“He was afraid Ryan House would start talking, so he killed him.”
“Yes, sir. That’s what I think happened. And I think it was impulsive, when he saw that Ryan wasn’t going to go along.”
I picked up a pencil and toyed with it for a minute. “It would have been thoughtful of Vanessa Davila if she had spoken up earlier about seeing Wilton coming out of her brother’s bedroom window.”
“I suspect she was grateful to him,” Estelle said, and I looked up sharply.
“Grateful?”
“Yes, sir. I suspect that her relationship with her brother was a carbon copy of what she went through with her father before he left home.”
“We don’t know that.”
“No,” Estelle said and took a deep breath. “But I can guess. The signs are there.”
“And the rage this time? She steals a gun and sets out to ravenge a friend? Maria?”
Estelle nodded. “It’ll take a while to put a profile together, but I’ll bet the election that you’ll find the two were inseparable, Maria and Vanessa. For once, Vanessa had a pal whose life was more miserable than her own.”
“Kindred spirits,” I said. “Misery loves company.” I smiled. “And I won’t bet.”
“I’d like to have three pieces of evidence before we make a move, sir.”
“The gun?”
She nodded. “If we can substantiate Vanessa’s story by finding the origin of the rifle that killed her brother, that’s one step. After four years, the rest of that story is just her word against Dennis Wilton’s.”
“And?”
“I want the grille guard from Wilton’s truck. That would tie him to the attempt on Crocker’s life. I think he feels that Crocker might have seen something, anything.”
“And you think Wilton saw Crocker walking along an empty street and took his chance.”
Estelle frowned. “He’s an opportunist, sir. I have no trouble imagining that Ryan House was beginning to panic after the girl’s death Thursday night. Some time Friday afternoon, the Wilton kid sees Crocker walking, but it’s daylight. He can’t do anything. Later, when the two boys are together and maybe trying to decide what to do, maybe talking about Crocker and trying to guess what he saw and what he told police, they see him again, walking along Bustos Avenue.”
“And this time it’s dark,” I said.
“I can imagine what Ryan House’s reaction to the hit-and-run was,” Estelle said. “Maybe it was the last straw as far as he was concerned. Wilton might have thought first about calming him down, so he raided his parents’ medicine cabinet when they went home to take the bent grille guard off. That was logical. And then the next step was to get out of town, and the football game was a perfect cover. Maybe it was on the drive out of Posadas that he put the rest together.”
“And third?”
“I want at least a couple of points match on that thumbprint that I took from the seatbelt buckle. Ron Bucky is going to call the minute he has something.”
I shook my head. “Don’t wait, Estelle.” I stood up. “If you’re right, we don’t want to run any risk. When you talked to Wilton in the hospital last night, was there anything that led you to believe that he might suspect what we know?”
“No, sir. I got the impression that he felt entirely comfortable with his performance.”
“His performance,” I said and grimaced. “And neither he nor his parents think there’s anything unusual about the truck being impounded?”
“I’m sure that they imagine it’s because of the blood tests and litigation, sir.”
“They’re scared stiff, and young Wilton could care less, I’m sure,” I said. “Did Martin Holman talk with them?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then we’re covered. Talking with Martin Holman is enough to give any felon confidence.”
“Sir,” Estelle chided gently, “that’s not true.”
“You don’t sound much like a politician,” I chuckled, but the humor didn’t last. “We want to move fast with this son of a bitch. Based on a deposition from Vanessa, and with the gun’s record, that should be enough for a warrant. And if we get lucky and find the grille guard, that’s another piece.”
“I’m willing to make another bet,” Estelle murmured.
“What’s that?”
“The grille guard is in the Wilton’s garage somewhere.”
“You don’t think he’d be smart enough to get rid of it?”
“Oh, he’s smart enough, sir. But he’s also confident.”
I grunted in disgust. “This kid is eighteen?”
“Yes, sir. His birthday was in September.”
I nodded with satisfaction. “Good. Then the bastard won’t just pull two years in reform school. We can put him away for life.”
“He’ll probably earn his law degree in prison,” Estelle said, and I muttered a curse.
“You didn’t used to be so cynical,” I said. “You’ve been around me too long.”
37
The serial number of the.22 rifle was thoroughly documented on Chief Eduardo Martinez’s reports. The rifle itself was no doubt still rusting somewhere in the back room of the village department. I was sure that the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms had the same information somewhere in the bowels of their enormous database, together with information about the gun’s original purchase. But they weren’t going to talk to us on a Saturday night. And if Wilton had purchased the gun from an individual, the paper trail would be even more remote.
“Let’s just ask the son of a bitch,” I said, and Estelle’s left eyebrow went up a notch. I glanced at my watch. “It’s as good a time as any. We’ll see what we can find out, and then I’ll buy you and Francis a late dinner. How about that?”
She agreed, although not with the enthusiasm that a dinner at the Don Juan de Oñate should have prompted.
As we pulled out onto Bustos Avenue, she keyed the mike. “Posadas, this is 310.”
Dispatcher Gayle Sedillos responded, and Estelle said, “Posadas, we’ll be at 390 Grant for a few minutes. Three-oh-eight needs to stay central.”
“Ten-four, 310. Three-oh-eight, did you copy?”
Sergeant Bob Torrez sounded like he was eating a sandwich when he acknowledged. In his typical fashion, he didn’t ask what we were doing, or why.
“Three-ten, P.D. copies. I’m ten-eight.”
Estelle glanced across at me at the sound of Tom Pasquale’s voice. I reached out and took the mike from Estelle. “P.D., meet with 308.”
“Ten-four,” Pasquale said, and I could hear the eagerness in his voice drop a couple of notches. Bob Torrez had probably choked on his sandwich.
“That’s just what we need-Tom Pasquale crashing the only other car the P.D. owns into the Wilton’s living room,” I said.
We turned south on Fifth Street, drove two blocks, and jogged west on Grant, into one of the oldest neighborhoods in Posadas. The homes were adobe, all on large, irregular lots with an irrigation ditch running along the property lines. If all the junk that had sprung up during the 1950s mining boom were to vanish, this was one of the neighborhoods that would be left.
The Wiltons’ home was attractive, a big rambling place not unlike my own, with ancient elms surrounding the buildings. Behind the attached garage was a small barn, its shed roof recently repaired with bright corrugated metal.
Estelle eased 310 into the driveway.
“Are you doing all right?” she asked.
“I’m doing fine,” I said, and pointed at the porch light that had just flicked on. “They’re home.”
Dustin Wilton greeted us at the door with a guarded smile, but his face was pale, the worry lines etching his broad forehead. He held out a hand and shook with a firm grip.
“Sheriff, how are you?”
“Fine, thanks. You know Detective Reyes-Guzman?”
He nodded. “We talked at the hospital earlier.”
Wilton was a big man, well over six feet and burly. Long hours of wrestling heavy equipment for the state highway department in the hot New Mexico sun had built muscles like rope and aged the skin of his face and hands to leather.