Privileged to Kill

by Steven F Havill

  “I tried to call you earlier,” Estelle said.

  “Yeah, I know. I heard it.”

  “Five times.”

  “You need to let it ring more than five times, sweetheart.”

  “No…I mean I tried calling five times. Once not long after I dropped you off, and then around noon, and then afterward. I figured you were asleep.”

  I stared at her blankly. “What do you mean ‘once around noon’? What time is it?” I said, and looked at my watch. The hands made no sense, stuck at five after four. The sweep second hand swept methodically around the face.

  “It’s after four.”

  “What time did you drop me off?”

  “About ten…maybe ten-thirty, sir.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “No, sir.”

  I backed up and sat down slowly in the lawn chair, my heart hammering in my ears. Estelle looked back at the window. She stepped up close and examined the glass. “Nice job.” She turned and looked at me. “Are you going to do all the trim?”

  My hand groped at my shirt pocket, a tick left over from half a century of smoking. “Estelle…” I started and then stopped.

  “Do you want me to come back later, sir?”

  I shook my head with irritation. “I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.” I got to my feet and waved a hand at the window. “It just seemed important at the time. I don’t know why.”

  “Sometimes you need a break.”

  I snorted and toed the paint can with my black boot. “I must be quite a sight.”

  Diplomatic as always, Estelle didn’t respond to that.

  “So…what did you find out?” I asked. I pulled a second folding chair out of the pantry and snapped it open for Estelle. She settled into it with a grateful sigh.

  “Wesley Crocker left.”

  “What do you mean, he left?”

  “Sheriff Holman suggested to him that maybe he didn’t need to stick around the office after all. That maybe he could find himself somewhere else to stay. That’s what Bob Torrez told me earlier today.” Her mouth twitched slightly. “That’s one of the times I tried to call you, sir. The sheriff told Bob that we didn’t need to turn the place into a roach motel.”

  “For God’s sakes, what an idiot,” I snapped. “Where’s Crocker, then?”

  “He told Bob that he wanted to ride north of town a ways and investigate an old trail. He said you’d know.”

  I closed my eyes, trying to imagine the pleasure that strangling the sheriff would give me. “So he’s on the loose. What else? What’s the rest of the bad news? I hope Manny Orosco is still in custody, or did the sheriff send him somewhere, too?”

  Estelle took a deep breath and held it as she regarded me. “Orosco’s dead.”

  “Of what?” Somehow I wasn’t surprised, but the news irritated me even more. Drunks seemed perfectly capable of hanging around for years, until everyone was thoroughly tired of them. The day that they might have been of some concrete use, they crapped out.

  “Well, sir, that’s the interesting thing.” She leaned forward in her chair and clasped her hands together. “When we went through the truck, we bagged as evidence the liquor bottle that was lying near the head of his cot.”

  “The rotgut sherry,” I said.

  Estelle nodded. “There was no other evidence of liquor bottles near the bed. Up in one of the cabinets, I found a half bottle of that cheap fruit brandy, and a new bottle of peppermint schnapps. Unopened.”

  “Even Manny might have thought twice about drinking that stuff,” I said.

  “I don’t think so, sir. Anyway, Francis told me this afternoon that preliminary blood tests showed a blood-alcohol level that was right off the charts. Over point three-five. That’s enough to be toxic in anyone, sir.”

  I frowned. “How do you get that kind of blood reading from part of a bottle of cheap sherry, Estelle?” I could see by the look on her face that she hadn’t told me everything. The light of the chase was in her eyes, and I took a deep breath, determined to keep up with her this time.

  “You don’t, sir. The chem lab at the hospital helped me out. The sherry tested out at a hundred and sixty proof.”

  “That’s eighty percent alcohol. That’s not possible, unless someone spiked the sherry.”

  “That’s exactly what happened. There was enough sherry for a little flavor. The rest was pure grain alcohol. The stuff that kids like to buy to spike punch when they want a real nuclear buzz.”

  “Half a bottle of that would kill a person,” I said.

