Privileged to Kill

by Steven F Havill

  “When was the last time you worked for someone?”

  “For pay?”

  “For whatever.”

  Crocker glanced at me as if maybe I was going to help and then turned back to Estelle. He leaned forward so that he rested his chest on his hands. “I stopped for a few days…it was three days…at Thomas Lawton’s place east of Button, Utah. Lawton’s Wagon Works, is what he calls it. He makes all kinds of wagons. Repairs old ones. That sort of thing.”

  “What did you do for him?”

  “He was building a new corral. He said his tractor was broke down and so he couldn’t use the posthole digger. I dug holes.” Crocker smiled and held up his right hand, pointing to the remains of what might have been a blister under his ring finger joint.

  “For three days?”

  “Well, we did a lot of talking, ma’am. He knows about all there is to know about old wagons, and I had lots of questions. It’s fascinating.”

  “When was the last time you talked with your sister?”

  A flicker of regret stabbed across his rough features. “I told you about her? I know I gave her name to that young officer.”

  “You told us you had a sister in Anaheim.”

  He nodded. “I don’t call her much. Me and her don’t see eye to eye on most things. I tell her that yes, maybe someday I’d like to settle in one spot, maybe have my own post office box number.” He grinned. “That always makes her mad. You talk to her and you’ll see what I mean.” He traced the grain of the table with a stubby fingernail. “I like to keep a journal of things. Places I’ve been, folks I’ve met. I write down just about everything and then I send it all to her. I’ve asked her to keep my records for me. Someday, maybe, I’d kind of like to see them all together.” He smiled again. “See what all those years and all those miles look like in one place.”

  “So she has this diary of yours?” I asked.

  “Yes, sir. At least I asked her to keep it. She said she would. You can read that and see just exactly where I’ve been, and who I’ve seen over the years.” The silence returned, and after a moment Crocker added, “And that’s why it’s so stupid, that fib I told you. You want to know about me, you just read that journal.”

  “We’ll do that.”

  “I gave that young police officer my sister’s name and address.”

  I nodded.

  “Do you have any police record, Mr. Crocker?” Estelle asked. It wouldn’t take long for the National Crime Information Center to spit out whatever it had on Wesley Crocker, but it was always interesting to hear a person’s own version of scrapes with the law.

  “No, ma’am. Never.”

  “If we ask you to stay available for a few days, do you have somewhere to stay? Other than the park or the football field?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Mr. Crocker,” I said, “you understand that you may be an important witness to events that happened last night?” He nodded. “The county will pay for a room at the MotorCourt Inn over by the interstate interchange. We’d like you to stay there.”

  Crocker waved a hand. “No need to spend that kind of money. My little room down the hall here is just fine.” He grinned. “You might leave the door ajar. That would make it a bit more homey.”

  “We really can’t do that,” I started to say, thinking of the myriad reasons why the sheriff’s department couldn’t become a civilian R. V. park. Estelle stood up.

  “Call it protective custody,” she said. “It might be better if he stays here. We don’t know who else saw him at the football field.”

  Wesley Crocker looked skeptical. “Oh, now, there isn’t anyone who’d care much about me,” he said.

  “You have too much faith in your fellow man,” I muttered.

  “Yes, sir. But I don’t mean to be any trouble.”

  “I’m sure,” I said.

  “You’re thinking of assigning Pasquale to him?” Estelle said, but it was one of those rare occasions when she hadn’t read my mind correctly.

  “No,” I said. “I’ve got other plans for Officer Pasquale.”

  8

  Button, Utah, was a tiny place along the banks of the Dirty Devil River. I had never been there and didn’t plan to go, but I pictured half a dozen buildings languishing in the weakening October sunshine. I’d never met Thomas Lawton, but I could imagine him grimacing with annoyance when he heard the telephone.

  “Yep,” the voice said after the ninth ring.

  “Mr. Lawton?”

  “Yep.”

