Steven Havill - Privileged to Kill

“Yes. And her locker is basically empty. A few books, is all. Nothing else. This first section is her math, and you can see that she kept each day’s problem set, or sets, in order. The math teacher checks them right in the notebook, so she didn’t have to tear them out. She did problem set 19 on October 2. That’s probably either the day she arrived, or the day after.”

“All right.

“The next section in the notebook is history, and again, we can see how neat she was. It’s hard to tell from what little is there what kind of work she was doing, but it’s neat. The next section is language arts. Vocabulary words, reading assignments, things like that.”

“Where is all this going?” I asked.

“To the back cover, sir. We go past language arts, and the next section, her biology notes, are all on one page.”

“If she didn’t speak much English, it’s hard to imagine her being able to do much in a science class,” I said. “They’re hard enough if you speak the language.”

“Right. And then there is a section for her afternoon classes, including Spanish.” She didn’t tour all the pages, but rifled through quickly. “As we might expect, most of the notebook is still blank.” When she reached the back cover, she said, “And she’s so organized and fastidious that she keeps the inside covers clean. Most kids doodle all over the place.”

“Maybe she wasn’t a doodler.”

“She was, in the appropriate place.” Estelle backed up through several pages. “Actually, more of a graphics designer.” I looked at the drawing in front of me.

“Huh,” I said. The ballpoint pen drawing was a thoroughly detailed three-dimensional rendering of a massive stone crucifix with rose vines twining around it. Each of the five rose blossoms was deeply shaded, somber flowers that would have been appropriate for any funeral. “Pretty good. You see that kind of thing on T-shirts and in the back windows of low-riders.”

“And in many notebooks, I’m sure,” Estelle said and turned the page. “Along with this sort of thing, as well.” Scattered around the page, with other, smaller crosses here and there, were the ubiquitous badges of what teenage girls thought was important…the love matches.

I’d seen them spray-painted on every highway underpass in Posadas, and on half of the blank back walls of businesses. Paco y Esmeralda , or Tiffany ’n Sammy , or Freddy loves Tomasita . They came in endless variations.

In her notebook, Maria Ibarra had tried out only one combination of names, but in ten or twelve styles.

In script varying from simple block to balloon to old English, the legend was always the same: MI y RH .

“Maria Ibarra and Ryan House,” I said.

“Or Maria Ibarra and Richard Hiliger,” Estelle added, “or Maria Ibarra and Richard Hernandez.”

“You’re saying that those are all of the RH combinations at Posadas High School?”

Estelle nodded. “Richard Hiliger is in the special education program for students with profound learning disabilities. He’s wheelchair restricted and needs help feeding himself.” Estelle grimaced. “Odds are good it isn’t him. Hernandez is a sophomore. Right now he’s on a week-long field trip with the FFA program to Kansas City. The high school principal knows him well, since he’s always on the top honors list. Archer’s comment was that if Hernandez got within five feet of a girl, he’d probably dissolve with fright.”

“That too shall pass,” I said. “But it’s more interesting to think that ‘RH’ means Ryan House. And if it’s House, then we’ve got a good reason for a pickup truck with Ryan House in it to be interested in Wesley Crocker.”

I stepped away from the desk and toed the door of my den closed. “If Ryan House was somehow involved with the Ibarra girl’s death, and if he thought that Wesley Crocker had seen them…or had even caught a glimpse of their vehicle in the dark…”

“Maybe, sir.”

“Let’s say that Ryan House was riding in the truck driven by Dennis Wilton when it hit Crocker. Why, exactly, we don’t know. They go home and panic, seeing the bent grille guard. So, being the clever souls that they are, they take off the damaged guard, clean up the truck, and take off to the game for cover.”

Estelle nodded, but said nothing. I continued, “Impact with that boulder did a pretty thorough job of erasing evidence of the collision. In most people’s minds, entirely adequate, unless you look really close.” I stopped and frowned. “No one would take that kind of risk,” I said when the silence began to thicken.

My stomach growled, but I ignored it. Estelle reached into her briefcase and pulled out a small manila envelope. She produced three finger print cards and laid them side by side on the desk. One set was so clear it looked like it had been rolled at the office. The other was smeared and appeared to be only the bottom portion, across the lower third of the finger pad. The third was a print taken at the autopsy for Ryan House.

“This one,” Estelle said, and indicated the complete print on the first card, “is from a drinking glass used by Dennis Wilton at the hospital earlier today. It matches ten for ten with prints on file when the Wiltons applied for passports two years ago when they went to England. This one I lifted from the seatbelt buckle of the crash truck this morning.”

“It’s not very clear.”

“No, it’s not. But if you look in this area,” and she pointed with a pencil while she handed me a magnifying glass at the same time, “you’ll see enough similarities that you could imagine a match. Maybe one and a half, maybe two out of ten.”

I bent and studied the prints. “I’d like to see this under a stereo,” I said.

“That doesn’t help much, but some.”

I stood up with a grunt. “And so what. It’s the kid’s own truck. You’d expect to see his prints all over it.”

“This was taken from the passenger side seatbelt buckle, sir.” She indicated a point beside her left hip. “The lock side.”

“So?”

“This is a thumbprint, sir. It’s just about impossible to press the release of your own belt with your thumb. On either side, you’d do it with your index finger. Unless you were releasing the other person’s belt. If he reached across to unsnap the passenger’s buckle, he’d use his thumb, no matter which hand he used. If he reached across with his left hand”-and Estelle did so-“he’d use his thumb. If he reached down with his right hand, he’d use his right thumb.”

I sat down on the edge of my desk and crossed my arms over my belly, regarding Estelle skeptically. “What would be the point?”

“The point, sir, would be to kill Ryan House.”

Estelle Reyes-Guzman sat quietly while I mulled over that bombshell. Finally I said, “Do you have some reason to suggest that Dennis Wilton may have wanted to murder his best friend?”

“He’d have to be halfway suicidal to go about it like that, anyway. There are a thousand and one ways something could go wrong.”

“That’s true, sir. And I’ve been thinking a lot about that in the past few hours. The crash of that pickup truck into that rock is interesting in all kinds of ways. It’s an interesting set of circumstances. First, it appears that the truck was aimed at the rock, from the beginning. It never swerved, even after tearing through a fence.”

She stopped and looked at me, left eyebrow raised while I digested that information. “I’ve never tried it, sir, but I would think it would actually take some work to keep a vehicle going on track while it bumped and banged across a rough shoulder, through a fence, and then another hundred feet to the target.”