  “That’s exactly what it did, sir.”

  13

  Estelle watched me rinse out the coffeemaker and waited patiently while I dumped the filter, added a new one, and spooned in the grounds. I felt as if I hadn’t had a decent cup all day, even though my blood had to be half caffeine. My stomach was growling that it was close to dinnertime. Still, dinner would have to wait.

  “Now, let’s see what you’ve got,” I said, and joined Estelle at the kitchen table. “And the first thing I want to know is what killed the girl. What’s Francis say?”

  “She choked to death, sir.”

  “Choked?” I turned and looked at Estelle. Then I raised my hands as if I were strangling someone. “You mean choked, as in strangled?”

  “No, sir. It appears that she choked to death on a piece of pepperoni pizza.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “No, sir.” Her face was sober. “And if that’s the case, then it looks like she choked to death somewhere, and then was just dumped.”

  I stared at the detective and slowly shook my head. “No. There’s got to be something else. If she were alone when it happened, she wouldn’t have ended up under the bleachers. And who the hell would just dump someone who choked? Jesus.”

  “That’s a good question. We don’t know the circumstances yet.”

  “Yet. All right. What else have you found?”

  “We have a list of every student who was in a class with Maria Ibarra,” she said, and slid a piece of paper with neatly typed columns across to me. I sat down and scanned the names.

  “This won’t tell us much,” I said. “But it’s something. Do we know yet who she was friendly with?”

  “The short list,” Estelle said, and pulled another piece of paper out of her briefcase. “I talked with the counselor again this afternoon, and each one of Maria’s teachers. These names are students who have been seen with her outside of class.”

  “Not a particularly long list.”

  “No, sir. Six names.”

  “Have you talked with any of them?”

  “Not yet. I was going to start on that this evening, with the ones who didn’t go to the game.”

  I nodded. “If any. Fair enough. Let me give you a hand. After we eat something.”

  Estelle smiled. “And we have a list of students who were absent from school today”—she handed me the list of eighteen names—“and absent yesterday.”

  The names were just a blurred collection of words to me, and I laid the list on the table. “That helps us only if the person or persons that Maria was with when she died were students…and only if that student is in one of Maria’s classes…and only if that student chose to be absent from school.”

  “A lot of if’s,” Estelle said. “We don’t know if any of them are close.” She sighed. “And you know, the way she was living, with Orosco and all…there’s no way of telling who she was associating with.” She looked up at me. “We don’t even know for sure if the vehicles that Wesley Crocker saw behind the school were driven by…or occupied by…students. And we don’t know if there is actually any relationship between those vehicles and Maria’s death.”

  I shook my head and got up. Enough coffee had run into the decanter that I could slide it out and put my cup underneath the drizzle while I poured it full. “You sure?” I said, and waved the decanter at Estelle. She sh
ook her head.

  “What do we know?” I asked, and sat back down at the table. “Other than that Manny Orosco didn’t kill the girl.”

  “We don’t even know that for sure, sir. He might have been with her last night, panicked when she choked to death, dumped the body, and drained the bottle of sherry after he returned home. Remember, we didn’t find him until almost midmorning today.”

  “That’s unlikely. In the first place, Manny didn’t have a car. How would he have transported the body?” Estelle raised an eyebrow. “And I’m not sure he would have been strong enough to carry the girl’s corpse anywhere. I don’t think he would have thought clearly enough to even come up with the scheme. And finally, I don’t think he would have bothered mixing grain alcohol, or whatever it was, with sherry. Not only wouldn’t have bothered…he couldn’t have afforded it.”

  “Probably not,” Estelle said. Her voice was neutral and I looked sharply at her.

  “What are you thinking?” She shifted in her chair and grimaced a little, an expression I took to mean discomfort. “Can I get you something?”

  “No, no. I’m fine, sir. It’s just that I can’t imagine anyone cold enough to watch a little girl die and then just dump the body.”

  “What did Francis say about the bloody finger? The torn nail? Anything there?”

  “His first guess is that it might be consistent with the victim flailing around as she was choking.”

