Privileged to Kill Read Online Free PDF Page A

first-day rookie with the sheriff’s department. The village got what it paid for.
    “What’s the matter?” Holman asked, and I realized with a start that I was staring vacantly at a spot about three feet under the floor tile. “What are you thinking?”
    I shrugged. “Nothing, I guess,” and I started toward the stairs that led up to the three cells and the two small conference rooms on the second floor. With my hand on the bottom of the banister, I stopped and frowned. “Marty, what time did you get to the P.D.?”
    “Tonight, you mean?”
    “Yes.”
    “I would guess maybe ten minutes before two. Something like that.”
    “And someone called the police department’s number to report the body, not 911?”
    “I assume so. Otherwise the call would have been routed through here.”
    I glanced down the hall and could see our night dispatcher, Ernie Wheeler, sitting at the console, patiently waiting for something to happen.
    “And the caller was anonymous.”
    Holman nodded. He rubbed a hand on the side of his jaw, checking for the single, odd whisker that might have avoided his electric razor and that might end up in a photograph should the press corps be awakened. We heard the back door of the sheriff’s office open. “That should be her now,” he said, and in a moment Estelle Reyes-Guzman appeared in the dispatch hallway.
    Her clothes were as plain as could be, a blouse and skirt of tan cotton that she laughingly called her “Taiwan suit” and a dark blue poplin windbreaker. Her long black hair was tousled and ignored. She still managed to look lovely. A month before she had stopped wearing the tailored pantsuits that had been her trademark. With her impeccable timing, the election would be history before she really started to show that her two-year-old son didn’t have much longer to enjoy his status as an only child.
    A deep frown darkened her features. “Sir, I talked with Tom Pasquale over at the school. He said that the man in custody is an itinerant—that you gave him a lift into town yesterday?”
    “Yes.”
    “And that then the both of you”—she nodded at the sheriff as well—“saw him at the Don Juan after you bought him dinner?”
    “Also true,” I said, and Holman’s head bobbed a little. I could see a flush crawl up from his collar. It wasn’t hard to figure out where Pasquale had heard the story.
    Her frown deepened. “Maybe Pasquale knows something we don’t,” she said, half to herself.
    “The man’s name is Wesley Crocker. He’s upstairs when you’re ready.”
    “I’m ready,” she said.
    “You want a cup of coffee or anything?”
    She almost smiled at me. “No, sir.” She patted her stomach. “A green chili breakfast would taste good after a while though.”
    I followed her up the stairs, with Sheriff Holman bringing up the rear.
    Deputy Howard Bishop had moved Wesley Crocker to the smaller conference room, a twelve-by-fourteen affair with no windows. As we entered the room, Crocker was seated, his hands clasped in front of him on the table, handcuffed at the wrists.
    “Take those off,” I said, and Bishop did so. Crocker just sat quietly, eyes fastened on the grain of the old oak table. When the notebooks and pencils and tape recorder and cassettes and manila folders were in order, I took a deep breath and said, “Mr. Crocker, I am aware that Posadas Patrolman Thomas Pasquale has informed you of your rights, but I want to go over this document with you.” I turned a printed copy of the Miranda warning and slid it until it touched his knuckles. He didn’t move.
    I threaded my way, one sentence at a time, through the legalese. When I finished, Wesley Crocker nodded mutely.
    “Mr. Crocker, do you understand your rights as you have read them, and as they have been explained to you?”
    “Yes, sir.” His voice was husky, and his hand was already rising to take the pen I held out.
    “If you have no questions, you need to sign and date the document.” He did