Steven Havill - Privileged to Kill

I’d known George for twenty-four years. We’d stood in front of his shop on summer afternoons, soaking in the sun, chatting about this and that. And we’d gone for coffee hundreds of times, ducking our heads against the winter chill. We’d both had large families, and now we were both living alone, probably both trying not to think too hard about next week. I’d never been in his house, and he’d never been in mine.

Over the years, George Payton had assisted the sheriff’s department in a number of ways…and what he didn’t know about firearms wasn’t worth knowing.

I’d always suspected that George didn’t need the income from his small gun and tackle shop just off Pershing. There was nowhere to fish within fifty miles-not that distance ever deterred the avid fisherman-and his firearm sales had to be equally slow.

He made exquisite muzzle-loading rifles by hand, maybe one a year. That was his first love.

Now that he was alone, George Payton lived in a small apartment behind his shop. He greeted Estelle and me with a frown and a mumble and waved us inside. His firearm sales records were in large, black-bound ledgers in a bookcase in his office, kept in addition to the yellow federal forms that the ATF demanded.

“Who are you after tonight?” he asked, and he squinted through his bottle-bottom glasses at me. “And you look like shit, as always.”

“Thanks, George. We need to find the serial number of a.22 rifle purchased from you in 1992. Either in late August or early September.”

“Well, that’s easy enough, as long as you know who bought it.”

“We do. At least we know who says he bought it.”

“Well, have at it,” Payton said. He ran a hand along the volumes, pulled 1992 off the shelf, and laid it on the table. Estelle opened the cover and leafed through the pages, scanning down the left margin. With Payton’s business, the scan didn’t take long.

“September 8,” she said and silently read across the columns of name, address, make, model, and caliber. I held out the copy of Chief Martinez’s report and she read the serial number. I watched the numbers click off, in perfect order.

“Bingo,” I said.

George Payton stood quietly by, his myopic eyes sleepy and uninterested. He didn’t ask again who we were after, and he didn’t invite us to stay for dessert. We were probably interrupting his favorite television show.

We left the shop with the ledger and a copy of the ATF form that Dustin Wilton had filled out four years before.

“The kid lied to his father about the rifle…Either that or the father is making up stories to protect his son,” I said to Estelle when we were back in the car.

“The only trouble is,” she replied, “he could have given the gun to Rudy Davila, or sold it to him. There’s nothing illegal about that. It’s Vanessa Davila’s word against his. And if Vanessa testifies that she saw Dennis Wilton climb out of her brother’s window after the shots, then that doesn’t help much either. He could deny that he was ever there, or he could say that he was there and was trying to talk Rudy out of it. He could say it was an accident and that after it happened, he just panicked.”

“He could say lots of things,” I agreed. “And if he didn’t actually pull the trigger, then the most he’s guilty of is assisting suicide. That’s just a fourth-degree felony in this state.”

“He’s clever,” Estelle said.

“Tell me something,” I said and twisted sideways in the seat. “There’s something about Vanessa Davila that makes you want to believe her story, hook, line, and sinker. What is it?”

“It’s just that there’s too much rage there,” she said. “If Dennis Wilton had nothing to do with her brother’s death, I don’t think Vanessa is bright enough to make up a story like that. And there wouldn’t have been any reason to. Not after four years.” She thumped the heels of her hands on the steering wheel. “I think she sees something in all this that we don’t see, sir.”

“She sees Dennis Wilton in school every day, for one thing.”

“I wonder what he’ll do,” Estelle said.

“Who?”

“Wilton. You know, if we’re right, he’s sailing along on a cloud of self-confidence a mile thick. It’s been four years since the Davila case was closed, with a no-questions-asked ruling. And he’s gotten his share of sympathy from the wreck last night. This is about the time he’s feeling invincible.”

I watched Estelle’s face as she guided the patrol car back into the parking lot of the sheriff’s office. She pulled 310 into the slot, pushed the gear lever into park, and turned toward me.

“In order to collect any evidence about the sedative, we’re going to have to show our hand, sir. We don’t know where the drug came from, but if it was close at hand, my first guess is the Wiltons’ medicine cabinet. There’s the possibility that Ryan House got it himself. We don’t know. As soon as we start digging into that, there are going to be some very unhappy people. More so than there are right now.”

“You want Wilton now?”

She nodded slowly. “We’ve got Vanessa Davila’s story. We’ve got someone caught in a lie about a rifle…either Wilton or his father. We’ve got a lie about a seatbelt. We have the bent grille guard. We have Wesley Crocker’s statement that the vehicle that struck him was a pickup truck, and that he saw it earlier in the day with two occupants, and that he can identify it.”

“Pieces, pieces, pieces,” I said. “I don’t want this kid on hit-and-run, or failure to report a death, or assisting a suicide. If he popped Ryan House’s seatbelt buckle with the intent of sending him through the windshield, then he’s guilty of murder.”

“Yes, sir. We can’t prove the seatbelt yet, but we’ve got plenty of ammunition to set up a powerful bluff. We have enough evidence to talk Judge Hobart and the DA into an arrest warrant. That will give us some time. We can see how Wilton reacts.”

“He’s arrogant enough that it should come as a pretty powerful surprise,” I said with satisfaction.

“And we need the time,” Estelle said. “If it was Dennis Wilton who gave old Manny Orosco a spiked bottle of wine, it may take us a day or two to track down the liquor sales.”

I looked at her with astonishment. “You think he might have done that, too?”

“It wouldn’t surprise me a bit.”

“What would be the point?” And I knew the answer at the same time the question left my lips.

“If Dennis Wilton never intended for Maria to come home alive that night, it makes a lot of sense. Drunk as Orosco was most of the time, he still might have been able to identify a face.”

“But Wilton couldn’t have been certain that the bottle would have killed the old man.”

“No. But at the very least, it would have made him so drunk he wouldn’t have remembered a thing. And that’s all part of the kick. Wilton takes his entertainment where he can.”

“You’re not painting a very pretty picture, Estelle.”

“No, sir. And none of it is what Maria Ibarra hoped to find when she came here.”

At 9:07 that night, Thomas Pasquale parked his patrol unit on the west end of Grant Avenue where it T’d into Sixth Street, a hundred yards away from the Wilton residence. I hoped that would be far enough away to keep him out of trouble.

Deputy Tom Mears parked at the east end of Grant. With those two officers as bookends, Posadas Police Chief Eduardo Martinez, Sheriff Martin Holman, Sergeant Robert Torrez, Estelle Reyes-Guzman, and I arrived in front of the Wilton residence without fanfare or notice.

The chief had voiced neither misgivings nor surprise when we filled him in. Ever cautious, he rode with Bob Torrez on this particular call, leaving Tom Pasquale in the dark at the end of the street. I got the impression that the sooner the mess was cleaned up and he could sit back down in front of his television set, the happier he would be.