Steven Havill - Privileged to Kill

“I have no idea, sir.”

“You took the call?”

“Yes, sir.”

“On the regular business line, not 911?” He nodded and I added, “And the caller wouldn’t give a name?”

He shook his head.

“Did you ask?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Was it a man or woman?”

“A male voice, sir. If I had to guess, I’d say teenager. Late teens, maybe.”

“But you didn’t recognize the voice, then. Exactly what did the person say?”

“He said that there was a child’s body under the bleachers by the football field. He said the body was right beside the center foundation.”

“That’s the term he used? A child’s body?”

“Yes, sir.”

“He didn’t say, ‘a hurt child’ or anything like that? He actually said those three words…‘a child’s body’?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that in the first place?”

“Sir?”

“When I saw you over at the school earlier, you said that someone called you,” and I used the eraser of my pencil to push the small pages of my notebook until I found the spot. “Someone called you to report a ‘possible downer.’ That’s what you called it. A ‘possible downer.’

Pasquale looked confused. “It’s just a slang expression, sir.”

I looked at the young officer and counted mentally to ten. When I had my temper under control, I said, “Let’s have an understanding, Officer Pasquale. We are in the middle of a homicide investigation. The apparent victim is a child, and we have a man in custody. This might be a nice time to dispense with slang and stick to facts and correct terminology. Does that sound reasonable to you?”

Pasquale flushed. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Holman finally sit down, backward, buckaroo-style, on one of the straight-backed chairs. He was probably happy as a clam to have me angry with someone besides himself.

“Yes, sir,” Pasquale said, and I silently commended him on his self-control. He could have said, “Look, I don’t work for you, you fat old son-of-a-bitch. Get off my back.” And there wouldn’t have been much I could have done, except bluster.

I softened my tone one click and asked, “So when you responded, you did not assume that the call was a crank call…a joke. You felt there was some chance that you were responding to a possible death, even though the caller did not use the emergency number?”

“Yes, sir. That’s the way the boy’s tone of voice impressed me.”

“You thought he was serious,” I said, and Pasquale nodded. “But you didn’t think it was necessary to call for any backup? You knew that Sergeant Torrez was working the county, did you not?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Was he busy?”

“Yes, sir. He had just responded to a domestic dispute call north of the village. I didn’t think it would hurt to make a preliminary check and then call for backup if necessary.”

“And so you arrived at the school. Where did you park?”

“Along Olympic, right next to the visitors’ side of the field. I jumped the fence and ran across the field.”

“Did you have your handheld radio with you?”

“Sir?”

“Your handheld. You left your patrol car, so I presume you had your portable radio with you in case you did need backup.”

Pasquale took a deep breath, and the flush rose again. “No, sir.”

“What did you do then?”

“I ran across the field, ducked under the bleachers, and saw the body. There was no response to my verbal orders, so I checked to see if the victim was alive.”

“How?”

“I felt the neck for a pulse. There wasn’t one. The skin was cool to the touch. There was no sign of respiration.” He sounded as if he were reading from a freshman criminology textbook.

I leaned back and tossed my pencil on the blotter. Before I could form the question, Martin Holman said, “And when did you first see the suspect?”

Pasquale’s head snapped around and he looked first at Holman and then at Estelle Reyes-Guzman. Estelle’s expression was politely expectant.

“I saw him as I ran back toward the patrol car. He was standing by the fence, over at the east end of the field. Outside the fence. I remember seeing his bicycle. It was leaning against the fence.”

“The arc lights are pretty bright there, aren’t they,” Holman said helpfully.

“Yes, sir. There are two right at the end of the field.”

“You had satisfied yourself that the victim was dead, and then you approached the suspect,” I said.

“Yes, sir.”

“You didn’t think that with a homicide on your hands, it might be a good idea to call for backup from an experienced, certified officer?” I asked.

Pasquale looked at the floor and took a deep breath, almost a sigh. “I suppose so, sir. I did go back to the car first, though. I heard Sergeant Torrez tell dispatch that he’d be ten-ten for a little while. I was going to call in, but then I didn’t want there to be any chance of the suspect slipping away. I didn’t see any reason that I couldn’t handle it alone. And I had seen him earlier, over at the convenience store. I knew he was an older guy. I knew he was a vagrant.”

I reached out and took the pencil again, toying with it. “A vagrant? You mean if I decided to ride a bicycle across the country, that makes me a vagrant?” With my girth, it would have made me dead, but no one in the room smirked.

“No. That’s not what I mean. I mean, he had everything he owned on that bike of his. So, a homeless guy. Not necessarily vagrant. Homeless.”

“Why did you arrest him, Officer Pasquale?”

“Sir?”

“Why did you take him into custody? On what evidence?”

“I asked him how long he’d been camping near the field. He couldn’t tell me, other than that maybe it had been since just after dark. Since it was nearly two by then, I figured the chances were excellent that the victim had been killed, or dumped, since Mr. Crocker had arrived at the field. He had to know something about it. But he said he didn’t. So I informed him of his rights and took him into custody.”

“I asked you this once before, but I’ll ask again. Did he resist in any way?”

“No, sir, he did not. In fact he was unusually cooperative.”

“Do you know why he was cooperative?” I asked.

Pasquale’s forehead wrinkled and he shook his head. “No, sir, I don’t suppose I do. Except he must have known that there was nowhere he was going to go.”

“How true. And then you took him to the village lockup?”

“Yes, sir. I was about to call the sheriff’s office when Deputy Eddie Mitchell arrived.”

“One more general thing, Officer Pasquale, and then we’ll want to go over this again. When you saw Mr. Crocker at the convenience store, what time was that?”

“I’d have to look at my patrol log, sir. But I would guess it was about eight-thirty or so.”

“Were you responding to a call when you saw him?”

“A call at the store? No, sir. I stopped to talk to a group of middle-school youngsters who were in the parking lot.”

“What were they doing?”

“I saw two of them making obscene gestures at a passing motorist, sir.”

“Ah. So you were busy with them and chose to ignore Mr. Crocker.”

“Yes, sir. And I can see that was a mistake, sir. If I’d stopped to talk to him then, maybe that little girl would still be alive.”

I decided to let Officer Thomas Pasquale agonize over that judgment call without assistance for a while. It would be cause for some long, sleepless nights. And maybe that was just what he needed.

By half past four, we’d pounded Officer Thomas Pasquale long enough. We’d had no word from Dr. Guzman, and Sergeant Torrez hadn’t returned from working the identification of the dead child.