Steven Havill - Privileged to Kill

“You have a passion for military history,” Crocker observed.

“I’ve always believed that our wars define us,” I answered. “And that’s not an original observation by any means. But let me ask you a question, Mr. Crocker.” He turned with one hand still resting on the shelving. “How is it that a man who has spent his life traveling, observing, learning”-I paused, my hands still in front of my mouth-“and remembering …How is it that you can spend so long doing that, and when it comes to suspicious, maybe violent, activity within one hundred yards of you, you see nothing?”

Crocker dropped his hand to his crutch and stood quietly, eyebrows knit.

“And how is it that you can walk down a quiet street,” I continued, “and not see the single vehicle that struck you? Not see it either coming or going. Now how is that? Someone who can see the faint wagon rut traces of Bennett’s Road from a mile away doesn’t notice whether it’s an automobile, a pickup truck, or a tractor trailer that hits him. How is that?”

I hooked my hands behind my head and let the leather recliner cradle me. Crocker looked back at the books, but I knew I was right. He sure as hell wasn’t thinking about the War of 1812.

“You know, in thirty years I ain’t done anything illegal, except maybe a little trespass now and then.” Crocker leaned against the oak fascia of the bookcases and looked down at the floor. I kept quiet. “Nothing would please me more than you folks finding out who murdered that little girl.”

“A small point,” I said. “She wasn’t murdered.”

Crocker looked at me blankly. “I thought that’s what everyone was thinking.”

“Only in the beginning. But the autopsy shows that she choked to death. A piece of pizza crust with a big gob of cheese and pepperoni.”

“My Lord,” Crocker whispered. “And then somebody just dumped her there under those bleachers?”

“It appears so. It would be a hell of a dismal place to have a picnic.”

“Now who would go and do a thing like that?”

“That’s what we want to know, Mr. Crocker. And I think you know more than you’re telling us.”

He stepped away from the bookcase, holding himself on his crutches. “Now this is the God’s honest truth, Sheriff. I camped under those trees, and sure enough I noticed there were two vehicles parked behind the high school, there. I could even hear a voice now and then, but I couldn’t make out what was bein’ said. That’s a dark place, and the only thing I could see was taillights. I couldn’t tell you what those lights belonged to, car or truck.”

“And no one opened a door while you were looking?”

“No, sir. At least, if they did, no inside light came on.”

“And you didn’t see one or both of the vehicles go over toward the bleachers?”

“No, sir. And that’s the God’s honest truth.”

“What about later, when you got hit?”

After just a couple heartbeats’ hesitation, Crocker said, “That was a Ford pickup truck.”

“Color?”

“If I had to say…” He paused and frowned. “Real dark color. Maybe blue, or brown, or black, or dark green. Something like that.”

“Just one color?”

“Far as I saw.” He bit his lip, sheepish.

“How did you know what make it was?”

This time, Crocker smiled. “Because it said so in great big letters on the tailgate, sir.”

“That’s always a sure giveaway,” I replied and pushed myself out of my chair. “Coffee?” Crocker nodded. “Take anything in it?” He shook his head. A couple minutes later, when I handed him the cup, I asked, “So tell me, why didn’t you tell us this twenty-four hours ago?”

Crocker set the coffee cup down and lowered himself into one of the other leather chairs. “Well, sir, I just got to thinking. I didn’t figure I was hurt bad, and I thought I could fix up the bike or get another one easy enough. But if I said anything, then I’d get all tied up with the law somehow. Hit-and-run is pretty serious business, ain’t it?”

“A felony.”

“See there? And I got to thinking about me having to testify and all that…and if the driver got himself a good lawyer, then there’d be delays. My soul, I could end up here in this fair little town for a year. Maybe longer.”

“And that’s surely a fate worse than death,” I said. “Did you see the driver? You said if the driver got himself …”

Crocker shook his head quickly. “No, I didn’t see who it was. That was just a manner of speakin’. But I think there was two in that truck. As they drove away and turned up that street on the other side of the park, I could see what I thought was two heads, there, silhouetted by the streetlights.”

“They went up past the park?”

“Yes, sir. Turned at that first left and went up that way.”

“Is there anything else about the truck you remember?”

Crocker sipped coffee and closed his eyes. Finally he said, “No, sir.”

“Couldn’t see a grille guard, or lights out, or anything like that?” He shook his head, but he was still frowning. “What else?” I prompted.

“Well, now, sir, I couldn’t swear to this, so I hate to say it.”

“Say it anyway.”

“Well, it seems to me that I saw the truck earlier in the afternoon, when I was ridin’ back into town from the north, there.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Well, that’s all there is to tell. I was ridin’ back into town, ridin’ on that county road that comes in from the north.”

“Forty-three.”

“That’s the one. Goes on out of town and up the mesa past the village dump. That truck came out of town, passed me by, and then went on up the road a quarter of a mile or so, and turned around. They drove back and passed me kinda fast. Didn’t seem like they give me much room, neither.”

“And you think that truck was the same one that hit you?”

“I think it was. Like I say, I wouldn’t swear to it. But I think so.”

“And you didn’t see any distinguishing features then, either?”

“None that I noticed. Just looked like a common truck to me.”

“And you didn’t notice who was in it?”

“No. But I think there was maybe just the one person driving. That’s the way I remember it.”

“What time was all this?”

“Oh, I suppose just about sundown. I was just startin’ to think it was a good time to get off the road. Maybe find myself something to eat.”

“Huh,” I said and gazed into my coffee.

“You’re thinkin’ that there’s some connection between that little girl dying and that truck, is what I see in your face.”

“We don’t know that yet. We have two isolated incidents, and the only common factor to both of them is you…maybe.” I looked at Crocker, unblinking. He didn’t know what to say and settled for a helpless shrug.

“What I’ve told you is all I know, sir. God’s honest truth.”

Estelle Reyes-Guzman’s light, rapid knock on the front door startled me, and she opened it and stepped into the foyer before I could pry myself vertical. I waved her into my den, leaving Wesley Crocker in the living room to wonder by himself what we were up to.

“I should have known to look here before,” Estelle said by way of greeting, and she laid her briefcase on my desk and snapped open the locks.

“Look where?”

She opened the briefcase and pulled out the blue notebook that we had found among Maria Ibarra’s few belongings in the truck. She laid her hand flat on the cover and looked at me. “Kids write notes and all kinds of things in their notebooks,” she said.

“Sure,” I said.

With one fingernail, she flipped the notebook open. On the inside cover, in tiny, neat script, was Maria Ibarra’s schedule-all eight periods, including the names of the teachers. Below that were three numbers: 39-17-50. I tapped them with my finger. “Her locker combination?”