Steven Havill - Privileged to Kill

“They didn’t have their headlights turned on?” Wesley Crocker shook his head. “And how long was it from the time the two vehicles drove away to the time the police officer arrived?”

Crocker frowned. “Well, like I say, one of ’em left first, then the other after a few minutes. And I’d say that it was fifteen minutes after that when the police car showed up. Maybe twenty at the most.”

“And that’s it.”

“Yes, sir.” Crocker didn’t bother tacking on the I’m telling the truth…why don’t you believe me? that kids do when they’re lying through their teeth.

Estelle Reyes-Guzman tapped the eraser of her pencil on the table thoughtfully.

“Mr. Crocker, who are you?”

“Ma’am?” Crocker said uneasily.

“Who are you?” Her black eyes held Crocker without blinking. “An officer is working up a background check, but save us some time.”

“Well, I…I been around a bit. Like I said, the good Lord has seen to bless me with my health, and there’s a lot of this country I still want to see.”

“Do you work?”

He shook his head. “No, ma’am. I mean, not at any one thing for any length of time.”

“Why not?”

He frowned at that, and spent a handful of minutes sifting possible answers. He settled for a shrug. “It’s not my way, I guess. Now and then, maybe, for a little while. And then it always seems more important to me to be movin’ on.”

“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.”

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.”