  I glanced at the wall clock again and then jotted down 7:35 A.M. in my notebook. Detective Estelle Reyes-Guzman had gone to the high school to assist Sergeant Torrez, and I planned to join the party myself. Principal Glen Archer was going to have a wonderful Friday. It would have been simpler for him to just close the school for the day, but not for us. There were too many people we needed to talk to.

  “Sorry to bother you so early,” I said. “This is Undersheriff William Gastner, down in Posadas, New Mexico. I am looking for some information on a man you may have met a while ago.”

  There was a moment of silence, and Lawton said, “Who did you say you was?”

  “I’m with the Posadas County Sheriff’s Department down in Posadas, New Mexico.”

  “Where the hell is that?”

  I smiled. “Posadas is over in the southwestern corner of the state. About twenty miles from the Mexican border.”

  “Huh,” Lawton said.

  “I’d be happy to leave my telephone number and you can call me back collect, if you like. Ask the dispatcher to transfer you to Undersheriff Gastner.”

  “No, no. That ain’t necessary. I’ll take your word you’re who you say you are. What can I do for you?”

  “Do you know a gentleman named Wesley Crocker?”

  “Crocker…”

  “Short, stocky, late middle age. Rides a bicycle.”

  “Oh…well, son of a gun. Sure. He spent some time here. Helped me out of a real jam. Say, I hope he’s all right.”

  “He’s fine. And he speaks highly of you.”

  Lawton chuckled. “Well, I tell you what. I ain’t never talked so much in three days as I did when he was here. He had more questions about this country than any ten historians. Seemed to know quite a bit, too. He even knew about Denning’s Pass, west of here, and I bet there aren’t ten men outside of the locals who know about that spot.”

  “When was he there? At your place, I mean?”

  “Let me think, now. Back in July, I think. What’s your interest in him?”

  “We believe he may have been a witness to an incident here in Posadas. This call is just a routine background check to confirm some of the things he mentioned to us. He told us about your place.”

  “Well, he was here. And he’s a good man. Can’t sit still in one spot, but he’s a good, God-fearing man.”

  “Did he ever talk to you about a sister in California?”

  Lawton hesitated. “Yep, he mentioned her a time or two.”

  The door to my office opened and Ernie Wheeler stuck his head in. I held up a hand, but he just held up two fingers and mouthed, “It’s important.”

  I nodded and said, “Mr. Lawton, hold on a moment, would you?”

  As soon as he saw my hand slide over the receiver, Wheeler said, “There’s a Mrs. Elna Tyler long distance for you on line two.”

  “Who the hell is Elna Tyler?”

  “She says she’s Wesley Crocker’s sister, sir.”

  “Christ.” I punched down the line one and hold buttons together, and then hit line two.

  “Mrs. Tyler? This is Undersheriff Gastner.”

  “I asked to speak with the sheriff,” a woman’s crisp voice said.

  “Sheriff Holman isn’t in the office at the moment. I understand that you’re Wesley Crocker’s sister?”

  “Yes, and I’d like to know what’s going on.”

  “I’m glad
you called, ma’am. I’m handling that case, and I’ll be with you just as soon as I wrap up another call. If you like, leave your number, and I’ll call you back in five minutes.”

  She did so, and I switched back to Thomas Lawton. “Sir, did Mr. Crocker say anything about sending notes or a journal…diary pages, maybe…to his sister? That sort of thing?”

  This time the hesitation was considerable, and I prompted “Mr. Lawton?” thinking that perhaps he’d hung up.

  His voice was quiet and gravelly. “Seems to me that a man’s diary is kind of personal property. If he keeps one.”

  “Yes, it is, sir. And I’m not asking to read it, although Mr. Crocker offered it to us. I’m just trying to confirm his statement that he kept a journal of his travels.”

  “Well, I believe he did.”

  “And he was with you for three days?”

  “Just about that.”

  I thanked Lawton and hung up, my mind now on Elna Tyler. I wondered what Officer Thomas Pasquale had told her. I took a deep breath and punched out her number. The phone rang once before she picked it up.

