Steven Havill: Privileged to Kill

Holman snorted derisively. “He’s just sitting there, hoping he can use his ‘get out of jail free’ card. I haven’t let anyone upstairs other than Howard Bishop. Howard’s keeping the suicide watch.”

I sighed and dropped the plastic spoon on the pad of paper towels.

“You ready to go on up?” Holman asked.

“I want to wait for Estelle.”

“Is Chief Martinez still out at the school?”

I nodded. I didn’t add what we both knew…that at the first opportunity, Chief Martinez would turn to Sergeant Torrez and say, “Well, you’ve got this pretty well nailed down,” and than Eduardo would nudge his big, comfortable Pontiac toward home, where he’d have the good sense to jump back in bed with his big, comfortable wife, Essie. Eduardo Martinez was chief because the Posadas council paid him $11,600 a year-three thousand less than a first-day rookie with the sheriff’s department. The village got what it paid for.

“What’s the matter?” Holman asked, and I realized with a start that I was staring vacantly at a spot about three feet under the floor tile. “What are you thinking?”

I shrugged. “Nothing, I guess,” and I started toward the stairs that led up to the three cells and the two small conference rooms on the second floor. With my hand on the bottom of the banister, I stopped and frowned. “Marty, what time did you get to the P.D.?”

“Tonight, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“I would guess maybe ten minutes before two. Something like that.”

“And someone called the police department’s number to report the body, not 911?”

“I assume so. Otherwise the call would have been routed through here.”

I glanced down the hall and could see our night dispatcher, Ernie Wheeler, sitting at the console, patiently waiting for something to happen.

“And the caller was anonymous.”

Holman nodded. He rubbed a hand on the side of his jaw, checking for the single, odd whisker that might have avoided his electric razor and that might end up in a photograph should the press corps be awakened. We heard the back door of the sheriff’s office open. “That should be her now,” he said, and in a moment Estelle Reyes-Guzman appeared in the dispatch hallway.

Her clothes were as plain as could be, a blouse and skirt of tan cotton that she laughingly called her “Taiwan suit” and a dark blue poplin windbreaker. Her long black hair was tousled and ignored. She still managed to look lovely. A month before she had stopped wearing the tailored pantsuits that had been her trademark. With her impeccable timing, the election would be history before she really started to show that her two-year-old son didn’t have much longer to enjoy his status as an only child.

A deep frown darkened her features. “Sir, I talked with Tom Pasquale over at the school. He said that the man in custody is an itinerant-that you gave him a lift into town yesterday?”

“Yes.”

“And that then the both of you”-she nodded at the sheriff as well-“saw him at the Don Juan after you bought him dinner?”

“Also true,” I said, and Holman’s head bobbed a little. I could see a flush crawl up from his collar. It wasn’t hard to figure out where Pasquale had heard the story.

Her frown deepened. “Maybe Pasquale knows something we don’t,” she said, half to herself.

“The man’s name is Wesley Crocker. He’s upstairs when you’re ready.”

“I’m ready,” she said.

“You want a cup of coffee or anything?”

She almost smiled at me. “No, sir.” She patted her stomach. “A green chili breakfast would taste good after a while though.”

I followed her up the stairs, with Sheriff Holman bringing up the rear.

Deputy Howard Bishop had moved Wesley Crocker to the smaller conference room, a twelve-by-fourteen affair with no windows. As we entered the room, Crocker was seated, his hands clasped in front of him on the table, handcuffed at the wrists.

“Take those off,” I said, and Bishop did so. Crocker just sat quietly, eyes fastened on the grain of the old oak table. When the notebooks and pencils and tape recorder and cassettes and manila folders were in order, I took a deep breath and said, “Mr. Crocker, I am aware that Posadas Patrolman Thomas Pasquale has informed you of your rights, but I want to go over this document with you.” I turned a printed copy of the Miranda warning and slid it until it touched his knuckles. He didn’t move.

I threaded my way, one sentence at a time, through the legalese. When I finished, Wesley Crocker nodded mutely.

“Mr. Crocker, do you understand your rights as you have read them, and as they have been explained to you?”

“Yes, sir.” His voice was husky, and his hand was already rising to take the pen I held out.

“If you have no questions, you need to sign and date the document.” He did so.

I sat down directly across the table from him. Sheriff Holman remained standing near the door, beside the hulking, red-haired Deputy Bishop. “Mr. Crocker, I think you know everyone in the room except Detective Reyes-Guzman.” Estelle sat to my right, at the end of the table. She regarded Crocker without expression.

“Yes, sir.” He turned his head and nodded at Estelle. “Good evening, ma’am.” He might as well have been talking to stone.

“Mr. Crocker, do you know why you’re here?”

“Yes, sir, I do.”

“Are you willing to talk to us without counsel?” He nodded. “I need an audible answer for the tape recorder, Mr. Crocker.”

He looked up quickly, as if he were alarmed at committing such an indiscretion. “Of course I’ll talk with you, sir. Whatever you need to know.”

“Would you state your full name?”

“Wesley Albert Crocker, Junior.”

I fingered the worn Social Security card and the faded military identification card that Pasquale had taken from Crocker’s wallet when he’d arrested him.

“How old are you, Mr. Crocker?”

“I’m fifty-one.”

“Do you have a permanent address?”

“No, sir, I don’t. I kind of use a sister’s address when there’s a need, but otherwise, no.”

“Where’s your sister live now?”

“Anaheim, California.”

“Yesterday afternoon, I picked you up on State 17 just west of town and then dropped you off in the vicinity of the Don Juan de Oñate restaurant.” Crocker nodded. “What did you do then?”

“I went and had me something to eat, is what I did.”

“You just ate and that’s all?”

He hesitated. “Well, no. It was early yet, and the young lady…”

“The hostess?”

“Yes. She said I was free to take up a booth just as long as I wanted. So seeing as it was early yet, I just sat right there and watched the weather go by.”

“You remained in the restaurant for some two or three hours?” Holman asked. “Just staring out the window?”

“Well, sir,” Wesley Crocker said, “I got to admit that I imposed a little on this good man’s generosity. I had me another plateful, not too long before you two gentlemen arrived at the restaurant.”

“So you left the restaurant shortly after six?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where did you go?”

Crocker frowned at the table. I watched his hands, watched as his right index finger traced and retraced an imperfection in the oak grain. “I walked up the main street, there. I forget the name. The waitress had said that I might try the park as a place to camp out, that probably nobody would bother me there. That’s the park you mentioned, good sir,” he said, glancing up at me. “So I did just that. I walked until I saw the old tank, just like you said, and the two cannons.”

“And you were going to camp there?”

“Well, I thought I might give it a look. I found me a spot to sit for a bit, so I could look at that old tank and wonder about how old Black Jack Pershing ever thought he was going to catch Pancho Villa using something that slow and noisy.” He grinned. “I wished the village had put one of those airplanes he used. I would have liked to have seen that. But I guess they wouldn’t weather so well, the canvas covering and all.”