Privileged to Kill by Steven F. Havill Read Free Book Online Page A

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.

6
    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.
    Sheriff Martin Holman gave up trying to keep his eyes open and headed home to bed, optimistic that when a new day dawned in a couple of hours, all his problems would have resolved themselves. We assigned Thomas Pasquale the task of locating Crocker’s alleged sister in Anaheim. I fervently hoped that the young officer couldn’t get in trouble on the telephone.
    I trudged upstairs to check on Wesley Crocker and found him sleeping soundly.
    After reminding the dispatch deputy to check on the prisoner every ten minutes, I headed for the door, ready to idle around the county for a while to give my mind a chance to sift and ponder.
    I pushed open the side door that led to the parking lot and damn near tripped over Estelle Reyes-Guzman. She was sitting on the top step like a little kid, arms circling her drawn-up knees.
    “I thought you were going home,” I said.
    “Not yet. I was just sitting here stargazing.”
    “A new hobby,” I chuckled. “Crocker could give us lessons.”
    The detective looked up at me and then unfolded and pushed herself to her feet. “Do you have fifteen minutes, sir?”
    “That’s all I have, is time,” I answered and glanced at my watch. “Give it another two hours and it’ll be time for breakfast.” We walked across the parking lot to my patrol car. “Does Irma ever squawk?”
    “About the hours, you mean? No.