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.
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. She’s used to it.” Francis and Estelle had hired Irma Sedillos as a full-time housekeeper/nanny, and the girl was earning her keep. Since her older sister, Gayle Sedillos, was our office manager and chief dispatcher, Irma must have had some inkling of what she was in for when she signed on with that frenetic household.
I opened the door of 310 and grunted my way inside. Estelle was already settled, brooding, by the looks of her forehead, by the time I closed my door.
“I’d like to visit the football field again,” Estelle said, and I nodded and started the car. At that hour in the morning, Bustos Avenue looked like an extension of the parking lot, empty and bleak. Even during the middle of a July 4 parade, Posadas was a quiet place. At 5 A.M. in mid-October, it was comatose.
We drove the few blocks in silence, and I pulled the car to a halt on Olympic, approximating the spot chosen by Officer Pasquale.