  “Might be…” I said. “No other tissue under her nails?”

  “No, sir.” Estelle frowned. “And there weren’t any traces of drugs or alcohol in her system, so that didn’t contribute. And there wasn’t any sign of a struggle, other than the torn fingernail.”

  Estelle pulled a small evidence bag out of the briefcase and handed it to me. I held it at arm’s length, trying to bring the contents into focus. “Whose hair?” I said, taking an educated guess.

  “Bob Torrez found it under the bleachers, sir. There were about eight strands caught in one of the steel angle supports, right where it bolts into one of the girder stiffeners.”

  “Head height?”

  She nodded. “Right where someone would crack their head if they weren’t paying attention.”

  “And we don’t know when this nifty little sample was left there, do we?”

  “No, sir. We don’t know if it is connected in any way.”

  “Lab?”

  “Yes, sir. Part of that sample, and a suitcase of other items. I sent Tony Abeyta to Santa Fe with everything we’ve got. Jim Bergin flew him up. Maria’s clothing, the hair sample, the sherry, the tissue and fluid samples from the hospital that Francis gathered.” She smiled. “Hair samples from Orosco, Crocker, and Pasquale.”

  “Tom Pasquale? Why him?” And then I held up a hand. “Don’t bother. I know why him. Anything else?”

  “That’s about it. I thought I’d do the interviews with Maria’s friends this evening. That way, if any kind of pattern develops, we’ll be right on it.”

  I nodded. “One other thing…we don’t know yet how Maria got into the country, do we?”

  “No, sir.”

  “We need to find her Mexican connection somehow.”

  “Eddie Mitchell is working on that. I know that he was planning to meet with Tomas Naranjo of the Federales down at the crossing in Regal this afternoon. He took a set of Maria’s prints, and a photograph.” She pushed herself away from the table and began gathering her papers. Her motions showed signs of fatigue. “We didn’t find anything in Orosco’s truck that would give us a lead. No letters from Mexico, no photographs. Nothing.” She shrugged. “Maybe Naranjo can help.”

  “And are you going to get some rest?”

  “Sure.”

  I stood up and wagged a mock-stern finger at her. “What about dinner? You want to go someplace and grab a bite?”

  “Irma baked a chicken for dinner. She told me at noon that if Francis and I didn’t sit down for a dinner together tonight, she wasn’t going to vote for me.” She shrugged. “So I’m blackmailed. Come join us.” She snapped her briefcase shut.

  I grimaced and shook my head. “The way I look and probably smell, I don’t think so. And it sounds like you guys need a quiet family dinner.”

  “Take a few minutes to clean off the worst of the paint,” Estelle said. She reached out a hand and squeezed my arm. “And you are a member of the family, padrino.” She glanced at her watch. “We’ll look for you about six-thirty.”

  “One chicken isn’t going to be enough anyway,” I said, but Estelle was already out of the kitchen and headed toward the front door.

  “Six-thirty, sir. Don’t disappoint the kid.”

  I grinned at her reference to her son as the front door thumped closed behind her and the house sank back into its characteristic deep silence. This time, though, the place seemed a little more light and friendly. I turned off the coffeemaker and headed for the shower.

  Just as I turned on the water, the phone rang. It was probably Martin Holman, worried about Estelle’s hiring Jim Bergin, the airport manager, to fly charter. The county was strapped for funds, but she was right. We were also strapped for time, and we couldn’t fax clothing and hair samples.

  I hesitated, then stepped into the shower. What the hell, I thought. Life was too short. A baked chicken dinner with the Guzmans sounded wonderful. Anybody else could wait.

  14

  And they did wait, apparently. The telephone may have continued ringing during my entire shower. I had no idea. When the roar of the water subsided, the damn thing was still ringing—or ringing again. With a heartfelt sigh, I gave in and padded over to the nightstand beside my bed.

  I snatched up the receiver. “What?”

  “Hello, sir.” Estelle’s soft voice carried no reproach or urgency. “I was just making sure you hadn’t fallen asleep on us.”

