Steven Havill - Privileged to Kill

“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.

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.”