Steven Havill - Privileged to Kill

Dustin, DeeDee, and Dennis, I thought. Eighteen years before, the proud parents had probably entertained all kinds of cute thoughts.

“Ma’am,” I said by way of greeting. I thrust my hands into my pockets, trying to look as casual as possible. “The results of the blood test on your son are in, and I just wanted to tell you folks in person that it was clean in every respect.”

I saw relief on their faces and DeeDee Wilton said, “He told us that he hadn’t been drinking.”

“Then he told you the truth, ma’am. The boys were just plain tired after the excitement of the game. It looks like he just dosed off. Just for a second, but that’s all it takes.”

Dustin Wilton shook his head. “I’ll tell you what I think happened,” he said, and his voice rose a notch or two. “I think some son-of-a-bitch drunk probably swerved into their lane and run ’em right off the road.”

“That’s something we’re pursuing,” I said easily, knowing that it was pointless to argue. If that pipe dream made them feel better, they could cling to it all they liked.

“We needed to ask Dennis a couple of things, just to clear up the last of the paperwork, but if he’s asleep, it’s not important enough to bother him.”

“What do you need to know?”

“Well, one of the deputies mentioned that the truck didn’t have a grille guard, but that the bolts and brackets for one were there. He hadn’t found the guard at the scene, and wondered if it had been removed from the vehicle before the time of the crash.”

Dustin Wilton’s brow knit together and he looked at me as if I were senile. “Now that’s a hell of a thing to be concerned about,” he snapped.

“The officers try to be thorough,” I said mildly.

“If the guard wasn’t on the truck,” Wilton said, “then I’m sure it’s out in the shed. Every time Dennis sees the least little stone nick, he’s got to sand and paint that thing again. He might as well have gotten it chrome plated. It would have saved him a lot of time.” He looked sorrowful. “That truck was his pride and joy, Sheriff. His pride and joy.”

“Could we take a look?”

“Hell, yes. We can go right out through the kitchen.”

We did that, with Dustin Wilton never breaking stride to stop and wonder just why the hell we wanted to see a grille guard, or what difference it made whether it was on the truck or not. DeeDee stayed inside the house. Such was the magic of ignorance, I thought.

The barn was home to Dustin Wilton’s major hobby. Parked in the center of the floor was an ancient truck that was so pretty it took my breath away.

“Look at that,” I said in genuine admiration.

“Nineteen eighteen double T Ford,” Wilton said, and stroked one gracefully curved front fender. “We’ve got some final work to do on the oak racks in the back, and then she’s done.” He patted the metalwork. “Show-quality restoration, frame up.”

“Impressive,” I said.

“And I don’t see any grill guarde…No wait, here it is. He’s getting set to work on it,” Wilton said, as if the truck from which the guard was taken wasn’t a shapeless mess.

The guard was under one of the workbenches, and Wilton bent awkwardly to retrieve it. He grunted and grabbed the edge of the bench to support himself.

“Goddamn back,” he said, and yanked the grille guard free.

“Did you hurt yourself?” I asked.

Wilton shrugged it off. “Twisted it last week doing something stupid.”

“Isn’t age wonderful,” I said, reaching out to accept one end of the heavy guard. The right side was badly bent.

“Someone probably smacked him in the parking lot at school,” Wilton said. He lifted the guard so I could see it, then slid it back under the bench.

“Probably so,” I said, glancing at Estelle. She smiled.

“So,” Wilton said, stroking the fender of the old truck again. “That’s that. What else was it you needed to know?”

“What year did you say this was?” I asked.

“Nineteen eighteen.”

I looked inside the cab. “Wood and metal. No plastic,” I said and turned to grin at Wilton.

“Not a scrap.”

“Beautiful,” I said. “How’s she drive?”

Wilton patted the fender and grinned slyly. “Well, let me put it this way. There have been a lot of improvements in the past seventy-eight years. A lot of improvements. I’ll tell you one thing…if you set out down the road in this, you’d better keep your mind on your business. She don’t have no cruise control.” He laughed.

And no air bags and no seatbelts, I wanted to say. Instead, I asked, “Does your son work with you on this?”

“Oh, yes,” Wilton said. “In fact, I made him a promise. He graduates from college, this sweetheart is his.”

“That ought to do the trick,” I said. “This is a rough time for him. Something like this is good to keep his mind occupied.”

Wilton nodded. “In fact,” I added, “I hope you don’t take offense at an old man sticking his nose in other people’s business, but I’ve got four kids of my own…and some of them went through some tough times, too. For the next day or so, you might want to spend as much time as you can with the boy.”

“Well, sure.”

“I mean even if it involves taking off of work. He’s going to be feeling pretty alone right about now.”

“I know what you mean.”

“So, take him fishing, take him hunting…something like that. You hunt? The two of you?”

Wilton tried to put the manly bluff to it, but I could see it hurt him. “Oh, we used to. A few years back. But these kids get into high school, and I don’t know. Their world is sure different from mine. Different from what mine was, I mean.”

I nodded sympathetically. “Might do him a world of good for just the two of you to pack off in this sweetheart for a week deer-hunting up north. Something like that.”

“Well,” he said, “you know how it goes.”

“I don’t mean to be nosy,” I said, “but I noticed the elk over the fireplace inside, and figured that you two probably got out a lot.”

Wilton scoffed. “Hell, I won that at the club in a raffle.” He grinned sheepishly. “I haven’t hunted in twenty years. And the boy never took to it. I bought him a rifle once, for his twelfth birthday, as a matter of fact. Brand spanking new. Almost a hundred and fifty bucks over at George Payton’s. You know what he did with it?”

I shook my head.

“He loans it to a friend of his who’s going hunting up in Wyoming. The damn fool kid lost it. Can you imagine that?”

“Kids,” I said, and glanced at Estelle. She looked like she didn’t understand English.

I thrust out my hand as if I had all the time in the world. “Mr. Wilton, thanks for your time. We really appreciate it. And like I said, keep a close watch on the boy for a while. These things can be rough.”

He nodded and followed us out of the barn. We didn’t go back in the house, but walked around to the front yard under the glare of a sodium vapor light. DeeDee Wilton didn’t come outside, and I didn’t see Dennis’s face peering through a curtain.

I settled back in the seat of 310 and closed my eyes.

“Well done, sir,” Estelle said, and I opened my eyes and turned to see her smile.

“George Payton’s,” I said and pointed down the road.

Estelle pulled the car into gear. “What do you suppose Mr. Wilton takes for his sore back?” she asked.

“I was thinking the same thing,” I said.

George Payton and I were the same age and damn near the same weight. There the similarity ended. While my blood pressure was finding new and creative ways to bust pipes, George’s personal demons were diabetes mixed with equal parts glaucoma and gout.