Steven Havill - Privileged to Kill

“Anything?”

She glanced at her watch. “I’m sure they’re still at it, sir. They were going to go through every notebook, everything they can find.”

“All right, that’s good. Keep Pasquale after Vanessa Davila. If he gets tired, rotate someone in. I still have a feeling that she’s more than just a grieving friend. Grieving friends talk to people…they don’t clam up like that. That leaves us with young Mister Wilton.”

“I’d like to talk with him again, sir. I talked with him briefly right after the crash. Holman was busy with Mr. and Mrs. House, and I had only a few minutes at the hospital to talk with Wilton’s parents.”

“What did you think?”

“They’re terrified, sir.”

“Terrified?”

“I asked them for consent for a blood test. They agreed, and then afterward, when it was too late, they put two and two together. They know that if anything shows up, Dennis will be sued for wrongful death…and he’s a minor, which means it falls back on them.”

“How thoughtful and compassionate they are,” I mused.

“I’m sure they managed to work a little grief in there somewhere,” Estelle said.

“Maybe. Now listen. When you talk with this kid, don’t spook him.” I realized as the words were being uttered that they were a waste. Estelle was a far more competent interrogator than I.

But she just nodded and said, “I won’t, sir. I’m really curious to hear how he’s going to describe the accident, now that he’s out of the sedative. And now that we know a few more details.”

“Or at least we think we know,” I said. “Crocker says now that it was a dark-colored pickup truck that hit him. He didn’t want to say anything earlier for fear of being caught up in something that would keep him in town.”

Estelle cocked her head and looked at me askance. “That’s what he says?”

I nodded.

“Well, maybe,” she said.

“Something nags about that?”

“No, I guess not.” She looked at the door, as if she could see Crocker through the oak panels. “Wesley Crocker is a person far, far beyond my experience, sir. I’m not sure that those of us who are nest oriented can ever understand him.” She pushed herself out of her chair with unaccustomed effort. “If it was Wilton’s truck that hit him, the paint samples will prove it.”

“If you get a match, then we need a warrant to search for that bent grille guard, Estelle. Five gets you ten that it’s tucked inside his dad’s garage.”

“Or at the bottom of the lake up at the old quarry.”

“Maybe so,” I said. “He’s not going anywhere, but it wouldn’t hurt to have Tom Mears or Tony Abeyta park themselves down the street and keep an eye peeled. Tell ’em to use their own vehicles. And keep someone on Vanessa. Nobody is going anywhere, so we can afford to sit back and watch and wait for some lab reports to tell us which way to go.”

“If anything comes from the locker search, I’ll let you know,” Estelle said, and I followed her back out into the foyer. Wesley Crocker was still in the living room, resting with his leg up, his head back and eyes closed. At the sound of the door, he turned his head and grinned, waving a hand at Estelle.

“Good to see you again, miss.”

Estelle nodded and glanced at me, the crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes just a little deeper than they needed to be. She didn’t say “What a pair,” but I had a suspicion she was thinking it.

The sun’s schedule had very little to do with my own. I had learned that simple lesson over the years, and that’s probably what had contributed more than anything else to my colossal insomnia. After Estelle left, I glanced at my watch, thinking that a two-hour nap might be the proper medicine. But other things nagged, and seven minutes after ten on a late-October Saturday morning was as good a time as any to find normal folks at home.

When I walked back through the living room, Wesley Crocker didn’t bother to open an eye, and his lower jaw was going slack as he sank into the comfort and quiet of the place. It was enough to make me yawn, but I plodded on into the kitchen and thumbed through the phone directory.

Stub Moore answered his phone on the tenth ring, and he didn’t sound alert. I glanced outside through my newly trimmed, painted, and cleaned kitchen window and saw no sun filtering down through the bare limbs. With the weather chilling and the sky gray, people were going to start hibernating.

“Stub, this is Bill Gastner.”

“Yo,” he said, and let it go at that. He knew damn well it wasn’t a social call. I didn’t need to keep him long. Like so many expert school-bus drivers, he knew the youngsters and he knew their habits. He gave me what I needed in less than two minutes. Estelle had said that Moore had given her a list of students as well, and when the bus driver hung up the phone, he was probably shaking his head, wondering if the investigating cops ever talked to each other.

With his short list of names in hand, I went into my bedroom and changed clothes, donning the most comfortable and least threatening civilian clothes I could find-a pair of heather-green corduroy slacks and a wool checkered shirt that my daughter had sent me for my birthday. And like the honest soul she was, she hadn’t bothered to try to stroke my feelings by sending something several sizes too small. It was a checkered tent, and it fit my mounds like an absurd, huge glove.

With a light tan jacket to hide the threat of gun and cuffs, I left the house to a sleeping Wesley Crocker.

A few minutes after ten-thirty, I pulled into a driveway on Hidalgo Loop, behind the middle school off MacArthur. I parked 310 behind a late-model foreign sedan and beside a Volkswagen bus.

I had known Maryanne Scutt for twenty years. She had two daughters, and hadn’t seen her husband since the older daughter turned three. She’d probably sold more real estate in Posadas County over the years than any other two Realtors put together. She answered the doorbell, and when she saw me her eyebrows came together quickly, and then her face smoothed as she composed herself.

“Sheriff, good morning,” she said. She didn’t open the screen door.

I smiled faintly and nodded. “Morning, Mrs. Scutt. We’re still in the process of investigating that fatality from last night.” I waved a hand aimlessly off toward the east. “The one out on 78.”

“Wasn’t that awful,” she said, and meant it.

“Yes, it was. We’re doing some routine follow-ups. The school-bus driver said that your daughter was a passenger on the game bus. Is that correct?”

“Yes, she was.”

“I wonder if I might talk with her for a few minutes.” I saw the worry on the woman’s face. “Apparently she was sitting on the side of the bus where she would have seen the vehicle when it passed. There’re a couple things I’d like to ask her. And I’d like you to be present,” I added.

“Well, sure,” she said, and pushed open the screen door. “She isn’t up yet, but let me get her.” She indicated the living room, and I walked over to a padded straight chair that sat beside the blocked-off fireplace whose wood and brickwork were painted gloss white.

The place smelled like a mix of a hundred different perfumes and powders. I could feel my sinuses starting to swell shut. The chair looked as if it was sturdy enough, and I eased myself down onto it to wait.

In a few minutes Mrs. Scutt reappeared with young Gail, a pretty towhead high school sophomore, plainly embarrassed at having a stranger see her dressed in a bathrobe.

They both perched on the sofa. “Gail,” I said, “I’m Undersheriff William Gastner.” I smiled. “I think the last time I saw you was when you were about this long.” I held my hands a couple of feet apart, but Gail didn’t care when I’d seen her. She shifted nervously and tried a brave smile.