  “Mrs. Tyler, this is Bill Gastner.” I tried to keep my tone conversational and pleasant.

  “Is my brother all right, Mr. Gastner?”

  “Yes, ma’am, he’s fine. As Officer Pasquale may have told you, your brother could be an important witness to an incident we’re investigating.”

  “Your officer told me no such thing. He said that Wesley was being held in connection with an investigation. He made it sound like Wesley had done something terrible.”

  “No, ma’am. That’s not the case at all. And the reason we called was simply to verify some of your brother’s statements to us. He doesn’t carry much paperwork with him, as you probably well know.”

  This time Elna Tyler managed a laugh. “Oh, Wesley, Wesley.”

  “How long has he been on the road, ma’am?”

  “He didn’t tell you?”

  “I haven’t asked him yet.”

  “I see. Well, Officer, I would guess he’s headed for some kind of world record. He’s been pedaling that bicycle, or one like it, for the better part of thirty years.”

  “And he just roams?”

  “That’s a good way to put it. He loves history. If you’ve talked with him at all, you already know that. But he doesn’t focus on anything in particular.” She laughed. “He just absorbs it all like a big sponge. And I don’t think he ever forgets a thing.”

  “He sends you his diaries?”

  “He told you about those? Well, he sends them faithfully. I don’t know where he gets the money for the postage, but he always manages. I wish he’d say a little more about his experiences, but he doesn’t. He just talks about the history of wherever he happens to be, or whatever he’s seen. I’ve got cartons and cartons of his papers.”

  “When did you last hear from him, Mrs. Tyler?”

  “Let me go look.” The receiver thudded and in the background I heard unintelligible voices. In a moment the woman picked up the phone again. “The last thing I have from Wesley was mailed at the Forest Service ranger station in Springerville, Arizona. The postmark says October seventh. I was happy that he was heading south with late fall coming on. You know, once he spent the winter in the Dakotas.”

  “That must have been an experience,” I said, mentally picturing Wesley Crocker pushing a bicycle through five feet of snow.

  “Not one I’d cherish, I’m sure,” Elna Tyler said. “Now, are you sure there’s nothing I can do? Wesley’s all right?”

  “He’s fine. As I said, we called as part of a routine background check.”

  “Well, now, I’m relieved. Talking to that other officer made it sound like Wesley had tried to steal the atomic bomb or something.”

  I didn’t comment on Thomas Pasquale’s phone technique, but I said, “I’ll tell Wesley to drop you a line, ma’am.”

  She laughed. “That’ll be the day. He’ll send me another page of historic trivia, but nothing about himself. I’ve learned not to worry about him anymore, I guess. He’ll go his own way. The rest of us should have such a full life.”

  With a promise that I’d keep her posted about any new developments and that I’d let her know when her brother hit the road again, I hung up and glanced at the clock. In another five minutes, the buses would start to roll into the Posadas school parking lot. The patrol cars and the yellow crime scene ribbon would fuel plenty of talk. Among those three or four hundred teenagers, there would be some who knew a little about fifteen-year-old Maria Ibarra.

  Maybe one or two would know quite a bit.

  9

  I entered Principal Glen Archer’s office with relief. The halls behind me were filling rapidly with noisy kids, a vast sea of people-to-be, and Archer’s office was a quiet island. I had met Sergeant Robert Torrez in the lobby and reminded him that I didn’t want Officer Thomas Pasquale out of his sight for ten seconds. I had no illusions that they would find anything under the bleachers beyond what we already had. But daylight was always a different story. We could always hope.

  By the time Torrez and Deputy Eddie Mitchell finished combing the bleachers and the rubble under them, we’d be sure.

  Archer closed the door and indicated a couple of chairs. “Sit, sit,” he said to Estelle and me. His forehead was furrowed with worry and fatigue. “This has really thrown us for a loop. I just can’t believe it. This is the sort of thing that happens in big cities.” He shook his head. “It still might have been better if we’d just closed for the day.” He glanced at me and didn’t receive any support. “Do you want the counselor in on this?”

