Privileged to Kill

8

Button, Utah, was a tiny place along the banks of the Dirty Devil River. I had never been there and didn’t plan to go, but I pictured half a dozen buildings languishing in the weakening October sunshine. I’d never met Thomas Lawton, but I could imagine him grimacing with annoyance when he heard the telephone.

“Yep,” the voice said after the ninth ring.

“Mr. Lawton?”

“Yep.”

I glanced at the wall clock again and then jotted down 7:35 A.M. in my notebook. Detective Estelle Reyes-Guzman had gone to the high school to assist Sergeant Torrez, and I planned to join the party myself. Principal Glen Archer was going to have a wonderful Friday. It would have been simpler for him to just close the school for the day, but not for us. There were too many people we needed to talk to.

“Sorry to bother you so early,” I said. “This is Undersheriff William Gastner, down in Posadas, New Mexico. I am looking for some information on a man you may have met a while ago.”

There was a moment of silence, and Lawton said, “Who did you say you was?”

“I’m with the Posadas County Sheriff’s Department down in Posadas, New Mexico.”

“Where the hell is that?”

I smiled. “Posadas is over in the southwestern corner of the state. About twenty miles from the Mexican border.”

“Huh,” Lawton said.

“I’d be happy to leave my telephone number and you can call me back collect, if you like. Ask the dispatcher to transfer you to Undersheriff Gastner.”

“No, no. That ain’t necessary. I’ll take your word you’re who you say you are. What can I do for you?”

“Do you know a gentleman named Wesley Crocker?”

“Crocker…”

“Short, stocky, late middle age. Rides a bicycle.”

“Oh…well, son of a gun. Sure. He spent some time here. Helped me out of a real jam. Say, I hope he’s all right.”

“He’s fine. And he speaks highly of you.”

Lawton chuckled. “Well, I tell you what. I ain’t never talked so much in three days as I did when he was here. He had more questions about this country than any ten historians. Seemed to know quite a bit, too. He even knew about Denning’s Pass, west of here, and I bet there aren’t ten men outside of the locals who know about that spot.”

“When was he there? At your place, I mean?”

“Let me think, now. Back in July, I think. What’s your interest in him?”

“We believe he may have been a witness to an incident here in Posadas. This call is just a routine background check to confirm some of the things he mentioned to us. He told us about your place.”

“Well, he was here. And he’s a good man. Can’t sit still in one spot, but he’s a good, God-fearing man.”

“Did he ever talk to you about a sister in California?”

Lawton hesitated. “Yep, he mentioned her a time or two.”

The door to my office opened and Ernie Wheeler stuck his head in. I held up a hand, but he just held up two fingers and mouthed, “It’s important.”

I nodded and said, “Mr. Lawton, hold on a moment, would you?”

As soon as he saw my hand slide over the receiver, Wheeler said, “There’s a Mrs. Elna Tyler long distance for you on line two.”

“Who the hell is Elna Tyler?”

“She says she’s Wesley Crocker’s sister, sir.”

“Christ.” I punched down the line one and hold buttons together, and then hit line two.

“Mrs. Tyler? This is Undersheriff Gastner.”

“I asked to speak with the sheriff,” a woman’s crisp voice said.

“Sheriff Holman isn’t in the office at the moment. I understand that you’re Wesley Crocker’s sister?”

“Yes, and I’d like to know what’s going on.”

“I’m glad you called, ma’am. I’m handling that case, and I’ll be with you just as soon as I wrap up another call. If you like, leave your number, and I’ll call you back in five minutes.”

She did so, and I switched back to Thomas Lawton. “Sir, did Mr. Crocker say anything about sending notes or a journal…diary pages, maybe…to his sister? That sort of thing?”

This time the hesitation was considerable, and I prompted “Mr. Lawton?” thinking that perhaps he’d hung up.

His voice was quiet and gravelly. “Seems to me that a man’s diary is kind of personal property. If he keeps one.”

“Yes, it is, sir. And I’m not asking to read it, although Mr. Crocker offered it to us. I’m just trying to confirm his statement that he kept a journal of his travels.”

“Well, I believe he did.”

“And he was with you for three days?”

“Just about that.”

I thanked Lawton and hung up, my mind now on Elna Tyler. I wondered what Officer Thomas Pasquale had told her. I took a deep breath and punched out her number. The phone rang once before she picked it up.

“Mrs. Tyler, this is Bill Gastner.” I tried to keep my tone conversational and pleasant.

“Is my brother all right, Mr. Gastner?”

“Yes, ma’am, he’s fine. As Officer Pasquale may have told you, your brother could be an important witness to an incident we’re investigating.”

“Your officer told me no such thing. He said that Wesley was being held in connection with an investigation. He made it sound like Wesley had done something terrible.”

“No, ma’am. That’s not the case at all. And the reason we called was simply to verify some of your brother’s statements to us. He doesn’t carry much paperwork with him, as you probably well know.”

This time Elna Tyler managed a laugh. “Oh, Wesley, Wesley.”

“How long has he been on the road, ma’am?”

“He didn’t tell you?”

“I haven’t asked him yet.”

“I see. Well, Officer, I would guess he’s headed for some kind of world record. He’s been pedaling that bicycle, or one like it, for the better part of thirty years.”

“And he just roams?”

“That’s a good way to put it. He loves history. If you’ve talked with him at all, you already know that. But he doesn’t focus on anything in particular.” She laughed. “He just absorbs it all like a big sponge. And I don’t think he ever forgets a thing.”

“He sends you his diaries?”

“He told you about those? Well, he sends them faithfully. I don’t know where he gets the money for the postage, but he always manages. I wish he’d say a little more about his experiences, but he doesn’t. He just talks about the history of wherever he happens to be, or whatever he’s seen. I’ve got cartons and cartons of his papers.”

“When did you last hear from him, Mrs. Tyler?”

“Let me go look.” The receiver thudded and in the background I heard unintelligible voices. In a moment the woman picked up the phone again. “The last thing I have from Wesley was mailed at the Forest Service ranger station in Springerville, Arizona. The postmark says October seventh. I was happy that he was heading south with late fall coming on. You know, once he spent the winter in the Dakotas.”

“That must have been an experience,” I said, mentally picturing Wesley Crocker pushing a bicycle through five feet of snow.

“Not one I’d cherish, I’m sure,” Elna Tyler said. “Now, are you sure there’s nothing I can do? Wesley’s all right?”

“He’s fine. As I said, we called as part of a routine background check.”

“Well, now, I’m relieved. Talking to that other officer made it sound like Wesley had tried to steal the atomic bomb or something.”

I didn’t comment on Thomas Pasquale’s phone technique, but I said, “I’ll tell Wesley to drop you a line, ma’am.”

She laughed. “That’ll be the day. He’ll send me another page of historic trivia, but nothing about himself. I’ve learned not to worry about him anymore, I guess. He’ll go his own way. The rest of us should have such a full life.”

With a promise that I’d keep her posted about any new developments and that I’d let her know when her brother hit the road again, I hung up and glanced at the clock. In another five minutes, the buses would start to roll into the Posadas school parking lot. The patrol cars and the yellow crime scene ribbon would fuel plenty of talk. Among those three or four hundred teenagers, there would be some who knew a little about fifteen-year-old Maria Ibarra.

Maybe one or two would know quite a bit.