Privileged to Kill

39

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.

Martin Holman had spent the afternoon searching through high school student notebooks with Glen Archer and later in the afternoon had visited with Ryan House’s parents again. According to the sheriff, they told the same story over and over again…the boy always wore his seatbelt. Always.

Holman looked at the Wiltons’ house as we pulled to a stop. He shook his head in disbelief. “You just never know, do you,” he said. Torrez parked behind us and I waved him over as I got out of the car. Holman looked at the shotgun that the sergeant carried and then at me. “Do you really think-” he started to say, then bit it off.

“I don’t think we’re going to have any problems, but you might want to cover the back,” I said to Torrez. “Chief, if you’d stay here and take care of the radio, I’d be obliged.”

Martinez ducked his head, not in the least offended at having his turf turned upside down. “Gayle Sedillos is on dispatch tonight, so you won’t have any trouble,” I added, and Martinez nodded. He held the mike in his right hand, and I could see a tremor-whether from age or anxiety, I didn’t know.

We made our way up the front walk, and somewhere a couple of houses down a dog started barking. After a couple of half-hearted yaps, he gave up.

With the front door at arm’s length, I counted to ten while I scanned the neighborhood and listened, holding my breath. I pushed the doorbell. Inside I could hear voices, but couldn’t tell if it was the television. No one answered the bell, and I pushed again. This time, faintly, I could hear the chimes inside.

We heard the deadbolt snick back and then the door opened. Dustin Wilton’s eyebrows shot up when he saw the three of us. He looked past us to the two patrol cars.

“What’s going on?” he asked. He looked at Holman. “Sheriff, I haven’t seen you around in a while. You campaigning?” He glanced at his watch.

“Mr. Wilton,” I said, “we need to talk with your son.”

“He’s asleep.” He said it as if he expected my reply to be, “Oh, gosh, I’m sorry. We’ll come back.”

“Then you’ll need to wake him up, sir,” I said. Wilton frowned and I added, “May we come in?” I gestured toward the interior with the antenna of my handheld radio.

Dustin Wilton didn’t move, and his bulk effectively blocked the doorway. “Tell me what this is about,” he said.

“Mr. Wilton, we need to talk with your son about the death of Ryan House last night. And about the death of Maria Ibarra the night before.”

“My son had nothing to do with that,” Wilton said, with the kind of instant denial that came with the turf of being a parent.

“We need to talk with him, sir,” Estelle Reyes-Guzman said, but Wilton ignored her.

“Dustin, don’t make this harder than it has to be,” Sheriff Holman said. He stepped forward and pulled open the screen storm door. “You know that we wouldn’t be here if we had the choice.” The sheriff sounded confident and in control…and surprised the hell out of me.

Wilton backed up a step and made a hopeless gesture with his hands. “Shit, come in, then. You’d think things weren’t hard enough.”

He turned and shouted toward the living room, “Dee, get Denny out here.”

DeeDee Wilton appeared and looked at us intently. “What is it?”

“More red tape,” Wilton said. “These guys have a burr up their ass and can’t wait until tomorrow. They need to ask Denny some more questions.”

“He’s asleep,” DeeDee said.

“Yeah, yeah. They heard that already. Go wake him up.”

DeeDee Wilton was gone for only a moment, and when she returned, she said, “He’s up. He’s just getting dressed.”

For thirty seconds or so, we waited in the foyer, both parents casting expectant glances down the hall, both wanting to see their one and only appear toussle-headed, sleepy-eyed, and innocent from his room. The wait was long enough that I thought more than once about Sergeant Torrez, standing out in the dark behind the house, shotgun cradled in his arms.

It was the first time since the truck crash that I’d seen Dennis Wilton. I remembered his calm face from Friday morning in Glen Archer’s office. He walked down the hallway toward us, dressed in sneakers, jeans, a white T-shirt, and a Posadas Jaguars jacket. I sensed Estelle Reyes-Guzman shifting position at my right, but I didn’t take my eyes off the youngster.

He was a young, lightweight version of his father, with a handsome square face, patrician nose, and ice-blue eyes that regarded us with wary interest.

“Son, these people want to ask you some more questions,” Dustin Wilton said. Dennis stopped two paces away and put his hands in his jacket pockets.

“What about?” he said. His voice was soft and husky.

“Dennis,” I said, before Sheriff Holman decided to jump into things, “did you sell your.22 rifle to Rudy Davila four years ago, or did you just give it to him?”

Silence hung heavy in the foyer for about the count of ten. During that time, Dennis Wilton blinked twice. A muscle in his right cheek twitched.

“What the hell…” Dustin Wilton said, finally finding his voice. “What are you talking about?” He took a step toward his son, a natural, protective reaction. I held up a hand.

“No, no,” I snapped and the father stopped in his tracks. “Son, answer the question.”

“I loaned it to him.”

“Are you talking about that rifle-” his father started to say, and then he turned to look at me. “Is this what we were talking about earlier this evening? When you brought up all that horseshit about hunting?” I nodded. Wilton turned back to his son. “You told me that you loaned it to Scottie for a hunting trip. And that he lost it.”

“I loaned it to Rudy Davila,” the boy said.

“Wasn’t he the kid who…who shot himself?” Wilton said in disbelief.

“With your son’s rifle,” I said.

“Son, is this true?” Dennis Wilton nodded silently. “You loaned him your rifle and he committed suicide with it?” Again Dennis nodded. “And you didn’t say anything?”

Dennis Wilton shrugged and looked off toward the living room.

“Holy Christ,” Wilton murmured. His wife stood by his side, one hand hooked through his elbow.

“Dennis,” I said, “we have a witness who says you were in Rudy Davila’s bedroom when he shot himself…with your rifle.”

This time, the silence lasted less than a heartbeat, not even long enough for Dennis Wilton’s parents to suck in a breath of agonized astonishment.

Dennis Wilton turned as if to say something, but instead dove into the living room, crossed it in two leaps, and crashed through the doorway at the other end.

“Son!” Wilton shouted, and even as he lunged after the boy, I fumbled for a finger that would do as it was told and keyed the radio.

“Bob, he’s going out the west side.” I pushed past Martin Holman and charged out the front door. At the same time that my boots hit the brown, dry Bermuda grass of the Wiltons’ front lawn, I heard Bob Torrez shout, followed by a loud crash of banging metal.

Dennis Wilton knew exactly where he was going…the rest of us didn’t have a clue. And as I breathlessly barged across the front lawn toward the street, hoping to catch a glimpse of the fleeing youth, I realized why Estelle had shifted uneasily when we were inside. The kid had come out to talk to us fully equipped-running shoes, jeans, jacket.

Bob Torrez’s huge form appeared on the other side of the neighbor’s fence. “He went down that way,” he shouted and pointed to the west, taking off at a rapid jog, shotgun at high port.

“P.D., heads up,” I barked into the radio. “He’s headed down your way.” I groaned with frustration. The only one in Dennis Wilton’s path was Thomas Pasquale. I wasn’t sure if the two barks I heard over the handheld were a quick acknowledgment or my imagination. Chief Martinez was looking west, befuddled.

None too gently, I moved him to one side and dropped into the idling 310, yanking the gear lever into what I hoped was drive. The heavy car’s tires spat stones and gravel and in the headlights down the street I could see the blue village patrol car.

The driver’s door was open and the dome light was on. Patrolman Thomas Pasquale wasn’t in it.