  “Not just yet,” I said.

  “Coffee?”

  “No, thanks. Glen, what can you tell us about Maria Ibarra?”

  He sat down heavily and rubbed his face. His complexion was pasty from lack of sleep and marbles could have tracked in the dark gutters under his eyes. “Before we get into that, let me ask you something. None of the deputies I spoke with earlier this morning would say whether this is a murder we’re working with, or what. I mean, what exactly happened to this girl, do we know?”

  “Not yet. Dr. Guzman is working up a preliminary autopsy. Until he gives us something…” I shrugged. “Right now we’re treating it as a homicide. That’s all that makes sense.”

  Glen Archer sighed and shook his head. “I knew who Maria Ibarra was. That’s about it. And that’s a hell of a thing for the principal of a small school to have to say. But that’s the size of it. I understand from Sergeant Torrez that you’re looking for the parents.” He shrugged. “I don’t know how much help we’ll be. I don’t think her situation was too…too…” He waved his hands, groping for the right words. Finally he settled for, “I’m not sure who she was living with. I was going to do some digging, but the sergeant told me to hold off.”

  “How many kids do you have attending school now?”

  “In this building? About three hundred and eighty, grades seven through twelve. Across the parking lot, K through six is about two seventy. Give or take.”

  “What grade was Maria in?”

  “We placed her in eighth grade. Being fifteen, maybe she should have gone into ninth, but she was small for her age. And Pat—Patricia Hyde—thought that she wasn’t ready for high school yet. She was very bright, apparently, but she spoke very little English.”

  “When did she check in?”

  “Late September. Maybe the first week in October. So she’s only been here a week or two, maybe a little longer.”

  “And you never met her parents? Or guardians?”

  Archer shook his head slowly. “I didn’t see her that day at all. Pat processed her enrollment. Let me call her in here.”

  “Just a minute,” I said. “Before you do that, let me ask you a couple other things. We have reason to believe that close to the time that the girl’s body was discovered, two vehicles were parked behind the school. We don’t kn
ow yet if there is a connection.”

  “There are lots of dark corners on this campus, Sheriff.”

  “Yes, there are. How many kids drive their own vehicles to school?”

  “You think a student was involved in this?” His forehead furrows deepened. “I guess it makes sense that there would be.”

  “I don’t know.” My response was bald and unsympathetic, but it was the truth. “If there was a student involved in the death, and if that student was in one of those two vehicles, then the odds are good that one or both of the vehicles that were parked behind the school last night are out in your parking lot right now.”

  Archer looked at me hard for a minute, then turned and pulled a black ring binder off the shelf behind his desk. “God, I hate this,” he said, and took a deep breath. “Here’s a list of parking permits.” He spread the binder open on his desk. “We don’t have a closed campus, as you are well aware. And the school board is as opposed as they can be to barbed wire and tall fences. But any student who drives to school has to have a window sticker.”

  He ran his finger down the column of numbers. “Right now, we have two hundred and nineteen students who have been assigned stickers.” He looked up. “Do you want a copy of this?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you don’t have a description of the vehicles that you think may be involved?”

  “Not yet. And as I said, we don’t know for sure.”

  “What else can I do to help?”

  Estelle shifted in her seat. “We’d like an absentee list for yesterday, and today as well.”

  Archer grimaced. “This is Friday, and we’ve got an away game tonight against Sierra Linda. The list is going to be longer than usual, but I’ll be happy to get it for you.”

  The football game schedule for the Posadas Jaguars was taped to my refrigerator door. We’d beaten Sierra Linda once in our season opener at home, and I’d shouted myself hoarse from the top of the bleachers. Earlier in the week, during a moment of boredom, I had considered driving the ninety miles to watch the rematch.

  “Did you have occasion to see Maria Ibarra while she was here at school?” Estelle asked.