulled into a driveway on Hidalgo Loop, behind the middle school off MacArthur. I parked 310 behind a late-model foreign sedan and beside a Volkswagen bus.
I had known Maryanne Scutt for twenty years. She had two daughters, and hadn’t seen her husband since the older daughter turned three. She’d probably sold more real estate in Posadas County over the years than any other two Realtors put together. She answered the doorbell, and when she saw me her eyebrows came together quickly, and then her face smoothed as she composed herself.
“Sheriff, good morning,” she said. She didn’t open the screen door.
I smiled faintly and nodded. “Morning, Mrs. Scutt. We’re still in the process of investigating that fatality from last night.” I waved a hand aimlessly off toward the east. “The one out on 78.”
“Wasn’t that awful,” she said, and meant it.
“Yes, it was. We’re doing some routine follow-ups. The school-bus driver said that your daughter was a passenger on the game bus. Is that correct?”
“Yes, she was.”
“I wonder if I might talk with her for a few minutes.” I saw the worry on the woman’s face. “Apparently she was sitting on the side of the bus where she would have seen the vehicle when it passed. There’re a couple things I’d like to ask her. And I’d like you to be present,” I added.
“Well, sure,” she said, and pushed open the screen door. “She isn’t up yet, but let me get her.” She indicated the living room, and I walked over to a padded straight chair that sat beside the blocked-off fireplace whose wood and brickwork were painted gloss white.
The place smelled like a mix of a hundred different perfumes and powders. I could feel my sinuses starting to swell shut. The chair looked as if it was sturdy enough, and I eased myself down onto it to wait.
In a few minutes Mrs. Scutt reappeared with young Gail, a pretty towhead high school sophomore, plainly embarrassed at having a stranger see her dressed in a bathrobe.
They both perched on the sofa. “Gail,” I said, “I’m Undersheriff William Gastner.” I smiled. “I think the last time I saw you was when you were about this long.” I held my hands a couple of feet apart, but Gail didn’t care when I’d seen her. She shifted nervously and tried a brave smile.
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