  I laughed. “Not likely, sweetheart. Sorry I barked at you. I figured it was probably the sheriff. I just stepped out of the shower, and as soon as I stop dripping all over my expensive rugs and get dressed, I’ll be over. I wouldn’t miss fried chili-chicken for the world.”

  “Baked chicken,” she said. “No chili.”

  I groaned in mock distress. “But that’s the next thing to health food.”

  “See you shortly,” Estelle said.

  “I’ll be over in about fifteen minutes.” I hung up, wondering why she’d bothered to call to remind me. To the best of my recollection, in all my sixty-four-plus years I had never forgotten a meal. Skipped a few thousand, certainly, when things got hectic. But never forgotten.

  I dressed in my most comfortable civilian uniform—brown boots, khaki trousers, and checkered flannel shirt—and then took my time backing the Blazer out of the garage. I’d owned it for less than two months and hadn’t yet put the obligatory scratch on it that would then allow me to treat it like the truck it was.

  The Guzmans lived on South Twelfth Street, a street name that made Posadas sound like more than the sleepy village it was. I headed for their place by my usual direct route, under the interstate on Grande, then north to the intersection with Bustos Avenue by Pershing Park.

  I wasn’t sure what I was looking at, or thinking about. Maybe it was the cloud bank off in the southwest, hanging low over the San Cristobal mountains, promising the first fall storm. Maybe I was wondering what Wesley Crocker had found in his exploration of Bennett’s Road north of town. Maybe I was still stewing about Maria Ibarra. Who the hell knew.

  Whatever it was that preoccupied my mind, it was a good thing that our postmistress, Carla Champlin, was looking where she was going. My shiny new Blazer, with 206 miles on the odometer, sailed right through the stoplight at Grande and Bustos. I realized the light was red only after I’d passed underneath it, commanding the intersection like I owned the road. The spinster Champlin, bless her heart, saw me coming, and had time to stand on the brakes for all her spindly legs were worth.

  Her
eastbound station wagon screamed to a halt in a cloud of blue rubber smoke, skewed slightly sideways as she wrenched the steering wheel to the left. Her vehicle’s bumper missed bashing the Blazer’s left rear quarter-panel by inches. I didn’t even have time to wave a greeting. As if no one were on the street but me, I continued through the intersection and turned westbound on Bustos.

  When my heart started beating again and I stopped swearing, I glanced in my rearview mirror. Her car was pulling away, none the worse for wear except for the flat spots on her tires. It was twilight, and perhaps in the failing light she hadn’t recognized me. I knew that was wishful thinking, since she’d had a broadside view of my startled face. Besides that, Carla Champlin never missed anything. I would get the full withering treatment next time I snuck in the post office.

  I took a deep breath and muttered a curse-studded prayer of thanksgiving that Posadas was tiny, it was dinner hour, the football game was out of town, and that every other grace had resulted in there being only Carla Champlin and me on the street at that moment.

  Estelle Reyes-Guzman opened the door before my finger could touch the doorbell. She took one look at my face and her eyes narrowed. As she stepped aside to let me in, her head cocked a little sideways. Her radar was working overtime, and as usual, it was dead accurate.

  “What happened?” she asked, not sounding worried, but rather conversational, as if I were inspecting the sole of my boots after walking past the dog run. Before I could answer, the Guzman’s two-year-old son catapulted into the room, saw me, and stopped short.

  “Padrino is here!” Francis Jr. bellowed and charged toward me. How the genes of two such reserved and quiet parents had produced this tiny human windbag, even Gregor Mendel wouldn’t be able to figure out. A lusty roar was the kid’s idea of a whisper. I cringed from the attack, not because I didn’t like the child, but because I was feeling a little frail around the edges. Estelle gracefully intercepted him and locked him in a bear hug.

  “Yes, kid, he’s here,” Estelle said, nuzzling his ear and using my nickname for Francis Jr. The two-year-old squirmed and cackled, but Estelle held him fast. She looked at me, eyes still assessing. “You look pale, sir.”